Archive for February, 2013

K²day: Digital Disposability

Thursday, February 28th, 2013

Photo Jun 12, 21 18 57

13h38-14h35, 28-February-2013

The window for a personal word or two is a bit tight today, so let’s see how I do at minimizing distraction and matching my typing to my thinking (write now, edit later).

I have a tendency to name inanimate objects. My first car was Erin, my bicycle is Stella, my computer is AppleKory (Apple MacBook => Apple core => AppleKory), my first cellphone was Louis, Ouizi is my mobylette, my chef’s knife is Larmurlok…and, really, I could go on and on. I have no idea if there is a name for what is obviously a psychosis of some sort, but if not I am certainly qualified and able to put one to it.

Inhabiting the same Black Market Café I mentioned in Tuesday’s piece, I once again find myself bronzed in the afterglow of a too-quickly-finished Cortado. A few more visits will be necessary before I can hang the moniker haunt or hangout on the place, however early signs are good as the Cortados are meticulously prepared and presented and the owner/baristra’s musical tastes work quite nicely for me (on Tuesday Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage” helped me settle into my seat, and today he is playing wall-to-wall jazz manouche selections).

If only I could follow my “write now, edit later” directive. Getting away from my desk to blurb daily is proving to be a terrific idea, but doing so has done nothing to stanch my talent for multi-tasking (or, more honestly, “to improve my ever-diminishing ability to focus on one thing at a time”). Perhaps I should employ one of those funky new applications designed to minimize distraction from writing, or — better yet — opt NOT to hop on the free wi-fi offered in an increasing number of neighborhood venues….must move…forward.

My Missus and I recently started watching a new television program called “The Ameri☭ans”, which airs in the U.S. on the FX cable network. At some point if the show continues to prove interesting I may share some thoughts on it, but I bring it up here only as a means for opening a discussion of how strangely easy it is now to find fresh freely-downloadable broadcast content via the Internet. It has been more than 10 years since my bottom jaw crash-landed on my keyboard at the sight of an episode of “Friends” playing on my computer screen (downloaded using a then-magical peer-to-peer file sharing software called KaZaA, which is the direct digital ancestor of Skype), and yet I remain astounded that within minutes after a program is first broadcast it can be pulled down over the Internet in pristine high definition a/v quality. And I refer not to the use of such authorized for-profit services as iTunes or Amazon Instant Video, but to free-use technologies like Bittorrent and the ever-growing number of file sharing and uploading sites (e.g., RapidShare, MediaFire, Hotfile, 4Shared, depositfiles, etc.). When TNT shows an all-new episode of “Dallas” — an oh-so-guilty pleasure — on Monday evening in the U.S., I can cue up a perfect .avi file of the episode for a with-my-breakfast viewing on Tuesday courtesy of, Transmission (Bittorrent application I run on AppleKory), and VLC Media Player. And this is true these days for virtually every program emitted on U.S. and U.K. television, be it scripted sit-coms or dramas, documentaries, so-called “reality” TV, or live broadcasts such as news programs, award shows, and even certain sporting events. Of course, all of this begs the question, “Who is recording all of this content and making it available (and so quickly, too)?” After all, there is absolutely no money to be made in creating the digital files and sharing them via the Internet, and we are long-past the time when making the effort to upload…well, anything, can be attributed to fulfilling the hacker’s credo of doing it simply to show it can be done. Do the uploaders do it out of the pure goodness of their hearts, hoping that the tiny signature character strings they tack onto the end of the files they offer will result in the gratitude, respect, and admiration of the legions of downloaders who draw entertainment from the fruit of their labor?

So the 5th episode of “The Ameri☭ans” aired last in the U.S.. I downloaded it this morning in about 9 minutes time, and tonight My Missus and I will watch it from the comfort of our Paris home at 57BB, after which I am sure to toss it out with the rest of the digital trash.

“let spring commence”

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

The trim hedge,

once out of control, is now tamed,

its gangly tendrils mastered

and canopy forestalled.


Clippings lie forlawn, awaiting disposal.


Stiff-shoulders, job complete for another year,

the gardener sinks into his armchair and commands:

“let spring commence”.

