Lady Clementine's Seat

No, I haven't the faintest idea of whether Clementine Churchill ever sat on a bench in the grounds of Chartwell or not. But, you must concede, she might have. 

A Lutyens three-seater, perhaps. A white three-seater Lutyens?

I have tried to research the matter to ensure accuracy, but the closest fact that I can establish is that she buried a Bali dove beneath a sundial in the garden. Therefore, it follows that the garden would be a meaningful place to Lady Churchill (later titled The Rt Hon The Baroness Spencer-Churchill!)

Well, we live at Chartwell (a different Chartwell) and in the garden, we have a white three-seater Lutyens garden seat ( A different bench, but nevertheless a Lutyens). By common logic, I conclude that the spot chosen for our seat could well be referred to as 'Lady Clementine's Repose'

.

Having chosen the site on which to position the bench, the girls then debated, argued and reasoned its precise resting spot and the vista which should greet those seated on it.

I'm sure there's quite an intricate science and art behind furniture arrangement, but I must profess not to be knowledgeable in this arena. If I am tasked with placing such an article, it would probably be under a tree in a nook, or out of the wind against a wall.

Not being the designer or architect, I got the job of construction contractor. To place Lady Clementine's seat in a level position, facing the lawned pathway from the front of the house.

Here's a step-by-step of the process:

When sitting on the seat, these are the views:

(1)  View down the runway from the front of the house.

(2)  View to the left with the runway just to the right.

(3)  View to the Right, with Goat Hill in the distance.

(Above)  The bench waits for the process to be completed. The ground is measured carefully, the grass removed and retaining edging planks cut and fixed in position.

(Above): The plinths for the bench  are levelled with a spirit level, so that the bench will sit level and not wonky. The 8  plants for the area are 4 white roses*, 3 Gaura So White**  and 1 Gypsophila Bristol Fairy***. At the far end (spade in the hole) a spare hole for another bloom has been reserved.

(Above): With all the plants in their correct places, time for the stone mulch around each plant as a weed suppressant over the weed mat. Larger 20-60mm pebbles are used to fill in the larger areas.

(Above): The site is finally completed and the plants watered. Now for the furniture.

     

Flowers in this account:
* Rose -- var. Noaschnee.

** Gaura So White --  Masses of pure white butterfly shaped flowers on unmarked green foliage are features of this compact growing plant. A great subject for the mixed border, containers or a cut flower. Plant in well drained soils and full sun. Trim back after flowering to promote new flowers and maintain growth habit.  75H x 60Wcm


*** Gypsophila 'Bristol Fairy'  -- delicate clouds of pure white double flowers appear on long sturdy stems throughout the summer months. A most excellent cutflower or planted as  a stunning backdrop behind smaller growing lower plants in the flower border. Grows best in full sun in friable well drained soil 95 x 95cm.

The Presage

Foreboding. That's an interesting word. One which you may only use in the company of other nerdy people. And in accordance with my custom in this sort of situation, I checked the Reader's Digest "Complete Wordfinder", on page 583:

foreboding /n. an expectation of trouble or evil; a presage or omen. 

Yes, that is what it was. I had experienced a foreboding. A presage, if you like. It happened this morning just after seven, during my awakening ritual. 

Perhaps a short(ish) explanation would help here.

Part of our little patch of the valley in Reikorangi is a very steep incline, extending from the main lawn down to the western boundary in the shape of a rectangle about 50 metres by 40 metres -- the size of a respectable residential erf in town. Along the top end of this hill is a strong wooden fence, with a sturdy gate. From one top corner to the opposite bottom corner runs a wide diagonal pathway, which is flanked by wild fern and other low-growing vegetation - quite natural, almost wilderness-y. 

The lower quarter of the land is home to a "mini-forest" of, maybe, about twenty tall native trees. This mini-forest grows in a way which makes it impossible for the casual observer standing at the top fence to see into its interior. The height of the gate and fence above the mini-forest is, at a rough guess, about 24.8 metres -- let's say about 8 storeys of a city building. Or maybe 6, I don't know. Anyway, let's just agree that it quite a long way down.   

