Norfolk Pit Firing



16th century thatched cottage, lovely garden on a lane to the beach. Beautiful weather. Drove up on friday night, stopped at a local shop on the way to pick up provisions. Skateboardy youths hung outside bikes thrown down and skateboards discarded. Man strides over, irritated there is stuff blocking his way he violently kicks a skateboard out of the way. 5 people pick out their essential items and get to the checkout with full baskets. On arrival we are greeted by the early arrivers. Cheese on toast for dinner but couldn't turn on the cooker. Cheese sandwiches for dinner. Stroll on the beach watching the sun set, sea lapping at the shore, sucking stones back down the beach. The earlies had been swimming in the sea and seen seals.

Later we lay in the garden looking at the stars. We watched satelite trajectories and shooting stars, milky way. I spilled wine in my hair.

Saturday spent preparing the pots in the garden. Those wishing to swim swam. Trailers arrived - Fran, superhost, Georg, with corregated steel sheet and sawdust, and the boys (driver overslept by 3 hours). Sense of anticipation built up over the day.



7pm everyone went down to the beach. Georg drove the sawdust and pots in the car. Lots of chiefs stood round with spades and discussed pits - size, shape, placement. They thought initially to use some existing holes as the basis of the pit and then abandoned them having decided it was harder to make it suit than start from scratch. Once decided to begin again it was dug in minutes. Then off for a dip in the sea again.



Tide seemed to be creeping in and the original holes gradually filled up with water. Then the pit started flooding. New pit site was chosen. Fran put a stone on the tide line to check when the tide turned. New pit was started and completed. Tide was receding. Pit was lined with sawdust, pots put in, filled up with sawdust. Screwed up newpaper covered the top and covered with sticks. Ceremonial lighting of the pit. Initial concerns about causing a public nuisance subsided when it transpired that all the parties on the beach were barbecueing, some with much more smoky fires. Lidded the pit and watched.



Half the party went off in search of fish and chips. Fran and Maddie returned to the cottage for snacks and came back with veggies to roast on the pit and carrots with their greens still on. Much wine was drunk. There is something very primeaval about sitting with a fire in a group. Back to how our ancestoers would have lived. Seeing the sky. Using the mateials around us. Cooking on an open fire, eating with fingers. Basic needs met, no luxuries, plenty.

The Polish group along the beach were burning a huge tree trunk. The men ran off for a dip and came back sans trunks, whooping and leaping while cupping their privates. Their women folk laughed egging them on, they played up to it with accidentally-on-purpose dropped towels, followed by fire leaping, risk of chargrilled balls.

The pit embers glowed but the warmth reduced. Wrapped up in blankets and huddled together eating 8 fish and 3 chips (ordered 8 fish and chips and 3 chips). The crowd drifted away as the wine ran out and tiredness overcame them. Then there were three of us, staying up, drinking wine until we were unable to stand, watching the sunrise begin. One swam in a sea that was much warmer at night than in the day. And then we went home.

Pit was opened the following morning. Pots were washed in the sea to reveal an array of smoky results.




Finally dragged all the firing schrapnal back to the cottage. Pots were cleaned up and polished and lunch was eaten. Then drove back to London.



A particularly wonderful weekend. My feet are itchy for more like that - open road, travelling, beach living, pottery.

Living in the Moment

Having worked for 15 years I feel that I have become an observer of the moment as opposed to living in the moment. In snatched moments during lunch I watch other people living the moments of their lives - a young couple snog on a bench. Remember the warmth and wetness of another's lips, probing tongue that excites the sexual, exchange of bodily heat and physical emotion. I remember it but don't feel it that often anymore. Its a new lovers experience. 3 dancers work out the choreography for a performance, testing out the movements, making sure they are sashaying the same way, thrusting hips in the right direction, counting steps... and dip, dip. A beautiful quivering whippet watches, as do a passing throng of painters and decorations - tanned necks, paint daubed clothes, smoking and joking.

A dance track comes on in the cafe - one of those phat tunes with a swell of bass and repetitive melody that reverberate in the body - stimulating the synapses. This was music of living in the moment - when we would dance all night at a whim, seek out excitement and experiences that became the stories of youth. Bogged down in the domestic I find myself yearning for excitement, stimulus and emotional reaction.

Bus

As I sit down I soak up the presence of the previous occupier through the seat of my skirt - warm left behind by their behind.

A little boy with a blond afro is playing with batman - walking him up the arm of his fit tall dad. Oops I nearly dropped matman he says laughing, spinning away he nearly lands a batman punch in the belly of some random stranger. Grinning with embarrassment the boy hides behind his dad's legs and pokes batman up his crotch. His dad brushes batman away.

Weirdly hard bodied man with died black hair and a tan holds himself tall. All muscle in a tight teeshirt. Pumped to the point it looks painfully angular. Stiff. No fat. A strangely plastic alien appearence. Could be Dr Spock.

Men’s Final Day

I like Nadal, but  he seems to be plagued by ill-fitting undergarments (he’s always hoicking them out of his bum, all through every match I’ve ever seen). Surely he could try a different style – say a boxer short rather than a brief or something that might not ride up so much. Or perhaps its just a nervous tick. His parent’s not wanting to make him paranoid never told him to stop it.

World cup has been a trauma of changing allegiances as teams supported fell round after round – there was South Africa (as hosts, and history and Nelson Mandela), France (I have a soft spot for them because they were at one point the arsenal team), England (although I didn’t have any delusions that we would get as far as the media thought we would), Brazil because of their football style, Argentina (style of play and the passions of Maradona), Ghana (as the only African side left after the group stages). So now it’s the Netherlands (Van Persie), or Spain (Fabregas), but Germany have been playing really well.

Feeling Hot Hot HOT

Bed was hot
Bath was cool
Fat rain was hot
Bus was hot
Train to Liverpool Street was hot
Bus was hot
Train to Peckham was cool (air con)
Building was hot
Office was hot
Meeting was hot
Cafe was hot
Afternoon in the office was hotter
Commute home was hot
House was hot
Dusk cooled
But not enough for a cool night's sleep.