K²day: Zinc Bars and Cellphones

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

Photo Feb 27, 17 04 31

15h47-17h00, 27-February-2013

Less than five minutes at my perch du jour and already I’ve been abandoned by the espresso that was meant to accompany me today, the only evidence of which I cannot even lick off the inside of the cup. <sigh>

A myth it is, the supposed superiority of the espresso offered in the cafés of France. Typically, the lauded beverage so often held up as a paragon of culture, sophistication, and refinement compared to “American” is no richer/darker/stronger/more flavorful/truer. The fact is that despite the relatively small size of a café (the beverage and not the place at which you might order and drink said beverage…yes, that CAN get confusing), honest imbibers are often able to make out the bottom of their cup through the brown-but-not-so-brown liquid. And it isn’t because the sugar in France is especially strong that a half-teaspoon of the stuff applied tends to go a long-enough way. Now this isn’t to say that all of the café coffee (un café au café?) to be had in France is bad — Au contraire! — but it is long past time for the popping of the bubble of primacy afforded to “un café” over its English-speaking brethren.

There. I wrote it, I take responsibility for it, and once I publish it the French Café Police will be able to hold those pixels against me as they see fit.

A man wearing a nondescript baseball cap just wrested all attention by pounding his cellphone on the bar twice with great force. One has to assume that the thing was already broken, but if not it certainly is now.

Wednesdays are more a “valley day” than a “hump day” in France due to the school system, in which kids at the maternelle and primaire levels do not have classes while those at the higher levels only have classes in the morning. Thus, depending on their age and interests (and the needs and capabilities of their parents), on Wednesdays kids across the country participate in a whole slew of daycare arrangements, sports programs, music lessons, art classes, theatre groups, game clubs, and the like. And the competition to get into these programs can be downright savage, and I am not ashamed to admit that over the years — my being the at-home parent — I have had to throw the occasional hip-check to get The Boy on the list for Swimming, for Tennis, for Sculpture (yes, Sculpture…see the accompanying photo of today’s masterpiece)… Of course, it is all in the name of liberté, égalité, fraternité…and betterment-of-the-organism, so “No blood, no foul”, right?

Lincoln A to Z D13 Birchwood

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

When I were a lad my first proper job, in 1984, was at Marconi on Doddington Road in Lincoln and Dave Hopkins and I used to nip home to his place at midday for a spot of lunch. Things were pretty easy going in those days and lunch wasn’t typically an hour. We would pop to the Birchwood to buy some fresh crusty bread from the bakers together with a bit of ham and maybe some cheese and swing by his place to eat it.

Hopkins was a dab hand at making tea and I was happy to be the good guest and wait whilst he warmed the pot and made a proper cuppa. Dave was more conscientious than I was and was usually the one to call time and drive us back to the factory.

There used to be a pub on the Birchwood called The Wildlife and on Friday afternoons we would repair there for a few pints, often not returning until 3pm at which time we would go straight to the canteen for afternoon tea. It wasn’t much of a pub but we were fresh out of college and our standards weren’t that high.

They were pretty halcyon, those early days at Marconi. The company took on around 50 graduates over a two year period and it was a happy go lucky environment with almost every night being a party or a night out in the pub somewhere or another.

The Wildlife was the venue for one of the more memorable activities of the Marconi days which was “star stiff”. Star stiff was a competition whereby 200 celebrities, selected for their likelihood of keeling over and dying over the following twelve months were divided up into 20 “stiff portfolios” of ten names. Twenty engineers from Marconi took part, each carrying one stiff portfolio.

The names of the celebrities were contributed by all the contestants and a computer programme was written to randomly allocate the celebrities across all the portfolios. Each person had a seed which was a celeb highly likely to die over the year of the competition. The seeds were usually made up of Formula One racing drivers, which in those days was a far more dangerous sport than it is today, rocks stars known for their high living and drug abuse, and other famous people thought to be already at the edge of the abyss.

We would all gather on a day in July in the pub and eagerly wait to see who the computer had allocated us for our stiff portfolios. As I said the competition lasted twelve months. The deal was of one of the names on your stiff portfolio died you were given a pound by each of the other contestants. This may sound a little macabre but in reality if a particular celebrity looked like popping off you might have one person willing him or her to die but nineteen people doing the exact opposite and willing them a long and happy continuation of life.

The competition made for some tense moments. Salvador Dali was burned in a house fire but it took him months to actually die. Richard Burton actually went and died the day after the twelve months was up. Jim Patterson, who had him in his portfolio was gutted. Nineteen pounds was a reasonable wodge in those days when a pint probably cost 50 or 60 pence. Richard Burton, being known for his fondness of the sauce, was almost certainly a seed. I don’t think any of the racing drivers died during the competition.