This chunk of land is called Goat Hill - not officially on any survey map. No, just by us. Because it is the home of a goat. A refugee goat, a (fairly useless) male goat without the milking capabilities like those of his female compatriots. So, we have named and re-named him (Jean-Paul Goatier), and have conferred refugee status on him, thereby protecting him from the curry pot.

You can probably see where this is going. Regarding what this has to do with foreboding thing.

Oh. Alright, perhaps you can't.  

But tarry anon. Or, as Shakespeare would have put it, hang in there, mate. We'll get down to brass tacks shortly. I'm actually padding out the description of an event which took, probably, milli-seconds, into a full-length novel. That's what my English Mistress at school would have ruled, when marking our essays.

There. We've now tarried enough. Back to the presage.

As I customarily do, I went down to Goat Hill shortly after seven with a serving of "Goat Breakfast" - actually standard balanced and nutritional pellets for ruminants. I expected to find Jean-Paul eagerly waiting at the goat as usual. 

Today was different. He was not there. He was not in his refugee accommodation (his hut) either. Clearly the most probable explanation was that he had already gone down the hill to the lower bramble vines near the mini-forest for a pre-breakfast chomp.

Or had he? 

I banged the empty metal feeding bowl on the fence, like a dinner gong, my usual practice. Nothing. No bleat, no m-a-a-a , no b-a-a-a. I rang the breakfast gong once more, this time a little longer. Again nothing.

There, we've tarried enough, and had the 'anon' bit as well. 

Enter the presage, the foreboding. [dum dum dum, ominously...]

Had Jean-Paul fallen and possibly broken his hip? Had he perhaps shuffled off his mortal coil and gone to meet his maker? But wait... listen carefully.

Sure enough, a crackled m-a-a-a came floating up from the depths of the mini-forest. Then the Sotto Voce slowly increased in pitch and volume. Moments later, you'd have sworn that a herd of goats on steroids had discovered the hill, and that free goat kibble was available for the grabbing. 

M-a-a-a,   B-a-a-a,  M-a-a-a!

Like that legendary Red Rum Grand National winner, Jean-Paul came hurtling up the steep incline at top speed, faster than Usain Bolt could ever dream of...  He was in high spirits, almost lilting in his stride (if goat are capable of lilting, that is), and kicking up his hind legs out of sync, as if Goat kibble is the best thing that can happen to a refugee goat...

I suppose it might be just that. I have never spoken to any other goat refugees before.

Jean-Paul arrived and started gobbling his breakfast between snorts of heavy breathing.

I gave him an extra pat this morning. I would have hated to have been tasked with extricating him from some steep edge where he'd accidentally hung himself.. or something like that. 

Moreover, I was ever so pleased that my presage had been a false alarm non-presage. 

Reach For The Sky

In the late 1950's the commercial jet age was arriving in Cape Town. One flight in particular, raised my awareness of what to me was the marvel of aeronautics. It was incomprehensible to me, as a 10-year-old that a huge metal machine could speed along the ground and soar up into the air and through the clouds, and out of sight. An uncle who'd served in the airforce during the war tried to explain how the air flows of the wings which were thicker in front and thinner at the back edge, thereby creating lift. 

I listened attentively, and then tried his theory using various wooden planks, but my planks refused to fly. 

Either his explanation was crap or my understanding was lacking. Or the planks were not aeronautic grade. As I regarding myself as intelligent, with a   grasp for things scientific, the planks seemed Ok, so, on balance, the Uncle quite obviously must have had fabricated the details of flight simply to rid a pesky brat nephew of asking  continual "How and Why?"

However, this lack of understanding did not prevent me from wanting to be able to control such a heavy craft myself and to be in charge of a machine in the sky. 

As far as I know, the term "bucket list" became a common-used term in the early 2000's because of Hollywood, but earlier, than that it was just a list of things you wanted to do before you "kicked the bucket." In retrospect, this early desire to fly a machine could be seen as one of the first items on my personal bucket list.