Jewellery course on the hottest day of the year

Alex said we should go to a jewellery making course, so I agreed. She found a taster course which was going to make pendants and earrings. I got quite into the idea of doing some metal work again (its been 15+ years since I finished my degree and haven't touched metalworking since then - bad course, put me off). During the week I had an idea of what I wanted to make (focusing on the pendant since I don't wear earrings - no ear piecings - Dad used to say we were not allowed to mutilate our bodies and then by the time I was old enough to make up my own mind I no longer wanted to). Anyway, when we arrived the artist who was leading the session had a very specific idea in mind of what we were going to make and it transpired we weren't going to have much choice - we were making earrings and rings out of sheet metal. It is sensible to teach beginners the techniques needed to make the items by making everyone do the same. So we made earrings and rings instead.


Earring hoops were made from silver wire, decorative bits were made from sheet silver, hammered, punched with letters, milled with wire or fabric to get grooves and imprints. To learn to make the ring from sheet we started with a copper ring. Sheet was cut to the appropriate length, decorated, measured again and soldered together. I actually enjoyed it even though I didn't get to do what I wanted to do.

Our fellow learners included a supertanned woman with a croyden facelift hairstyle who had recently stopped being a manager at an estate agency, and a young rich woman who seemed to have had botox injections and collegen lip puffing in her upper lip. Much one-upmanship about areas where we lived ensued. The artist has a whole house just off Upper Street, ex-estate agent was living in Marylebone, botox girl was renting in Islington with a view to buying (she skipped lunch to view two properties, she looked like she skipped lunch most of the time). Artist was looking for a buy-to-let property and started getting professional advice from ex-estate agent.

We worked hard and tried to ignore the property discussion and got finished an hour early. Al and I repaired to the Cuba Libra and drank mojitos.

Raku raku



We do raku firings rarely, the results I have had prior to this term have been patchy (many broken pots and strange glaze results). This term they have been particularly successful.

Living in a Bubble

He strolls through the gardens, hands in pinstripe suit pockets. His suit is crushed on the back because he was lying on the grass with his eyes closed plugged into his ipod.

Its become overcast but is one of those weird days where the air is body temperature and the atmosphere is having no discernible impact on the skin.

I'm feeling cut off - I like to feel a bit of weather, and I have been listening to my ipod to get away from the noise of the office, but it blocks the sounds of the street, people and what is happening around me. Bubble living.

Quiet Saturday

Bails and I went for a coffee at the garden centre in Alexandra Palace. It was overcast and drizzly. We sat under a great big patio umbrella in the rain. Bails was buying a pot for her rubarb plant. I was trying not to buy anything at all since my garden is full, but came away with a clematis to climb through an old arching rose and some fat balls to try to temp the sparrows away from the shooting bamboo (they are sitting in big gangs on the limbs and bending them until they break and pecking out the forming leaves).

Definitely the summer season has started, I woke up this morning with 8 mosquito bites itching like mad on my legs. Probably picked up from a raku firing on Thursday or sitting outside the pizza place after (neighbourhood restaurant where we eat outside and drink too much sambuca). I forget how badly I react to their bites each winter and only remember when I've scratched them into big hot red patches - in India at the Taj Mahal, families kept staring and moving away because I looked diseased and a fellow british tourist pointed and exclaimed my girlfriend is afflicted with exactly the same problem!

Fight

A couple are fighting, walking down the side of H&M of Oxford Circus on opposite sides of the pavement. She is shrieking and he is as far away from her as possible. She stops, screams and runs off back to Oxford Street. He runs after her.

I turn the corner expecting him to have wrestled her to the ground. Instead, she is crying and screaming. She turns and leans her head on her arm up against the bus shelter. Weeping in great dramatic sobs. He punches himself in the face. Chucks his bag and then stands in front of a bus hoping it will run him down. It doesn't.

A crowd of people have formed an audience, pressed up against the windows of BHS. Car crash relationship. People just love to rubberneck. I take one last look - her long hair is a wild tangle around her face and shoulders, her eyes are wet and her mouth is contorted in a silent howl. I move away, it is too much of a drama, too theatrical and too painful to watch.

Shave

Man in a pinstripe suit has an electric shave on the tube platform. Standing next to him on the tube train I notice it isn't a very close one - whiskers still sprout patchily across his jaw. Pulls a necktie out of his pocket and puts it on, collars up, tie knot, collars down. He attempts to use the concave tube doors as a mirror - they are too much like the mirrors in a hall of mirrors to be much use - he is probably stretched in the middle without a head. This is the male equivalent of a woman doing her makeup on the tube. Never get a terribly satisfactory result with all the juddery bumping along.

Two escalators go up together at London Bridge. On one side two letchy middle aged business men ogle the blond teenage travel group girls on the other escalator who must be going to the London Dungeon this morning.

How to be silent (not)

The cafe was full of people eating alone. I finish my book and set it aside to eat. Became acutely aware of a man two tables away when he belched loudly. The belch lingered in the air unexcused (no companions, no need to excuse oneself, I suppose). His nose makes noises when he exhales through it. He clears his throat. His presence becomes as irriatating as the women next door chatting endlessly about work, jobs, hours. Big sigh. More nasal sputterings.

The women compare their grades [pay scales] against colleagues, muttering about fairness. How does she get to be an 11 when we're on 10, its not like she has much more than us to do. Its not fair. Perhaps because of the lack of proxmity to HQ they feel it is unlikely anyone sitting nearby would understand the discussion. But to me, unbeknownst to them, its clear. I feel like a spy.

Outside there are a lot of babies, not all of them cute. A particular bruiser that I would guess were a boy if she wasn't wearing a dress is trying to communicate with the table next door. Looking from one to the next, sort of pointing to her mother and saying mamamamma.

Nasal guy sighs loudly and clears his throat.

The White Pants

The white pants had a stubborn stain, shan't go into details. Hasten to add they are not my white pants (I profess to not own a single white piece of clothing). So, anyway, I had agreed to wash them in an attempt to get the stain out. I tossed in some dirty tea towels (wouldn't want to run the washing machine empty). A quick wash at 40 degrees didn't help. So I did a pre-wash, 90 degrees. (Fool). The pants came out clean, but a particular shade of pale pink. Pesky tea towels. Panic. New white pink pants. Put them in a weak bleach solution until they looked, well, better. Pink sheen had gone. Pleased with myself I put them back in the wash, dried them in the sunshine. Folded them up ready for collection.

When he came I decided not to tell the boyfiend the trials and tribulations. He picked them up and the first thing he said was, "you made my pants pink...", I ignored him and walked into the kitchen, "... and you weren't going to tell me!"

Oops caught.

Summer Rain

After the heat, rain. A large drop falls individually. Then more, hard and fast. I watch the little round wet marks overlapping, building until its saturated, just drops bouncing back up from the puddle where they land.

