for no particular reason, other than my pleasure ... utamaro

glueing day in SW15

you don't have to be saintly to be spanish ... but this man knows when to do the right thing

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2013/jan/05/pamplona-spain-banks-homes

outbreak of egotistical tweeting in dorset ... culprit brilliantly photographed by marilyn peddle

fearful symmetry ?

stuff at the V&A

'ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go !

you don't have to be mad to be spanish ...

.... but it probably helps

http://elpais.com/elpais/2012/12/28/album/1356714795_886253.html#1356714795_886253_1356716937

can't come to the pub ... too busy working on my re-make of swan lake ...

memo:  must have a word with the costume supervisor ...

whappen ifn you slice de menger sponge ? ... of course, i guessed completely wrong

https://simonsfoundation.org/multimedia/mathematical-impressions-the-surprising-menger-sponge-slice/

from the work of clever clogs george hart ... http://www.georgehart.com/rp/rp.html

when you get home at dusk in london in winter ... you can watch the day unfolding all over again ... in yosemite

http://www.yosemiteconservancy.org/webcams/yosemite-falls

apropos de nuffinque

on her way to the sales

we waited until we had watched the first forty-five minutes of singin' in the rain before we opened the prosecco ... at 0945 GMT

last minute shopping ... phew ! ... thank goodness they still had a few of those giant bars of carbolic soap at the pound shop

saint martin in the field's ... upstairs, downstairs

reflections at clapham junction

cast a giant shadow ...

kool for kats

dance, dance, dance ...

preparing for christmas ...

as instructed ...

i've hoovered under the bed

can't see why all the fuss about a little bit of fluff

it isn't as if you could lose your wallet down there or a fifty pound note ...

look at the hand ...

is a strangling imminent ?

has the six-foot girl leprechaun mistaken the little angel for a turkey ?

pious colonials at mayfield ( i )

pious colonialists at mayfield ( ii )

a tale of two tattoos

At a farm in Surrey where good cheeses are oak-smoked, there is a workaholic gardener called Ian … deaf, arthritic, full of fun, and covered in tattoos which probably date back to the days of National Service in the British Army.

We tease one another.

Then one day he jabs me in the chest with a work-worn finger and demands “Some respect, with a capital R”.

I reply “Why don’t you have the whole word in capitals … and you can tattoo it across your arse ?”

Later, I tell this story to Doctor Litchfield, the psycho-topographer.

Her amusement seems disproportionate until she explains that she’s recently had her initial written as a capital letter on her body at a trendy tattoo parlour ... capital R for Rebecca.

I don't ask her where it has been written, but it is fun to speculate.

A few days later, despite the insult … Ian presents me with two very promising bottles of his home-made wine … and this jar of home-made piccalilli, which he calls chilli-lilli.

a friend ...

... and his forebears

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berthouville_Treasure