Today, 18 January 2016, I wake up early to a grey cloudy Reikorangi sky. Like an expectant first-time astronaut, during the next couple of hours I will be sitting attentively near the phone, waiting for a confirmation call from Roger from the Wellington Gliding Club at the Kapiti airport, Paraparaumu. Note: I don't know his real-life name, but the "Roger" for "received" in radio parlance always sticks in my mind. Roger, over and out.

Roger will confirm that my 10 o'clock booking for an hour-long LIGIE (Long Introductory Gliding Instructional Experience) is at status "G" for Go. Or not. Gliding is heavily dependent on air currents (warm rising air), and one would preferably want reasonably cloudless skies to be able to enjoy the panoramas. Outside the Reikorangi sky contains a mixture of a bank of heavy grey rain-cloud (this is New Zealand, after all!), patches of fluffy white cloud and some misty bits over the mountain areas. Roger is on the coast 15 km away (as the crow flies), so I guess he will be a better judge of the weather prospects for gliding.    

If I get no call by 9:30-ish, I will presume that we have a "G". But I will worry: Perhaps Roger has overslept, or perhaps Roger has lost my phone number, or perhaps I've got the date wrong. Anyway, I'm like an astronaut waiting for launch-pad communications. Waiting. 

I'm not much good at waiting.

What to wear? What did Douglas Bader wear? What did Gary Powers wear? The former has that brown leather sort of swimming cap, didn't he? And the spy plane pilot had a sort of space helmet, I think. I suppose jeans and a tee-shirt will be good. And shoes will be better than muddy gumboots. Yes, I'll do that.  I wonder what Roger will be wearing.

Just before 10:00 I arrive at the Wellington Gliding Club premises on the eastern perimeter of the Kapiti airstrip. My pilot/ instructor  is a most friendly fellow by name of Jake Brattle. I learn that he has been in the soaring/ gliding arena for the last 8 years and is a summer Godwit from Bristol in the United Kingdom. Jake introduces me to the Soaring world. I can tell he is a very capable pilot -- it gives one a ton of comfort to know that you're climbing aboard a craft in the capable care of someone who is quite at home in the sky of engine-less aircraft.

After completing the formalities, we walk across the airfield to the boarding point from which the tow-craft will take us sky-wards. With Clayton's GoPro Hero 4 strapped to my head and my Canon SX30 Powershot on my lap, I sit anxiously in the narrow cocoon, waiting for our craft to start moving along the grassed airstrip.

The tow-car takes our Glider out to the starting point on the field.

Staff doing last-minute cross-checks on the tow craft.

The array of instruments in front of me, with dual controls. I'm in the front row seat, while Jake is sitting behind me with mirror image hand- and floor  controls. Our call-sign is Golf-Pappa-Juliet GPJ

A short while later, we're up, up and away - the smoothest acceleration and take-off, seemingly much more effortless and seamless that a commercial flight that we're all used to.

In the sky, climbing above Paraparaumu, and heading for the Tararua mountain range.

From this point onwards, until we return back to Paraparaumu, I sit amazed and en-awed at the vistas and views of the beautiful countryside, second to none anywhere. The GoPro is busy rolling with virtually the whole flight being filmed minute-by-minute from my forehead. Maybe I can upload some video to YouTube under Kapiti_Soaring?

Instrument panel between my knees.

On average, we're doing 100 to110 kph and are soaring at 5,000 ft.

My certificate is endorsed on the rear: GliderType DG1000S, Time in Air 00h:54m;-First glider flight, over Hector, Kapakapanui and Riki Valley 18/1/2016

A bit more than an hour after leaving the airport, I was back safely on terra firma. A huge vote of thanks to Jake, my instructor-pilot who was physically instrumental in helping me achieve this bucket item and my fantastic family Bianca and Clayton, who generously gave me the trip as a fantastic Xmas present. Irrespective of the number of days I have left on this planet, I know that I will clearly remember this day.

Thank you guys!

The wonders of Google -- Our flight path.

One Hundred Years On : Blood on a Param Pavement

The settlement of Paraparaumu ('Param') lies about 10km to the south of us. It is a growing centre of trade and commercial activity, and houses the offices of the KCDC (Kapiti Coast District Council) which administers this region of the Wellington province.