Grass blades raise up in appreciation. Flowers droop, rain drops pummelling their petals. As the sheets of rain keep coming petals fall and become plastered to the ground. Smell of rain on hot ground cleaning the air.

The sky lightens, the air lightens. It is daylight again and the rain stops. Overhead the gunmetal grey clouds have gone, left behind a gentler-seeming fluffiness only tinged with grey.

The cistus' crumpled paper flowers are folded in half. The petals drop off, one by one, before they ought to.

Homeward

It was nice after work to walk through the city - crossed Tower Bridge as it raised to let through a tall ship. Went through the back streets to keep away from the crowds of tourists and commuters.


At Liverpool Street they announced the platform for the delayed 17:38. The mass of standing bodies turned from the departures board and swarmed towards the entrance gates. Queue, bump, bump. Through the gate. Along the platform passing coach after coach with no lights and locked doors. Aware of being a member of a mob of determined walking people. We are walking with pace. Cutting across, brushing round, in front of slower people. I worry about my shoes stepping on my toes that are in sandals. I have to alter my stride to avoid placing my feet under the heels of those in front of me. I get a flash image - what if none of the carriages will be open, and we just surge along the platform until the end, fall off like lemmings. Or carry on in the same determined massing down the slope onto the line, along the tracks and away from the station...

Magic


At ceramics class last week we did two raku firings. There is something extremely exciting about the immediacy of a raku firing. In an hour watching the kiln heat up, checking the hole in the top of the kiln for signs of the glaze on the orange glowing pots go from orange peel texture to smooth. Once ready opening the kiln (against what we would normally do) and transferring red hot pots to bins of sawdust - fire, smoke. After half an hour getting the pots out of the sawdust and seeing the transformation - this time the turquoise all turned into the metallic copper. Quite liked the results for a change. And against normally all the pots I got out were whole (last time every pot was cracked!).

Being 40

I have decided that I am going to be 39 and thirteen twelfths. It just sounds younger. Amy said I could be like a toddler and refer to my age wholly in months (why do we do that? once a kid has passed their 1st birthday surely we can call them one year old). That would make me just over 480 months. Or she suggested days, just to be really accurate. 14,626 days old (remembering leap years). Its not really helping me feel younger.

Barcelona Newcastle

So instead of going to Barcelona we decided to meet between Dundee and London in Newcastle. We booked a decent hotel and trains and travelled up. On arrival we walked across town to our hotel, which was dark, purple and velvety inside, something that would fit nicely in a vampire hooker movie. From Dusk til Dawn springs to mind. We did have a view onto the Gateshead Millenium Bridge from our room though.

We ate tapas, looked at architecture and walked by the river pretending we were in Barcelona. On the first afternoon it was hot enough. Next day was grey and. Made the pretence more difficult. My favourite thing is the multiple levels created by the hills and bridges.

Disappointment

We are supposed to be in Barcelona. Sis booked it last June for a birthbday gift. We were waiting with baited breath in case the ash cloud turned back into our flight path. Three days before we were due to go she got a text saying our flights were cancelled (BA cabin crew strike). When the strike was withdrawn all the flights bar two were put back on. Ours was one of the two. Amy's flight from Dundee was also cancelled. So its a good thing the weather is good because I can almost imagine I'm in Spain with this heat.

Lunch

Sitting in the hut place in Potter's Fields eating lunch and admiring the gardens designed by Piet Oudolf (like the drifts of plants, mixtures of grasses - its very tranquil and quite unlike normal municipal planting).

An attentive golden labrador loves to play fetch. The owner stands texting, the dog runs and gets the ball, brings it back, drops it at the owner's feet and waits expectantly watching the ball intently. Eventually the dog nudges the ball with his nose, closer to the owner's feet. Finally the owner kicks the ball, without looking. It doesn't go as far but the dog doesn't care. He fetches it, brings it back, drops it...Again, and again. Untiringly. Until the owner moves on.

Commute

An actor reherses a play. The script, typed, not word processed, sits on his lap. His hands move in shortened large gestures and his face exaggerates expressions - it will be on the stage and needs to be seen from the back. His thick black eyebrows knit and his penetrating black eyes focus.

There's a woman in an ugly blue and silver hat, swirled in netting, probably homemade. Perches on top of her head and seems a bit small. A young man sits next to me and starts to read the paper. A teenage girl, having spied him, jumps from her chosen seat and dives into the seat opposite me to make sidelong eyes at him. I glance at the young man - he is wearing a trilby hat and has the alternative image of Johnny Depp. When he doesn't notice the girl, she goes back to stroking the hairs on her arm and picking skin off her lips. These must be common habits - her lips are ringed red and her arms have peeled off scabs. Bad-hat woman starts filing her nails with an emery board. Scratchyscratchscratch.

Stuck in the tunnel between stops. In the quiet people huff and shift weight onto opposite feet, loosen jackets. Someone's personal stereo spills out jazz.

Baby Bird



All the baby sparrows are out for the first time today. Little, fluffy and grey they are sitting in the lilac tree trying to not draw attention to themselves. Little, nervous bundles that are not quite able to fly with confidence. Every once and a while they pluck up courage to try the flying thing and get flustered when they can't quite find a landing.

Red, Blue, Yellow

So now its all over, I'm really rather depressed. I didn't think I would feel that way - having become so jaded about politics and politicians just looking to line their own pockets. Disappointed in the Lib Dems jumping into bed with tory boy and his private school cronies, but then shouldn't really be suprised since the lure of power is what draws people to politics in the first place (the minute someone decides to run for parliament they become untrustowrthy). Two desperate men standing holding hands, thrilled to have the keys to number 10. These public school boys just don't represent me. I don't think they have any idea how the majority of people in this country live. And I'm worried that all the solutions will have benefits for the rich and damage the poor even further.

Early last week I was finding these elephants all over London quite charming. After the results I'm finding them a bit plastic and not as interesting as they may have been.

Party

Bails and I had a not quite 40 non-birthday birthday party. It was a barbecue so naturally I woke up to the rain pouring down. I had not had a great night sleep becuase my arms were aching from all the mowing, raking, sweeping, cleaning and cooking (baking, actually, lots of beating butter and sugar and eggs and folding in flour) I had done the day before. While it all seems like a lot of work in the build up to a party it is actually really nice to have lots of people round - the mixture of family friends, school, college, work and ceramics class people worked well, I got excellent feedback on the food, cake, garden and house all of which is heart warming. And people stayed until midnight so must have been enjoying themselves enough. Today I have been cleaning up - there was not a clean plate, fork or glass in the place. The house is now spotless again but strangely empty feeling. Devoid of the chatter, laughter and bodies of the night before. On a plus I am still not 40 yet, sadly for Bails she is now (her birthday today - happy birthday Bails!)

