... of the seven deadly sins, the eighth and most horrid is emotional blackmail ... whilst for this blogger, the only sacred thing is life itself
Friday, December 21, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
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.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
basic philosophy for six-year olds ... discuss
'Some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.'
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
wonderful
http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibitions/bronze/
http://zoolander52.tripod.com/id22.html
http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/1982.220.8
etc, etc.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A lovely cold day in Sussex.
Brrr ! A Turner
sunrise, looking from the high part of Ashdown Forest as I drive from East
Grinstead to Crowborough, seen through distant veils of falling snow. Hills beyond hills, and their crowning woods,
are silhouetted as if on fire and shrouded in smoke.
A spotted fawn and his mother nibble the icy grass on the
snowy first tee of the golf course as I slowly descend the drive to the hotel at
Ashdown Park.
A gaudy woodpecker swoops right past my windscreen, a flash
of emerald green and yellow green, and settles less than five yards from the
kerb on a sunlit bank of grass as my truck rolls slowly through a roundabout
in, of all places, the busy North Terminal of Gatwick Airport. For a moment I look down on his tightly
folded wings and the great scarlet flash on his head and neck, and he looks
back at me.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
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