Scarcely three minutes' walk from the rail station, I encountered, quite by chance, a fairly new public place, tucked away on a small grassy knoll near the public aquatic centre.

The information board reads: The Field of Remembrance is hallowed ground. Please treat it with respect.

As I stepped onto the grassed area, the sound of distant traffic faded. It was almost as if I had entered another world. A gentle breeze bent the blades of grass beneath the large board which proclaims:

"Honouring New Zealanders who fell during World War 1 -- To commemorate their sacrifice, Fields of Remembrance have been established throughout New Zealand. The one hundred crosses in this field represent New Zealanders from the Kapiti Coast region who served and made the ultimate sacrifice in WWI.

"They are a silent reminder of New Zealand's major contribution to freedom and the considerable sacrifice of what what was then a very small nation."

One can only imagine the sorrow and grief in the many households in the streets surrounding this field one hundred years ago, when news came back that your loved one had paid the ultimate price for the freedom of his country. And the double grief for a number of families who stood down more than one family man. 

I sat on the wooden bench and pondered on this. Certainly not even easy to grasp the utter turmoil in the minds, and the bitterness and grief of those left behind in the Kapiti area at the time.

In the words of Major John McCrae in 1915:

As I walk slowly away from the hill, seemingly totally alone in a silent world, the words Flanders fields echoing in my mind, I step onto a pavement which almost seems to be covered in blood. The needles of the Pohutukawa flowers (NZ Christmas tree) had been falling and the wind swept them into little piles of red beneath my feet. What if one of my family's name was printed on that board on the hill?  If it wasn't so tragic, there might have been a movie in this somewhere...

Blue Light

There are so many "things" which we know about. Yet, when asked to explain why a "thing" is there, what it represents, etc, then we are at a loss for words. The Blue Light is one such "thing" for me.

Strolling past the Paraparaumu police station complex, I stopped and inspected a pavement display which I'd passed many times by car. Now, for once, I could stop for a moment and look at it properly.

According to info available:  Blue Light New Zealand has come a long way from its early beginnings, where the main activity was Blue Light Discos. Blue Light is a nationwide incorporated society which has a national executive committee and operates 74 branches throughout New Zealand. Each branch is responsible for sourcing their own funding and organising and conducting their own activities.

Large human hand holding a child

Blue Light events are overseen by police officers, who carry out Blue Light activities over and above their normal police core duties along with civilian volunteers. All members are involved in Blue Light as they are passionate about youth particularly those who do not have the opportunity to experience aspects of life that many young people take for granted. Although Blue Light is overseen by police Blue Light does not receive any funding from the New Zealand Police.
Also see:  https://www.facebook.com/nzbluelight

Around the base of the hand is a circular arrangement of some thirty-odd hand-made tiles, which made me stop to think for a while. Here are some of them:

(Train) Ticket to Ride

The Situation: I am waiting for the car brakes to be repaired, I would like a bit of lunch and I have two hours to kill.

The Weather: Fine and mild, no indication of rain.

My Location: At the garage, adjacent to the Waikanae railway station.

Solution: Take a train ride to Param, have a bit eat the Coastlands Shopping Centre and return back to Waikanae just in time to collect the car from the garage. Dear Reader, please come along with me. It's only a 10-minute ride.

I arrive at the station, take a seat in the shade. The next train is due to depart in 10 minutes. On the next bench, an elderly lady, with a hat and a shopping pram. Grocery shopping done. Two seats away, a fellow, pale white skin, British by accent. With his three little kids and large double pram. Tobie can walk and apparently talk, but still sucks on his dummy. Has cute toy sunglasses and a 'bro' cap. Probably two to three years old. His sister Miriam seems about four. The third kid is also in the four-to-five year age-group. They're all quite active. That's the full complement waiting for the ride.

First things first. The alarm at the level-crossing starts up like a bat out of the inferno. A southbound goods train is thundering down the straight towards the Waikanae bend, just beyond the garage. The elderly lady clutches her shopping pram and hat.Tobie's Dad clutches at his team of youngsters, very aware that Tobie might land up on the tracks. I get the camera to spring into action.