Ceramics Class

Class started back on Thursday. There haven't been many finished products this academic year - I'm going to work on that this term. Did start a series of dishes at the end of last term - using mixed clays - the only one that has come through completed so far is a mix of crank (quite gritty and sort of tan coloured) and porcelain. I've put life drawings on them also. Also finally got Hour finished and brought home for a picture. Its a concept. It started from the 10 things in 10 minutes exercises that we did. I set a task for myself of doing 60 things in 60 minutes. It turned into Hour. Each pinch pot too a minute to make. They were of similar size, smooth on the inside and with finger imprints on the outside.

Kew Gardens without Planes

Pops and I went over to Kew. I wanted to look at the bluebells. And we went to check on the sequoa tree planted for my mother. Due to the late spring, the bluebells were not out yet. The usual line of planes coming into land were missing (volcanic ash cloud having grounded them all).

Mythical Beasts and the Building Site

In the Unicorn cafe, which is sort of like the Southwark Council Staff Canteen (due to its proxmity to the building and cheaper than other eating nearby), looking out onto a building site. They're extending the only remaining old building (leaving the front as was and putting on a new build back end). The big steel structure is in place already. On the first floor they have constructed what looks a bit like a false ceiling held up on many uprights that appear to be made of some kind of yellow plastic. Sunlight is dappling through like in a beech tree forest. Yesterday the architects and project managers (6 of them) were walking round in a group pointing at things collectively - men with big bellies, clipboards and hi-viz jackets over suits - clearly not scaffold monkeys used to clambering around. Today a gaggle of workmen - hi-viz jackets, hard hats, utility belts and rolled up sleeves - work in the corner putting up the rest of the yellow structure, one half way up the ladder, one at the bottom, one perched on the 2nd floor steels. In another corner - at the edge of the building two others drape green mesh round the steels and scaffold. The foreman is resting his arms on a steel and 'supervising'. Its like a giant jumgle gym. I'm worried its going to ruin the original building, but its too late to stop now.

Coincidence

I'm reading Falling Man by Don DeLillo. I suddenly came across a passage concerning passport photographs. Strange coincidence. My recently taken passport pictures are tucked into the back of the book, quite by chance.

"I look at the face in the passport photo. Who is that woman?"
"I lift my head from the washbasin," Martin said.
"Who is that man? You think you see yourself in the mirror. But that's not you. That's not what you look like. That's not the literal face, if there is such as thing, ever. That's the composite face. That's the face in transition."
"Don't tell me this."
"What you see is not what we see. What you see is distracted by memory, by being who you are, all this time, for all these years."
"I don't want to hear this," he said.
"What we see is the living truth. The mirror softens the effect by submerging the actual face. Your face is your life. But your face is also submerged in your life. That's why you don't see it. Only other people see it. And the camera of course."

This is how I am feeling about myself. Don't feel the photographs are a true representation of me. But perhaps that is my own perception of what I look like and not what I actually look like. We see ourselves in mirror image always, and potentially don't see ourselves as we are at all but overlaid with a memory of what we think we look like.

Opposite me a boy sits imagining taking photograghs out of the bus window with a little rectangle of card. T-schtick, he says, pressing the imaginary shutter release at a group of people standing at the 41 bus stop at Turnpike lane. T-schtick again. He looks in a different direction. T-schtick.


I have two pens in my bag. A biro with a wooden casing that is larger than a normal pen and a pilot hi-tec. I am searching for a pen, any pen, in my bag and can't find either of them. Rummaging, becoming furious. Felt through all the pockets, patting each pocket, and potential nooks. Finally find the pilot down the lining. Bring it out, use it and when putting it back find the other pen easily like it had been in easy reach all the time.

Beautiful Minds

Dame Jocelyn Bell Burnell was talking about science not being about truth because you can't be sure that one person's truth is the same as another person's truth. Truth  has perspective and so opinionated. Science is an investigation which improves or increases understanding. I liked this. It made sense.

She was remarkably unembittered by the controversial awarding of the 1974 nobel prize to Dr Hewish, her Phd supervisor, (along with Dr Ryle), for his discovery of pulsars, which should have at least been equally hers. His bullshit explanation that the research set up was there already and so the discovery to them rather than to the research student who saw it, raised their conscious to it and then proved the theory by finding more. He could have told the prize givers of the part she played. Dr Bell Burnell didn't seem to mind. She was truely remarkable.

Astrophysicists have a fascinating story to tell - of the creation of the universe, big picture understanding. She made the science understandable. Like Prof Brian Cox on Wonders of the Solar System, she made the big wow stuff make sense. Perhaps its because it relates to us and our world and how it came to be. Perhaps its because they are excited by their subject (always a very attractive quality in a person).

Passport Photograph

What is it with all the rules regarding photos for passports these days? The ears must be visible. How often do you not recognise a person because you can't see their ears? Of all the features on the face that are essential for recognition ears come fairly low down for me. Or maybe immigration needs to make sure they are not letting any aliens into the country - we know from the TV and films that they may look perfectly human apart from having pointy ears or indeed be missing a pinna altogether. (methinks they may be watching too much TV).

From a vanity point of view I am a little upset they won't allow me to wear my glasses in the picture - my whole image is developed around the colour of my glasses and without them I look somewhat devoid of colour, and much too dark-eye-baggy. I'm blaming the unflattering lighting (you'd never be photographed with a full on flash to the front at a photographic studio, at least not without some infill and back lighting and a soft focus lens). It could of course also be blamed on me actually having said eye-bags, but I just don't think they are quite that bad. And, haivng taken a set at the beginning of the week, I have spent the rest of the week sleeping lots, putting cucumbers on my eyes and slathering a variety of creams and oinments on them which have made no decernable differerence to the photos taken at the end of the week. So, I now have 10 years to try to sort that problem out for the next passport renewal.

Figure of Eight

Its the stillest day. Not even a breath of wind. The air is body temperature. There is no feeling it on my bare skin, no tingle of cold or baking heat. My body and the atmosphere coexist in complete equilibrium.

Waiting for the oven cleaner to do its thing, I hestitate to say magic, because contrary to expectation that everything will come off easily with one wipe like it does in the adverts, its never quite like that in real life.


