Passing mists

As I was changing into my clerical greys the small object of devotion eyed me coldly:

"There's 'loveable rumpled eccentric' and there's 'I've just walked away from a train crash.' You're not looking rumpled."

Web2.0wit

You know how it is, dearie, any well-wisher would let you a morsel of Christopher Isherwood, Dryden and Beckett and de Beaudellaire, Muir and Norden and Robertson Hare; the rhythm, the timbre, the metre, the beat - it ends with some Herbert composing a tweet.

How are you, then, this fine morning?

One of those mornings where the front garden is full of the smell of new pine fence panels and primroses. I have decided that I need to make the time to enjoy these things while they are available.

As we join the motorway the car in front of us is a pretend sports car: a four-door saloon with a drop top and pretensions. It's such a nice morning that we forgive the driver the coat hangers on the backs of the seats. If we ever get a sports car we'll have a Corby trouserpress in the back.

In memoriam

Just a very brief, and sad, note to mourn the passing of two of the splendid people on my blogroll. Kaz and Gerald will both be greatly missed for their friendliness and wit.

Sympathies and best wishes to their friends and families.

Taking home the bacon

My dad's got the habit of picking up a 5lb bag of bacon from the butcher's every Friday, whether they need it or not. Because it's a bargain. Weekends are spent farming rashers out to the rest of the family. He called on my brother...

"Do you want any bacon?"

"Yes please."

"How much do you want?"

"How many can I have?"

"How many do you want?"

"Can I have twenty-seven?"

"Can I talk to somebody sensible?"

The brother turned and shouted to the small girl niece.

"Come out here, your grand-dad wants to talk to you."

And breathe...

A bad couple of weeks for catching up with things. Mostly job-related stuff: both I and the small object of desire and moon of my delight have been negotiating written submissions for our jobs (I'm sorted for now; she, alas, is still on tenterhooks). Add to that a few calendar commitments and Things That Cannot Be Avoided and I'm a bit time-poor and preoccupied at the moment.

Luckily, all my news so far is, touch wood, good. I hope I find you all in fine fettle.

Today's mystery picture

So there I was, walking through the park when I noticed a couple of these things in the children's play area. I have no idea what they are. Essentially, they're a funnel on a stick a metre and a bit high (four foot in old money). Inside the funnel is five holes; I can't work out why or where they go. There are two of these; one at each end of the park but don't face each other: they're oriented 30° to each other.

Wotizzit?

Lazy Sunday afternoon

Questions a gentleman must not answer on a Sunday morning:

"Do you think I need a new saddle?"

"Would those boots make my legs look short?"

"That would look better in pink, wouldn't it?"

Of all the gin joints...

As if working late on the first St Val's day in ages where it mattered a hoot wasn't bad enough (the loved one was on late shift), Stockport Plaza had a special one-night-only screening of Casablanca.

I've spent the day trawling through the schedules of The Human Rights Act to see if I can claim compensation for this twist of fate.

Confused metrics

I've mentioned before that mine is the last generation to be able to get its head around the concept of rods, poles or perches. The Small Object Of Desire And Moon Of My Delight tells me that hers is the confused generation:

"I know how long a metre or a mile is but I've no idea of yards or kilometres."

Still here, honestly

Sorry, I've been neglectful. Stuff. You know how it is. And some other stuff. Yes, I'm surprised, too. I'll catch up this week. Meanwhile...

Cats don't like the rain

I'm not going to write this post. Things are good. And I could worry for England.

Here's some music instead...

A child's garden full of intimations of mortality

The small niece child is pondering the mysteries of life, death, God and what not and isn't any too impressed by the big feller's manner of getting things done.

"If everybody dies there'll be nobody left in the world. I don't know what He thinks he's doing..."

Hirsute

You've got to feel sorry for King Kong...

A friend and I were talking the other day and it occurred to me that if King Kong went to a waxing salon for a back, sack and crack he'd look like he'd put a mohair suit on back-to-front.

There's always someone worse off than yourself...

In memoriam

R.I.P. the sublimely beautiful Susannah York. Sigh...

And also to football legend Nat Lofthouse.

Susannah York had the nicer legs.