Waikanae station, looking Northwards

The DFT7092 goods train approaches, ready to slow down for the Waikanae bend.

Millimetres from the platform edge, the 7092 thunders by, dragging thirty-odd goods trucks 

Less than two minutes later, the level-crossing shrieks once more, this time from the southern side. It must be our ride! No... Another freight trundler, this one heading Northwards.

The 9325 approaches the level-crossing, and accelerates for the northwards straight

The trucks thunder through the station at high speed.

Moments later, its our turn, as we board the 11:30, which is headed for Wellington terminus, just on an hour away.

I have a choice of seats in the empty carriage. The one with the low deck for wheel-chairs, push-carts and the like. Tobie's dad makes use of the low deck to park his wide two-berth pram. Young Tobie proves to be a handful in the few short minutes while we wait for take-off.

"Tobie, please sit down; Tobie, please don't hang on that rail."
Tobie seems to have a hearing problem. Miriam is on top of Tobie.
"Miriam, leave Tobie alone, Tobie, please sit down... NOW."
The NOW exclamation seems to help a bit. Momentarily.
Tobie, obviously a seasoned train passenger, has been staring at the Metlink Railway Network Map above the exit door, much like the Underground Map on the tubes.
The map has three lines from Wellington: the Masterton line, the Johnsonville line and ours, The Kapiti line.

"Daddy, I want to go on the red train," Tobie pleads.
"We are on the Kapiti line, the green one, my boy."
"But I like the red one. I want to go on the red train!" Tobie lets rip with a series of shrill shrieks, ending up with terrible sobbing, "I want the red one, not the green one. I want the red one!"

"Tobie, leave you eyes alone. Stop rubbing your eyes like that.."

I am pleased that I am not Tobie's Dad...

"Tobie, the train is going to go now. You need to sit down, else you will fall!"
"But I want to fall off the train. I want to fall off!"
"Tobie, please sit down. I don't want you to fall off..."
"Why?"

The train starts moving off. I look at the very few fellow passengers. They are all sitting sullen-faced,  glum and with lives that suck, as if condemned to perpetual confinement in a train carriage. I wonder why they all look so unhappy..

"Daddy, why won't the window go down. I can't get the window to go down."
"Only the blue ones can go down, and we cannot reach them. Now, sit down, Tobie, and I mean NOW!"

Only Half a Sandwich

Today was D-Day for me to get the annual WOF for the Toyota for 2016. I booked the inspection with Waikanae Tyre & Lube in Waikanae and planned to spend the hour or two in Waikanae town, perhaps taking a few photos for some of my new-found zest/zeal to maintain blog posts.

During the check, the guys found two sticking points: Front tyres and braking ability. Two new tyres did not present any problems to the mechanics, and before you could say Dunlop Radial, the inspection report got one additional tick mark. They really deliver an excellent and punctual service. 

"However, Mr Andrews, we have ordered the brake pads from the agents, so we will only be able to issue the certificate...., say a bit after two," she smiled at me across the counter.

Traditional Club Sandwich and Breakfast Tea

With just on two hours to kill, and lunchtime looming shortly, I decided to take the next train to Paraparaumu ('Param').

Anyone who really knows me, will be surprised and even proud of me in my choice of snack lunch at The Muffin Break in the shopping centre:  I did not order the predictable cheese, but went the whole hog, and did the unthinkable: I ordered a Traditional Club Sandwich which was the favourite of one or other fictional detective, I seem to recall. I think. Or something like that.

What was that detective thinking about? Unless, of course Muffin Break does a NZ-style of Club product. Horrors, the 'sandwich' turned out to be a 'half-sandwich' in my book. 

Whilst I understand that the bread should preferably be toasted, this was three half slices of white bread, very thin and un-toasted, cut on the cross rather than along the diagonal, as expected. The top storey was a slice of ham on a layer of scrambled egg, and the second storey had a thin slice of fresh tomato on a small leaf of lettuce. 

There was no additional condiment content to the sandwich -- no salt or pepper, nor any mustard or mayonnaise.