Butterfly watching - two peacocks and one of those black and red ones that I didn't get close enough to identify properly.

Postman rang loudly (new bell, very audible, no matter where you are in or outside the house) with a parcel. Which is good. I've been thinking they don't bother to carry the packages and drop a collection notice automatically rather than try to deliver at least once. Tesco's has gotten me hooked on a hair product (a serum that tames unruly hair prone to frizz - mine all the way) and then has discontinued it. Can't stand that. So now I'm having to order it over the internet. This is ever so slightly too dependent for my liking.

I haven't seen the mice that were living in my neighbours compost bin for a while. Been looking. A hawk of some kind swept down last week and took something small, I was hoping it wasn't a sparrow (I'm feeling like those are my pets - particularly since they are living in my roof), but if its a mouse I'm not too bothered. I tried to feel ok about them as long as they were outside the house, but they are awfully small and could fit through quite tight gaps.

Racing pigeons swoop round in a large figure of eight. This is my mind. Trying to figure out a way to get more time like this - outside, low pressure work, enjoying the daytime rather than staring longing at it from inside the office.

Yummy

Is there anything more annoying than your favourite cafe (favourite incidentally because it is actually the only decent one in the area) being overrun by families and their toddlers, and mothers and their babies in groups, meeting to talk about sleep patterns, eating (what, how often, what consistency), curdled milk, birth, joint bank accounts, mortgages, while parking their monster-buggies in the spaces you need to walk round the tables?

Haringey

Outside the Salisbury Pub a man and a woman have an argument. He seems drunk, and through the window of the bus I read his lips telling her to fuck off. She doesn't.

A man blows one nostril onto the pavement. An electrical shop selling TVs has a display of the fashion channel showing a swimwear catwalk show.

Two kids on the bus play rock paper scissors. They have introduced a new choice into the game - laser (think this word in the voice of Dr Evil). Guess which component beats all others.

Woman in a mobility scooter crosses the street in such a way that a car screeches to a halt, she drives up a pavement lip, does a 180 degree turn and shoots off in the other direction. She drives with her legs crossed.

Goodbyes

Train station embrace, actually more than a snog, with full body to body contact, arms wrapped round for all enveloping stroke. Under the departure boards at Liverpool Street Station. A stationful of rush hour commuters watching for their trains. They pull apart for breath, smiling. They hug. Then both women turn towards the underground.

Early Morning

Its only me and the birds awake. Drizzle falls. They flit around breakfasting noisily. Much calling and song. A collared dove on a highly bending elder branch. Buds developing on the lilac (a self planted specimen from the neighbour's one). I can't sleep anymore. Exhausted last night I sat in bed reading the end of my book for three hours until I couldn't hold off sleep any longer at 11.00pm. We are having what seems like a relentlessly pressurised year at work - going from one intense period to the next. Last year it was Ofsted (twice - once snowed off in February, then the rescheduled in May), the new year has brought auditors (one set threatened in February only to be called off the weekend before they were coming, and now a second lot are here). I had a week off two weeks ago - thinking alot about job satisfaction. If I had the money, didn't need to worry about a salary, what would I do? What line of work might make me feel less like a creative trapped in a monitoring world? I can find no satisfactory answers (something I might like to do which will bring me a salary on which I can live). Despite the fact that I will be 40 this year, I am still trying to decide what I want to do when I grow up. I'm thinking it might be too late already! Two quotes from Joshua Ferris, author, in one of the weekend magazines summed it up quite perfectly for me:

After I left college I thought, very naively, that either you became someone interesting - an artist - or you went into academia. If you ended up in an office you were dull and lacking. And I ended up in an office.

The inanities and absurdities of corporate life are so obvious... I found  a great deal of nobility there - you know, people doing jobs they might not like, doing it for their kids. Which is not to say that I felt those things while I was there... I felt my life was draining away.

Rainy Evening

I like walking in the rain. Cooling. Droplets like diamonds sticking to hair, wool. The pavement wet and reflecting all the lights of the city night. Sparkling. The smell fresh. Clean. Renewed.

A long drink of water straight from the botton. Chilled. Washes away the dryness and dust from the throat. A meandering bus journey delivers me home.

Spring Sunshine

The wintry sun dips in the palest blue sky. The people in the park are not yet feeling the cold. Someone lies on the ground feet in the root system of a large tree, head downhill, staring at the sky. Further along another person lies in the grass. A small group of Indians make a film. Shooting a presenter in turquoise mac against Alexandra Palace. Furthest along, just before the bus takes the sharp turn down towards the bottom of Muswell Hill a group picnic on a rug.

Very british rush to use the sun whenever it appears.

Ladies [and gentlemen] Who Lunch

Cafe Rouge on James Street near Selfriges. Sitting in the sunshine (lovely March sunshine with enough warmth to not have cold hands when ungloved, to feel the benefit on the face and enjoy the brightness on the eyes) drinking cafe mocha waiting for the boyfiend.

Two businessmen take coffee - one has folded his jacket inside out and laid it over his knee and discarded his tie. Positively basking.

Two Russian girls, one eating, one nursing a cafe latte.

Three old posh ladies. Strange assortment of clothing. One in particular must be in from the county. Chain smoking. Drinking claret. Bloated, reddened from weathering. Laughing rauchously and sharing pictures of grandchildren and stories of children's successes (and divorces).

French tourists drinking coffee. Suprisingly un-chic, dressed in jeans and fleece which I always find at odds with their reputation.

The businessmen move onto beer. The other Russian takes a meal while her companian smokes. The three posh ladies study some foxton's propety sheets of a potential purchase that one of them will make. Discuss in some detail the merits of the windows. Chain-smoking lady is on her sixth cigarette. Mostly held aloft betwee thick fingers, elbow on the table. Occassionally dragging on it with a creamy orange lipsticked mouth. Flicking ash off its end into a glass ashtray.

Boyfiend arrives, and I go and pay.

