A time of change. Turning over an old leaf.
.. ..-. / .-.. .. ..-. . / .– .- … / .— ..- … – / -.. — – … / .- -. -.. / -.. .- … …. . … / – …. . / — ..- … .. -.-. / .– — ..- .-.. -.. / … – .. .-.. .-.. / … — ..- -. -.. / – …. . / … .- — . .-.-.- – …. . / .–. .. .- -. — / .– — ..- .-.. -.. / … – .. .-.. .-.. / -.. .- -. -.-. . .-.-.- / — -.– / …. . .- -.. / .– — ..- .-.. -.. / … – .. .-.. .-.. / ..-. .-.. — .- – / .-. .- -. -.. — — .-.. -.– / .- -. -.. / — -.– / -.- -. . . / … – .. .-.. .-.. / – .- .–. / — ..- – / – …. . / -… . .- – .-.-.-
Idea – random shopping list button. You have your usual list stored with the relevant shop but also a random button that selects something you don’t find out about until the shopping is delivered.
It’s 4.30am. Downstairs in the front room I hear a clock ticking. I did not know we had such a mechanical device. There must be a battery involved as clock winding does not form part of our daily routine. The clock has been identified. This must be a device new to the house or why have I never noticed it before? We have no real need for this timepiece. There is always a computer of some sort near to hand with a highly accurate representation of the time. There must be a decorative element to the horological deployment, an aspect upon which I feel largely unqualified to comment. The responsibility of a different department. At this time of day the ticking, soft and barely audible though it may be, represents an unnecessary intrusion competing with the sound of passing cars outside.
The allegorical nature of the ticking clock is also unwanted at this time.
The sound of the traffic reminds me that we live in an urban environment. With the curtains drawn it should be possible to imagine I am sat in a remote cottage. Outside it is pitch black and devoid of sound other than the wind and rain beating on the window pane. All sensible life forms have their own curtains drawn to the outside world. Heads down. This is not the case where I am sat.
apples, pears, a bit of melon, a blue and orange vase with yellow flowers
Listening to religious news programme on radio 4. It is Easter so everything is more intense. This is after the recent fire at Notre dame and now a terrorist attack on a church in Sri Lanka. There was also a piece on a monkey God called lord someone or other.
The intensity of the conversation seems to me to exacerbate the strangeness of the whole concept of religion, in particular the organised variety. I get people wanting to know how they got here but the structured way of worshipping a “god” seems very artificial.
We have no bread. The loaf has been consumed. The last slice was surgically removed this morning and toasted along with the crust. Its purpose was served. A short, fulfilled life devoted to keeping hunger at bay. Nourishment its finest purpose and measure of its success. Now gone it has left a void…
“One who searches widely over an area in order to obtain something, especially food or provisions.”
This morning I went foraging.
Settle on a menu for tomorrow’s dinner. Check out what you have in the fridge/cupboard and make note of missing ingredients.
Express your intention is to forage for the requisite foodstuffs. Head to Waitrose with hessian bag.
Patrol aisles occasionally picking up produce and placing in bag. Fill bag.
Exchange money for goods and take home free coffee for life partner.
This will typically work for any menu, exotica aside. The ingredients have to be available in quality supermarkets near you. There are alternative versions involving multiple sources and locations but I am not covering those scenarios in this post. Stick with mainstream cuisines and you will be safe.
May you rot in hell
Fuck you bastards
Constant media coverage gets tedious
I need to immerse myself in something that is nothing to do with brexshit
Classic Sunday afternoon in January. The wind is howling out there and it will soon be dark accompanied by plummeting temperatures. When I was a kid this would have meant watching a cowboy movie on the TV or perhaps playing a game of Monopoly with my sisters. Just trying to survive Sunday afternoon until the week reset itself and Monday came again.
To some extent very little has changed even though the choice of entertainment has increased massively. It doesn’t feel right sitting in front of the TV all afternoon though. Most of it is rubbish anyway. My alternative is to sit at the table the conservatory looking out at the weather and write.
It will gradually get darker and at some point I will decide I need to turn on the wall lights, dim as they are. The day will have morphed into night. Life will change. Life takes on a different complexion at night in winter. Cosier. As long as you are indoors and warm and the curtains are drawn.
Watching the TV in the evening seems more acceptable.
I’m glad I’m not a plant.
Just come back from Anne’s concert band Christmas Concert where the guests were expected to form a choir. I was ok with this even if it came as a bit of a surprise. We sang some ABBA medleys. I noted two things.
Firstly ABBA’s lead singers were girls who could sing higher notes than I can. Secondly as I stood there staring at the lyrics I realised how sad some of the songs were. ABBA produced some fantastic songs written in the main by the two guys in the band and I pictured in my mind the girls seeing new songs that would become huge hits for the first time and wondering what they thought of them.
This made me think of the whole subject of poetry. That’s what these songs are. Poems written to a tune (or the other way around). A couple of weeks ago Anne and I went to a “Classics with Coffee” morning at the Blue Room in the Lawns. We had a pleasant morning listening to a pianist and, separately, a poet. It struck me at the time that listening to others read out their own poetry doesn’t do it for me. I have to be able to sit there staring at the words on the page, just like I did this morning with the ABBA songs. Now this isn’t to say that I wouldn’t sit there listening to a poet I liked read out their own material but it would definitely be enhanced if I had the words there in front of me.
That is all.
just a birdbath in winter