When the twelve months were up we would reconvene in The Wildlife, replace the deceased with new prospects and start again with a totally new random allocation of celebrities.

After three of four years the original gang at Marconi started to focus on their careers and went their separate ways. Life was never the same again though I do look back very fondly at what might be called the star stiff days.

The day grows old

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

The day grows old. Traffic has subsided on the road outside though I can still hear the occasional car drive by. The lights are full on illuminating the front room for all to see – the curtains have been tied up to let the new paint dry on the window sill. Anne has been busy.

The printer has been fixed, paper jam removed and new printer drivers installed on my laptop. The sound card doesn’t work though since I dropped the laptop on its side and jammed the headphone jack deep in. Ah well.

Someone has ridden by on a bicycle swearing angrily at another person unseen. Oh dear.

The TV which has been showing documentaries all night is now switched off. Good.

Anne is pottering away in the kitchen. She has been out to a school fashion show. Anne is on the committee of The Friends of William Farr, otherwise known as the PTA or at least it was in my day. I have never been on such a committee, perhaps an indictment of my apathy. If they asked me for a donation I would give it.

The brightness of this room seems out of place tonight. Perhaps it is doubly bright because of the reflections off the windows. The curtains would normally be shut. Stands to reason really. For all I know someone is stood in the front garden staring in at me. Wondering.

I will be off to bed soon enough. The routine will kick in. Check the front and back doors even though I know that Anne will already have done so. Brush teeth in downstairs toilet. I find it more convenient to keep the gear there as it saves me having to nip back upstairs before heading out to work.  There will probably be a quick glance round the kitchen. Ours is a large kitchen with two kitchen tables. Very useful.

Tonight I made a point of tidying the kitchen before Anne arrived home. It isn’t fair on her to be confronted with a mess which can easily be the case with three lads in the house. It is done and she seems reasonably happy with it.

The clock ticks. A quick glance informs me it is telling the right time. Unusual! Must have a new battery. Good.

Looking around I am surrounded by books. You can never have too many books. One of the shelves also has a giant pencil which I bought as a souvenir from the pencil factory at Keswick in the Lake District. It has no practical uses and were it ever to need sharpening we would not have a suitable pencil sharpener for the purpose.

The vacuum cleaner is in the corner of the room under the desk. It is a Dyson. Strange. It is normally kept in the cupboard under the stairs. Unusual for it not to be tidied away. There must be a good explanation.

I’m off to bed now. Goodnight.

K²day: Pondering Lunch

Tuesday, February 26th, 2013

Cortado Once Was

12h40-13h47, 26-February-2013

Soaking up some scene at Black Market Café, a new 18th arrondissement coffee house up the hill from 57BB, noting three mysterious men through the window street-side, dressed all in white and moving left to right, and hoping the Cortado I just ordered is worth the 3.40€ I will eventually pay for it…

Most weekday mornings begin slooow. Shortly after The Boy made his debut some 11 years back I resolved to make it out of the bed every morning in time to walk My Missus to the Metro and my kiddo to his nounou (and later, to school) before returning home to start my day. This now long-held resolution is the proverbial two-birds-one-stone as it provides short-but-precious morning time with my family while also ensuring that my tendency to fall into bed late — most nights my head hits the pillow between the 2nd and 3rd wee hours — doesn’t result in my getting out of it late as well. An efficient system, to be sure, even if it does make for a bit of a “No Kory’s Land” that barring a work guillotine (read: deadline) lifts between 11h00 and noon…just in time to start thinking about lunch.

Lunch. All who have worked alongside me over the years will no doubt attest that the mid-day meal is a (worthy, yes, worthy) near-obsession with me, and this remains true despite the fact that these days I take most of my lunches solo. Yes, it is about the food (it is ALWAYS about the food, isn’t it?), but it is also about the deep need for a definitive break in the day, a separation, a chance to take a breath and lessen the pulse of backbreaking toil, and…oh, who am I kidding, it’s about the food.