Winter Olympics Closing

I've very much been enjoying the late nights watching lycra-clad sportsmen and women careen down mountains, icy tunnels and half pipes on skis, boards or tiny tea-tray like sleds. I've stopped paying much attention to the ice-dancing which was one of the favs when I was a kid (Curry, Cousins and then Torville & Dean) - now it seems like slightly more awkward come dancing. And anything that is judged just doesn't seem quite like sport anymore. Much keener on sports where there is an out and out winner. Loved the skeleton (dangerous, head first), luge (dangerous, feet first), bob (dangerous in pairs or fours), also the ski-cross and speed skating. Other events appeal to the altnerative in me like snowboarding aerials - athletes look like skateboard stoners, all long hair and outlandish outfits, doing imppossible-seeming tricks. Not that keen on the bowling-on-ice sport of curling. Don't seem to be clear enough about the rules and the tactics. And find it terribly irritating that they don't just toss the stones down as fast as possible rather than gently releasing them to waft gradually to the perfect stopping point. Also all the sweeping - at times its like watching street sweepers standing round having a chat.

In a phrase borrowed from cousin Tania (she'd just crashed her fiance's brand new ford escort who was hopping mad and irritable, she was in the kitchen with all the female relatives saying he was showing himself up in a very bad light) - the Canadians have shown themselves up in a rather bad light being stingy with access to the runs before the games began, which suprises me about them.

Train Presentation

Waiting on the train at Liverpool Street. Dreary wet day. Three of us in the carriage, heads down reading. A train presentation team member creeps through the carriage picking up discarded newspapers and rubbish. Think that team would have used to be called cleaners.

Roots

Is it strange that I think of myself as having grown up in Islington (aged 0-11), and only as living in Haringey (aged 11-present)?

Pink and Purple Don't Go

Not since the 70s when I coveted a pair of plastic clogs of my counsin's plastic clogs have I thought that a pink & purple combo was a good thing. I got a pair of plastic clogs and perhaps then outgrow the colour scheme. A woman at the station was wearing purple shoes, grey sparkly tights and a short bright pink coat. A complete clash of an outfit.

Tattooed Man

Morning train. Man with a full face tattoo. The design reached over his eyelids and spread down his cheeks. Lines ran down his nose from the ridge. Covered completely. Piercings around his mouth and rings hanging from his eyelids that must obscure his vision slightly. Both hands and wrists also completely inked. Impossible to see what he looks like through the mask of images.

Marmalade

I've been trapped at home again this weekend - my friendly electrician is taking down all the 70s chandeliers that ran through the entire downstairs, wall versions, hanging versions. Finally got new lights in the kitchen - there was just one of three spots working before, now light floods onto all the working surfaces. There is light in the hall, and light on the side path to the front door. Its a revelation.

There were seville oranges in the supermarket on Friday. Small, soft, ugly oranges. My mum used to make marmalade. Sharp, thick cut and given away to friends. I didn't like it much. I bought some. One bag. Made 1.5kg worth of oranges into marmalade. The smell of cooking oranges is lovely. Citrus, pungent. Thickened and sticky, poured into hot jars. Lightly toasted a whole-grain multiseed slice of bread and tested it. Its good. Reminds me of her.

Going to the zoo zoo zoo, you can come too too too

Sis and family went to the zoo. Nephew liked the rhinosaurus best, neice liked the Rainbow Lorikeets that drank nectar by hand. Sis got upset when husband shouted to come and look at the baboon. And then shouted again because she didn't respond quickly enough. She was trying to ignore the masturbating baboon which other parents were rushing their children away from.

Kissing

Not real kissing, but air kissing. Mwah mwah. I don't think I'm prudy. Normally. But when did it become acceptable for work colleagues to kiss hello?

Visiting a partner organisation, standing at the door shaking hands with the person who we had met with, when the director (who I have had a working relationship with for 4 years) arrived and cheek kissed hello. In front of my boss. I was concerned that it would seem inappropriate. Uncomfortable.

Once, a colleague (and I can't remember who it was becuase I have blanked it out of my memory) came forward to cheek kiss me and because I wasn't expecting it I turned my head and the kiss landed on my mouth. !! Now that was uncomfortable. Its all such a minefield - never sure whether this is a kisser, handshaker or helloer. Get it wrong and its all so cringey.

I'm reminded of a meeting with a particular gentleman at Finsbury Park Partnership. We shook hands. I was shocked at how cold he was, and commented on the temperature of his hand (big mistake). But a warm heart, he retorted. When I got back from the meeting, I could never shake off the teasing of anyone who overheard (and that happened to be everyone).

Perhaps kissing should be added to the gift register along with more physical gifts and lunches paid for by partners. Wouldn't want it to be miscontrued as a sign of a more favourable relationship. You can let it happen but must delcare that it happened...

Cioa, mwah, mwah.

Big Garden Bird Watch

I was overly keen and actually initially counted the birds last weekend. Had to do it all again this weekend when I realised. Nothing like a trial run through I suppose. So I saw:

• 3 blackbirds
• 13 sparrows
• 1 robin
• 2 blue tits
• 2 collared doves
• 1 wren
• 1 greater spotted woodpecker (new additional the regular visitors - I was quite excited - this is a rarer species - my only one)
• 2 great tits
• 1 magpie (one for sorrow - not so keen on the magpies after they killed the blackbird chicks we had a couple of springs ago)
• 3 wood pigeons
• 3 starlings (always reminds me of Pam Ayres - I'm a starling me darling - we liked her when she was on TV in the 70s but on looking back I really can't see why.
• 1 chaffinch

Blog messup.

Its a mess. I'm working on fixing it. But its taking a long time. Haloscan is closing. Echo isn't easy. Can't change the commenting system without changing the template to a new layouts version. Don't like all the change but hopefully it will work itself out in the end...

Revert

Going back to the way it was...

Tickets

Two ticket inspectors sit on the train, waiting for the doors to close, when we will all be captive and they can start checking the tickets. A rastaman, wearing a red gold and green crocheted hat leans into the carriage and shouts Peckham Rye? to nobody in particular. Several passengers murmur yes. He gets on.

One ticket inspector says to the other, friend of yours?
Other ticket inspectors goes, huh?
Switching to a Jamaican accent, "Peckham Rye" he a friend of yours?
I don't keep friends just acquaintances, he retorts.

Friday night, date night

Islington, Friday night. Bails and I were having a quiet one. Coffee in Tinderbox and Yo! Shushi for a meal. Sitting at the conveyor belt (which was strangely empty - watched those plates of food available go round and round, unwilling to take any of it off). We sat opposite tables occupied by date night couples.

A couple who sat next to one another rather than opposite, she was nearest the belt, at its corner, having a conversation with a woman from a different couple. Her partner chowed down, no words, just chewing.

A long haired couple. His mousy, hers brunette. Hers longer, his greasier. Beige couple, matching beige sweaters.