If I were a food critic, like you see on TV, going around incognito, choosing cafes at random, I would regrettably probably only rate their Traditional Club Sandwich and 2 or 3 out of 10 - a thumbs down.

The Breakfast Tea was fine.

Add to CV: part-time food critic.

Tent Magic

A very happy New Year 2016 to all! We spent a peaceful and warm New Year among family and friends at home, generally lazing about, like all good Romans, with food and drink.

Because of the strict enforcement of rigid drink-drive laws, and the ethic of strict compliance in our country New Zealand (I'm unsure of whether we may call New Zealand "ours" as yet) by virtually everyone I know, a sleepover was arranged for all the revellers. (I believe the dictionary defines a reveller as someone who enjoys himself in a lively and noisy way: so, I guess we had quiet revellers!)

One of the tents for the sleepover was borrowed from a kind and generous neighbour, together with a can of waterproofing solution.  

After the holiday was over, I , the wanna-be Michaelangelo, tackled the job of applying the Tent Magic waterproofing solution.  Never having been a Boy Scout and not having undergone military training, my skills relating to outdoor living is rather minimal. Dis-assembly of a tent, therefore, is not on my list of qualifications.  But, hey, I am always willing to try anything.

So I go out early to the lower paddock where the tent is waiting for its treatment. Wow! Mother nature has assisted in the task -- the high wind on the night after the sleep-out blew the structure over onto its side, flat on the ground and easy to handle.

Ten minutes later, all the poles are de-constructed and out. Place them carefully all in their bag. Whew! These galvanised pipes are heavy all in one place. Now, simply fold the tent up and carry it to the front lawn in the sunshine and paint!

Not so quick. Folding a two-room canvas tent with roof and verandah alone without a second pair of hands, is not as quick and easy as it sounds. A short while later, folded tent atop the wheelbarrow, I'm off to the painting location. The wind is still gusting.

First,let's measure the tent to get an idea of the square area to be waterproofed -- that's the old painting days experience coming to the fore.  The two-room tent is very spacious, measuring 4 metres long by 3.5 metres wide and stands 1.7 metres at the sides.

Therefore 4 times 1.7 divided by the square on the hypoteneuse, multiplied by pi-squared is... hmm judging by the size of the canvas on the floor in front of me... I have... roughly 14 square metres for the roof and 25.5 square metres for the four walls including the window and door flaps. That's the outside surface. And we double that to get the inside measurement as well. I have not made provision for the verandah roof section at all. According to my higher mathematical calculations, two coats on the roof and one coat on the walls is equivalent to 28 + 25.5 = 53.5 square metres.... five litres of waterproofing compound will cover that... just.

The moist emulsion on the grey roof glistens in the sunshine. 

 I tackle the roof and spread the silky aromatic while emulsion as evenly as I can. It soaks readily into the porous canvas, just as the rainwater had the day before. It will be difficult to gauge whether this is going to be sufficient chemical to block the entry of rainwater into the canvas mesh, without doing an actual practical test.

Halfway through the first coat on the roof, with the gusty wind making me wish I'd first packed bricks on the corners, I am offered a further impediment: Benny has decided that a canvas tent on the grass surface makes a super dog mat on which to stretch out and laze in the sun. Shoo, Benny. A while later, he's back at the other end !

Starting the coating on the first side.

 Two coats on the roof with reasonable drying intervals in the warm and windy weather conditions, its the turn of the four outer walls, carefully coated, panel by panel. Take extra care at all the joins, seams and stitch-work, as these are generally vulnerable to premature leakage.

During this monotonous task, I have temporary flashbacks to yesteryear, the life of making paint. The smells of the various polymers used in acrylic paint manufacture come wafting back up my nostrils, and I can clearly remember the impeller speeds of the grinding machines, and the slow trickle of bright paint from a small water-cooled sand-mill. Strange how the memory works. Yet, sometimes I have trouble with the here and now -- I cannot remember if today is the 12th or 13th?

Finally, all the walls finished, coating dried. Ready for packing up.

Some hours later, I check the completed job: All seems in order and no damp patches. There's less than 500ml of compound left. My ability to estimate wasn't so shoddy after all!