As often as not it goes like this… <cue dreamy music at low volume, soften focus and add more white light, and cut to Kory staring past the monitor on a non-descript spot on the wall>

“Lunch. Am I hungry? Gotta eat. Asian? Could go for something with some crunch. Maybe something light today? It’s cold. A steak-frites might go over nicely. Haven’t had pizza for a while. Shame I have to get on the Metro to get decent sushi. Man, if only there was an authentic taqueria nearby. How long would it take me to get back-and-forth from _______? Thai food, now that could be really great. Stop thinking about sushi, Kory. Could I ever go for that great burger they make over at that place near the circle down the block next to that other place! Maybe such-n-such brasserie has confit de canard or bœuf bourguignon on the menu… I’m meeting My Missus for lunch tomorrow, so I should eat cheap today…wonder if there is something in the fridge that needs to be eaten. A grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of tomato soup, and an icy-cold Coke…comfort food doesn’t get more comfortable than THAT!…sushi?”

<stop music, sharpen focus on Kory coming out of his Lunch Pondering Trance and reaching for his shoes, with no clue where his feet will take him once they hit the street>

That Cortado? DEFINITELY worth the 3.40€.

K²day: And Here We..Go.

Monday, February 25th, 2013


11h08-12h08, 25-February-2013

With the hopes of overcoming self-consciousness I begin from a place long in warmth, comfort, and hot chocolate (and short in wi-fi)…

In the first term of my freshman year at Yeshiva University a professor of mine whose name is lost in my memory tasked her Creative Writing class with the semester-long project of writing one page a day. She used the word ‘journal’ to describe the project, though there was no requirement to chronicle life events or deep personal thoughts. This professor simply wanted us to find the discipline to set time aside each day to write…about anything.

I can report that each of the students in that 1983 class successfully completed the project, to varying degrees and via a myriad of motivations and methods (which in at least three cases proved to be somewhat costly, at least when measured up against my $300/month budget). I can also report without a shred of self-congratulation or ego-tripping that my journal received the prof’s highest possible praise, though she affixed no grade to my stellar work at the end of the semester (or that of any of my classmates), merely the admonition that the reward was in the thing itself and that I should endeavor to continue the “exercise”.

Can I say that I was not the least bit disappointed at the lack of a hard-and-fast grade for that long-ago assignment? No, because I set a rule then that I plan to also adhere to now as I pick the effort back up nearly 30 years later: Write only the truth. (“What?! No ‘A+’? But I worked my young sweet hard thin shapely 18-year-old patootie off on that thing! Is she kidding?! <insert expletive>!) Now by no means does this rule require that I be completely forthcoming, nor does it absolve me of the occasional licensed omission (artistic or otherwise), however anyone bothering to visit this space going forward can rest assured that what they read will be free of fictionalization, exaggeration, and good ol’ fashioned fibbing (at least within Clintonian guidelines)…unless, of course, it is characterized otherwise.

So to borrow unabashedly from one of the greats (unless or until I come up with a clever closing line of my own that ranks)…”That’s the news, and I am out of here!”

stardate 24th February CE 2013 morning schedule

Sunday, February 24th, 2013

wake up 7.45 ish, tweet a little & consume cup of tea brought by Anne, doze

out of bed 9am, dress immediately, blue jeans, A10 networks Tshirt picked up free at LONAP AGM, stripy fat face fleece top, thermal socks

2 weetabix and banana with semi skimmed milk for breakfast

tidy golf clubs away in utility room & put rucksacks used at center Parcs in cupboard. can only find one of my black gloves.

brush teeth & put swimming kit in bag for life

read a little of Vol 1 Gibbons Decline and Fall of Roman Empire purchased yesterday from Readers Rest on Steep Hill – closing down sale £40 for full set of 8 Folio Society  edition.

start prepping tonight’s beef stew – find we are out of garlic.

10.15 head out to Tesco for garlic, mushrooms and a turnip. also purchase thermal hat, gloves & scarf set for £6. only really needed the gloves. return to car to find previously lost glove. ah well

get beef in Guinness going on stove – finish by 11.10, put in oven on low heat & wash pots.

11.30 head out to buy John Adidas astro turf trainers. drop John off to play footy & finish up for lane swimming at Yarborough for 12.30

Lincoln A to Z Q12 St Swithens Cemetery and Canwick Park Golf Course

Saturday, February 23rd, 2013

The question on today’s lips is whether anyone has ever been killed by a golf ball on Canwick Park Golf Course and subsequently cremated and buried in St Swithen’s Cemetery.

Being killed on the course but not buried in the cemetery over the road does not form part of this discourse. Neither is death by other means such as heart attack, being run over by a golf cart or, as happened on 5 occasions in the good ole u s of a between 2001 and 2006, being killed on the golf course as a result of a plane crash1!