Second Snow

Woke up in the morning, opened the curtains, sighed - here we go again. More snow. Was glad it was going away. It snowed all day, faster in the morning then slower. Wetter snow than before.

Snow falls gently around me. There is something lovely about the light reflected back from snow beneath your feet. Squeak of fresh snow underfoot, muffling the sounds of everything, chill. Magical really. Translucent ice prints revealed as the snow melts away.

Bad Tottenham Fashions

Nylon leggings, printed with 'denim' pattern complete with pocket and fly images. Trying to replicate the already-fairly gross but popular skin tight stretch jeans but without the thickness (and therefore warmth) of fabric.

Mini Thaw

As the compacted ice melts back it reveals the footsteps that crushed it down. I retrace my own steps from my house to the bus stop. I had walked on the edge of the pavement where the snow was less slippery than the already compacted ice. The trail of several days' walks, mingled with other distinctive treadmarks.

Snow

I'm getting used to the snow now - its bright. I just wish the foxes and cats could walk in their footprints a bit more - they have totally messed up the virgin snow. Its all walked over and spoilt.

Absent Minded

Hazy memory came back to me while lying in the bath. Maybe I was 5, maybe 7. Could have been Scotland but more likely to be Devon or Cornwall. The family - Mum (long brown wool coat), Dad (fisherman's smock and the blanket wrapped round over one shoulder and under one arm), Amy being carried, and me - walking down a path from the cliff to the beach. My head got hot so I took off my white wooly hat and launched it over onto the beach, from where I would collect it when we got down there. Unfortunately, the unforeseen happened, the hat got caught in the thorny bushes its way down. Fear. Mum, or perhaps Dad, asked me what did you do that for? I said I thought it would get down to the beach. Nobody said anything else about it. Relief.


Earlier this week I decided to heat up the last spoonful of plum pudding left over from Christmas day. It came in a microwaveable plastic bowl with a lid. So I stuck it all back in the microwave and pinged it for 6 minutes. In the living room, chopping up the tree, I heard it end. The dining room and kitchen were full of white thick smoke. Running in, opened the back door, smoke wafted out, acrid stink, opened microwave and inside the pudding had embers burning inside, the plastic bowl melted completely around it. Chucked it out into the garden. End of christmas is a lingering smell of burned plastic.

On the chime of midnight the whole neighbourhood erupted into a sympony of fireworks. And it started to snow. Happy new decade!

Happy New Year!

So the decade comes to a close. A decade that started in South Africa at an outdoor rave party, if not footloose then fancy free at the end of the very turbulant decade of my 20s (lost love, death, degrees, work, going out, gaining life experience - peaks and troughs, although by the end it sort of felt like there were more troughs than peaks, or perhaps the troughs were deeper). At the close of the decade I have stepped into a proper adult life: home owning, 12 year partnership with the boyfiend and a better job. Sensible achivements all. Also rediscovered a way to have a creative output - started life drawing, started blogging and started making ceramics. I am also an auntie, a nurse and an agony aunt. Still struggling to decide what I want to do when I grow up. Perhaps the next decade will shed some light on that.

So it started with Bails in South Africa dancing wildly in a summer night heat, and it ends with Bails on the sofa at my house drinking champaign and watching Jools Holland.

Happy New Year to You!

After Christmas, Before New Year

Dead time between Christmas and new year. Don't really have anything to do, don't want to do anything either. Rain, gloomy, dank. Cold. Had to go to work today. Work neighbourhood is dominated by tourists rather than the usual suits. Work place is only a quarter full. The christmas tree in the main entrance (two floors tall) has not been watered and is showing signs of fatigue - lower limbs are drooping, needles all over the floor. In the street many organisations have discarded them already (chucked into doorways).

Christmas Cheer!

So, its well and truely over. Turkey was cooked, due to mis-timing it was ready before the vegetables even got into the oven (planning for next time - try not to be the cook and the chauffeur - too long collecting people to bring over meant I wasn't present to direct the helpers to get the veggies on to par boil in time - perhaps an hour of grumpy Harriet while we tried to catch up, fortunately once it all gets under control again the grump goes away). We forgot to do crackers so nobody had to wear a cracker hat, sis's husband didn't have to tape two together in order to get it over his head. Two of the new strings of lights had partial failure shortly after being put on the tree, but not soon enough so they could be taken off and marched back to the shop. Ended the day with 6 (dad, me, sis Amy, her husband John, their kids) on the sofa, broken-back Bails got a chair to herself. Mostly it was dad, John and Amy snoozing; me, the kids and Bails watching Bolt on dvd.

Hope you all had a lovely day and wishing you all a happy new year!

Big Snow

Novelty for me - having a car - we rent one sometimes when we may need to travel around but there won't be any public transport (christmas day for instance). It gets used a lot then for doing the chores like picking up heavy groceries in the supermarket. We drove in. Shopped. Came out - blizzard had started (London blizzard - say 5 inches of snow, in an hour). We got in the car, joined a queue of traffic trying to exit the supermarket. Two and a half hours later we actually managed it. We weren't the only ones - someone texted in to Chris Evans drive time saying they were stuck in Sainsbury's carpark in Hull. Perhaps its the design of Sainsbury's car parks the land over - bottle necks the lot of them.

Bus Queue Rage

47 pulls up at Liverpool Street, empty. The 3rd woman getting onto the bus looks as though she tries to trip up the woman ahead of her. Misses. But she does manage to bump her roughly, barging past to get a seat downstairs. Sorry she says without meaning it and without any eye contact. Bumped woman goes upstairs confused.

Perhaps she got on the bus out of order therefore infuriating the woman who ended up behind her. This is now probably more normal than waiting in line these days at London bus stops.

Attractive

Clear watery grey eyes, brown skin, crows feet crease in a smile.

Christmas Countdown

Deck the halls with boughs of holly tralalala...

1. I've made a Christmas cake - extra glace cherries, fed with rum on two occasions now.
2. Bought Christmas cards, will try to send them this year, don't usually get round to it.
3. Started shopping - got a couple of items down - spoke to my sister today she was picking up her last item. Maybe I'm behind...
4. Picked up some new wrapping paper - for when I eventually get the shopping done.
5. Made mincemeat - put in extra orange peel, more cinnamon and mixed spice than it asked for, and decided to put in ground ginger. Gave the mixture a good kick.
6. Done a reccy at the shops a couple of times (Selfridges, Covent Garden, Tottenham Court Road, Islington Upper Street) - don't like to choose too soon, like to get a good overview before making decisions. Need to scan the product, think about the people for whom something is needed and then rush round like a maniac on Christmas Eve picking it all up and hoping I can remember where I saw it.