Let's hope that treated canvas provides better protection from the rain in future. I would recommend the same treatment again. Or possibly coating from the inside as well. Time will tell.

I guess I can now add to my CV:  "Experienced Tent Waterproofer"  -- there can't be that many of them around, so my services should be well sought after... 

Want to buy some Weed?

You may look at me funny if I invited you to look at our weed patch.

And rightly so, 'cos most folks probably think of cannabis or marijuana when you mention weed. So, I guess I should rather call it our "weeds" patch, to avoid confusion.

Weed or Weeds?

Anyway, whatever we call it, back to the patch.

I have tried to grow Marigolds. As everyone knows, they are probably one of the easiest plants to grow successfully without much greenness of finger. Yet, my so-called Marigolds are weeny little specimens, rather semi-specimens, with apologies of yellow and orange blossomettes.

I have tried to grow Green Beans, probably the easiest of vegetables to cultivate with minimal care. In fact, as a school project, we managed to grow beans in wet cotton wool at the tender age of 10! Yet now, quite a number of years later, my Green Beans couldn't even win a bronze medal, let alone produce anything vaguely edible.  

Based on that, you could probably classify me, in general horticultural terms, as a non-plant weedologist. Without trying in any way, on a barren strip of scorched clay ground (the totally sterile area which was used on a couple of occasions to burn the cuttings, the branches and scrap wood) where the burn-drum is standing a complete encyclopedia of weeds has evolved in a matter of a few months.

Encyclopedia of Weeds

If only we could grow flowers and vegetables on the same basis as weeds!

Life on Mars

He wrote one of my Top 5 Best Songs Ever:

It's a God awful small affair
To the girl with the mousey hair,
But her mummy is yelling, "No!"
And her daddy has told her to go,
But her friend is no where to be seen.
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seats with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen,
But the film is sadd'ning bore
For she's lived it ten times or more.
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Sailors
Fighting in the dance hall.
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy.
Oh man!
Wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show.
Is there life on Mars?
It's on America's tortured brow
That Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow.
Now the workers have struck for fame
'Cause Lennon's on sale again.
See the mice in their million hordes
From Ibeza to the Norfolk Broads.
Rule Britannia is out of bounds
To my mother, my dog, and clowns,
But the film is a sadd'ning bore
'Cause I wrote it ten times or more.
It's about to be writ again
As I ask you to focus on
Sailors
Fighting in the dance hall.
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy.
Oh man!
Wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show.
Is there life on Mars?
(c) David Bowie -  8/01/1947 to 10/1/2016

Progress

Oh, Woe is Me!

When I think back to the days of my parents (and grandparents), I can only but try to imagine the sort of issues they faced, in respect of changes they experienced in their lifetimes. 

Can you just imagine their confusion, and sometimes despair, at having to cope with metric and imperial systems, yards and metres, inches and millimitres, gallons and litres. Then, the authorities, in their wisdom, decided that pounds, shillings and pence was no longer hip. Lets rather have a unit currency with 100 cents, like the French.. and Americans.. and...

Then the clever dicks started inventing stuff. Telephones and things that needed numbers. So, Grand-dad had to remember that 6d was 5c, that 12/- was 1.20 (unless you were in England, then it was 0.60), he had to remember his telephone number 1223 (later a dialing code as well, of all things) and it became 055 1223. He got a tax number, an ID number, and a Council bill account number. Would it never end?

I was lucky to have been born just after the war. I was still at school when decimalization hit us, which made understanding decimal fractions and cents a lot easier than it was for the older generations.

Now, I am still getting into trouble with the dread of my life: Passwords. For the very last time, I hope. I have now made a secret list of passwords in use, and they are kept in a safe secret place.

Why? Because I promised a friend that I would start posting on this blogsite again, instead of limiting my remarks to my Facebook page  .However, as those who are tech-savvy (and I guess that's almost everyone other than me), to access your blog editor, to need to enter a password.... and... yep! I could not remember what it was... last used in November last year.

Anyway, progress has been made on the password front, and my diary-blog is once again up and running. That was the easy bit. Now, for the subject matter...