Heart attacks are the most common cause of death on golf courses which is understandable as golf does tend to be a pastime enjoyed by those of more advanced years. Death by plane should not be totally discounted in Lincoln due to the history of aviation in the county but whilst there are many records of aircraft related fatalities in Lincolnshire I am not aware of any specifically associated with a golf course and certainly not Canwick Park. I may be wrong about this as there is scant information available on the subject.

Before getting back on track here it is also worth clearing up some confusion that may exist in some folks’ minds regarding the subject of “sudden death” and golf. Sudden death is a means of deciding a winner if a game is drawn after the final hole has been played. The golfers involved play on until a hole is won outright, the loser or losers being deemed to have suffered sudden death.

Whilst being hit on the head by a golf ball is also likely to lead to sudden death this is not the same sudden death.

There is very little data in the public domain on death on golf courses in the UK, at least not on the first page of a Google search result and it isn’t really worth looking beyond that. The previously referred to statistic from the USA does come from a source with additional data that could inform our debate.



Overturned vehicle (nonhighway)


Other nonhighway incident (excluding overturned vehicle)


Fall to a lower level


Highway incident




Trench collapse


Struck by falling object




Drowning, submersion


Airplane accident


Apologies for the spelling and use of un-British vernacular such as “Homicide” and  “nonhighway”. Whilst I realise that these terms are probably used and certainly understood in the UK I personally would use “murder” and “non road” as alternatives.

It should be noted that the above statistics which cover the period between 2001 and 2006 pertain to work related deaths and not to golfers themselves. However they do help us to understand the general trends where causes of death on a golf course are concerned. There is no specific reference to being hit by a golf ball but “being struck by a falling object” would cover this scenario and for the purpose of this argument I am going to assume that that is what is meant when describing this particular form of death.

Wikipedia tells us that in 2008, just after the period under examination, there were 17,672 golf courses in the USA and 2,752 in the UK, representing 50% and 8% of the total number of courses worldwide respectively.

If we take these data and extrapolate we come up with a figure of 0.934 deaths by golf ball in the UK over the six years, or around one death every seven years. In any given year therefore in the UK there is a five thousandth of one percent chance that someone at Canwick Park will be killed by a golf ball. Whilst the science behind the calculations used here is not exact I can apply some real world data to the discussion by saying that in forty years of playing golf (I know, I can’t be that old) I have never known anyone to be killed on the golf course, any golf course.

Research by the University of York reveals that “According to the Office of National Statistics, there were 493,242 deaths registered in England and Wales in 2010, compared with 491,348 in 2009 and 537,877 in 2000. In England, in the vast majority of cases, deaths are followed by cremation: in 2010, the current cremation rate was just over 73 per cent. However, in a significant and growing number of cases, cremations are themselves followed by the formal burial of cremated remains at cemeteries, crematoria and churchyards.”

Departing for a moment from scientific facts and methodology the chances are that if someone was killed by a golf ball at Canwick Park they would end up in the crematorium over the road with some degree of likelihood that they would subsequently be buried in the cemetery. We can’t be more exact than this because the ONS doesn’t tell us what percentage of cremations are subsequently buried. The problem is exacerbated further by the fact that there are other cemeterial options in Lincoln. I assume here that cemeterial is a word. If it isn’t either I have invented a new one or, well you knew what I was trying to say really.

In conclusion, and to put everyone’s mind at rest, especially the members of Canwick Park Golf Club it is unlikely that anyone has ever been killed by a golf ball on their golf course and subsequently cremated and buried in St Swithen’s Cemetery.

It’s quite nice to be able to quash rumours of this sort before they begin to take hold thus causing a stampede for the car park of golfers no longer wanting to risk playing at Canwick Park. Such a mad dash for the exit in itself is more likely to cause death than the golf balls now locked safely up in bags in the boot of the car.


1 Source United States Department of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics

World peace achieved – all is well

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

Fire flickers in the comfort of the hearth and all is quiet. The curtains are drawn on the world. Whisky evaporates by the glass. Another room coughs. The world is at peace.














Warring peoples settle centuries old scores and inter-marry. Marriages last a happy lifetime. Children remain obedient without dulling their sense of radicalism and change and perform well at school.  All religions agree to coexist happily. Nags Head wins the 3.30 at Epsom and beer is freely dispensed at all public houses. Lincoln City are promoted to the Premier League. 