Still to do:

• Get a Christmas tree (need a tall but not too bushy one I think)
• Decide where to put it - don't have a natural place for it at present which is not in the way.
• Shopping - actual purchases rather than window shopping.
• Food shopping - when the time comes

West London Ladies

A bit footballers wives bling used to shopping in Harvey Nicks and Harrods, others some sloaney hair and pearls. Lots of expensive handbags.

Not like the North East London girls I'm used to - primark rip-offs of designer gear, bling in the cheapest possible sense, keen on the Croydon face-lift and achingly straight ironed hair.

Different parts of London have clearly distinct feels. I've grown accustomed to South London, also a bit more eastly North London, but I've never really come to terms with West London. A bit too posh, a bit too spoiled rich girls.

if you are on a fold up bike with small wheels do you really need to wear a go-faster aerodynamic helmet and all the special cycling gear?

Dramatic things for men to do with their look

"So, are you trying to be a cowboy?" She was looking at the newly sported full mustache that took a turn down the sides of his mouth. Not enough to look like a gay biker. Not enough to join into a goatee. But enough to for cowboy style. Ought to be worn with cowboy boots and spurs and the gait of the saddle weary. Chewing tobacco and spitting. Denim. Possibly a jacket made of suede with fringes. Definitely needs to be in the bleaching Californian desert. Not so great a look in smart slacks and loafers strolling around the Tooley Street office.
"Its men's health week," the cowboy explains.
"You're growing a mustache for men's health week?" confused.
"Yes! I didn't mean it to get so.. so... wild!"
"Yes, wild west!"

Casualty

Rush hour, way home, on the train. Phone rings. Don't recognise the number so I don't answer it. Message from someone saying Bails had an accident. Agreed to meet at the hospital. North Middlesex. Arrived at the A&E department. Bails had not come in yet. Sitting waiting - sign said 3 hours. Man with a painful stomach is hunched over, his head on his hands on the back of the chair. His wife is sitting silently next to him. His son (who I suspect has the wheels) is chatting to a different patient and his girlfriend. I presume they are friends. The waiting is excruitiating. The son keeps sneaking into the restricted area and coming back with reports. Two women sit chatting loudly, laughing. Can't tell which one is the potential patient. Lots of people are using their mobile phones, even though there are signs all over the place forbidding it. Eventually I am too restless to stay sitting down anymore and stand in the queue again to ask whether Bails has been booked in yet. At first they say not but subsequently it turns out she is here.

8.00pm. Inside the restricted area there are curtained off cubicles and a central station. Its not like ER. Not quite like Casualty either. There is no sense of urgency. Lots of student doctors in strange smart outfits. Every once and a while someone gets up to see one of the patients in their curtained area. It seems that the doctors wear stethescopes. Nursing staff don't.

Bails has hurt her back in a gym accident. Some kind of weight lifting accident. She's lying still on the gurney. Stretchered in.

10.45pm. No doctor has come to make an assessment of Bails' case as yet. I ask the nurse at the station if there is a queue and if so where are we on it. She is irritated by me and looks at me accusingly. She grudgingly looks up the list of patients. 2 ahead of us. Other people who were waiting with me outside come and go. One of the female doctors looks like she has been up for 24 hours straight. Huge bags under her eyes. Grouchy demeanor.

12.15am. I decide to ask again where we are in the queue. Next it turns out. Took an hour and a half to see 2 patients. One of the other nurses asks whether anyone has been to see Bails yet. No I say, with some irritation showing. Its now late, I haven't had any supper. Finally at 12.30 the doctor comes and asks lots of quetsions. Bails is sent for an x-ray. X-ray comes back and 3 doctors stand around looking it it. One noticies a fracture. Everyone shows a degree more urgency. This is a serious injury. Shouldn't have been left for 4 hours on the trolley. Finally a doctor is assigned, Bails is fully assessed and admitted to the trauma ward. Its 2am.

Sunday Morning

Weak winter sun hangs low in the sky. Standing in it the warmth is on the skin is hugely uplifting. Catches the yellow leaves and twinkles through the droplets of water that are hanging off everything.

Public information messages

Please be considerate to your fellow passengers and keep personal audio music and mobile phone conversations to a minimum.

Weird old fashioned messages on the train. Why is it that announcements and messages always feel rather out of date? I wonder if the man who used to do the announcements at New Cross is still there - a suprisingly tiny neat man with a voice from the 50s. I hardly ever refer to my mobile phone any more - mostly just phone, occassionally mobile, never together.

I follow a guitar player, girl with a hockey stick, and a tall man with very short legs, off the train at London Bridge. Its a bit chilly today - first day of the year when that I've put on gloves. Definitely winter now - although the garden isn't quite up with the season - still have hardy geraniums, roses, and the occasional rock rose bloom, one left over japanese anemone blossom.

Shoe Sizing

A woman on the tube had a pair of boots still in their box. Black 41 written on it. That's my size. Back in the days when they first introduced European sizing to Dolcis (shoe shop of choice when I was at school) I used to wear a size 40. This was equivalent to a 7. It turns out that that is actually closer to a 6 and a half, so they round it down to a 6. A 7 is now a 41. Gargantuan feet.

Chores

Gross jobs I did today:

• Picked up dead rat from the lawn (cup of tea, wandering around the garden as I like to do on a Saturday morning, horror as I came across a rat carcass - probably the prey of a local cat or perhaps fox). Shovelled it into a bin bag while trying to control my gag reflex.
• Unclogged the bathtub plug-hole (I have long hair that comes out in the wash). It looks like one or two hairs but when you pull them out there is always a huge clod on the end that has to be dragged up. More controlling the gag reflex. I'm getting quite good at it.
• Cleaned the wheelie bin. I noticed there were rice grains in the bottom of the bin, then realised they were wriggling around - maggots - ugh. Sometimes the bin doesn't get emptied properly. Ninja gag reflex control. I am a black belt. Nothing will make me puke today.

Things I was using to keep my mind of the dirty jobs:

• Fox sunning itself on my neighbour's shed roof.
• Beautifully golden orange leaves of the Japanese weeping cherry.
• Roses still in bud, in November - it doesn't seem normal.

After dark it was cold and misty - perfect Guy Fawkes weather. The smell of bonfires and fireworks hung in the air. Constant boom and fizz of fireworks exploding, sometimes the whistle of a rocket.