Ok that last one was a dream too far.

Lincoln A to Z Q9 maternity unit, Lincoln County Hospital

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

Christmas Day 1991 was a quiet affair. The two of us had Christmas lunch on our own at the house in Greetwell Gate. Anne was heavily pregnant and now two weeks overdue.

We went out pretty much every night in the weeks running up to Christmas, determined to make the most of our last days of freedom. Six weeks earlier we had been in the Prince of Wales pub in the Bailgate. In those days it was a proper local. Small cosy rooms and good for a lock-in in the days before licensing laws became more liberal. I used to play rugby with the landlord Wayne.

At some point during the evening the conversation came round to the baby’s due date.  Officially this was the 12th December but of course these things are never certain. For a bit of fun we decided to have a sweepstake, pound in and whoever guessed the actual birthday right took all the cash. The only rule was that nobody was allowed to choose Boxing Day as this would be the day she would have to go in and have the birth induced had the baby not yet arrived.

We came out of the pub that night with the twenty quid sweepstake cash in our pockets. The whole pub had taken part. On the way home we passed the Raj Douth Indian Restaurant (now the Saffron) so we stopped off and blew the lot on a curry. I had planned to replace the cash at the appropriate moment before handing it over to the winner.

Winding the clock forward six weeks and the baby still hadn’t arrived so it looked very much as if we would be going in to the hospital on Boxing Day for the birth.  After the Christmas lunch I fell asleep on the sofa and Anne set to clearing away the table. When I woke up a few hours later the whole house was spotless. The nesting instinct had kicked in and the big moment was obviously about to arrive.

The contractions started early evening but were not close enough together for us to go in to hospital. I started recording the intervals on a bit of paper on the bedside table.  We didn’t get much sleep that night and by the morning had a complete record of the contractions which gradually got closer and closer together.

By 10am it was time to go in. The hospital was only a few hundred yards away and it took minutes to get there. For much of the time I paraded around the ward chatting to the nurses and availing myself of the huge supplies of chocolate that had been donated by grateful patients. It was a lot easier for me than for Anne who, this being her first child had a pretty hard time of it. We went through three shifts of midwives until finally, twelve hours after our initial arrival at the hospital, Anne gave birth to a fine baby boy who we named Thomas Alun Davies.

It was too late to celebrate as the pubs were by now all shut and I went home to bed a tired but ecstatic parent.

The next night I was back in the Prince of Wales with my mates to wet the baby’s head. The subject of the sweepstake was brought up and of course there was no winner. I told the boys that I had spent the cash on flowers without mentioning the fact that really we had spent it on the curry that same night.

In fact I did buy the flowers, from the Shell Garage on Burton Road. It being the day after Boxing Day the flowers were getting past their best but the woman in the shop, understanding their purpose, picked through all the bunches and gave me a huge bundle of the best she had which were fine. Back on the ward in the hospital Anne’s bed was surrounded by colour making everyone else’s look a little pathetic by comparison.

I kept both the piece of paper with the details of the contractions and the beer mat with the sweepstake guesses in my bedside table for years.  Sadly they were lost during our house move but the story remains a nice little memento of what was a big moment in our lives.

We visited the maternity unit another three times before settling on four as the ideal sized brood. None of the others took as long to come out as the first and there were no further sweepstakes involved though I’m sure I must have felt it appropriate to wet the baby’s head each time.

I have since been to the Prince of Wales on many an occasion but never again to the maternity unit.

The shave – before and after

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

In the depths of winter there is no way out.

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

In the depths of winter there is no way out. Cheerless skies shroud the condemned.  The weak withdraw silently into their dark subterranean holes and are not seen again. All hope is lost. Cold metal doors slam shut, echoes wither. Silence.

Snooker Balls

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

Bring on the spring

Friday, February 22nd, 2013

My hands are cold, they need an infusion of warmth. The fire is going in the grate but it has not long been lit and the room has yet to warm up. Outside the temperature is, at best, zero degrees. The wind is North Easterly. The hedge needs cutting but that requires someone with the inclination to do it. Light snow is forecast for tomorrow. That is no use. If it is going to snow it needs to be heavy snow. Snow that will make a difference. I have coal supplies to last the weekend. Spring is more than a weekend away. Spring is awaited with eager anticipation.