and habits are powerful.
First there is cold water:
Then the house of angles, tilts, uncertain perspectives, interior windows, arches, coves, stairs:
I am all for unusual Christmas trees, but this was one too many for me:
The glass baubles each represent a dead baby. A named dead baby.
Yesterday I went bounding off – well, stepping out – and once past the industrial estate the walking was pleasant: a beautiful September day. I was more interested in terraces than in tourism, and the itinerary did not include the pilgrimage destination, the Big House, or the italianate church looking bizarre among chalk and flint cottages.
It did, however, include the local garden centre as a possible watering hole. This was fortunate. I reached the junction named baldly (but exactly) Park Wall, and fell flat on my face, taking the knee out of my favourite walking trousers and myself. The garden centre supplied running water, tea, teacake, and plasters, and the excursion turned into a jigsaw hunt instead.
Found in a charity shop. Once you look, it is amusing to note the subtext of the image: apparently Manhattan residents are even more insular than other island dwellers. 🙂
The image also contains, of course, a great many ghosts.
After significant wrestling with rugs, curtains, windows, tables, books, boxes, bargains, shoes, and incoming parcels, we got to the serious stuff.
This included corporate creativity in order to adjust the fascinator with two pairs of heavy duty pliers and superglue (a treasurable experience)
and discovering that we female rellies from far-flung places had instinctively colour-co-ordinated ourselves.
The view from the back of the portaloos was the best I have ever seen from a lavatory (the other aspects were good too) and strop didn’t seem to break out until later. All good.
Meantime, writing a level 7 assignment with the other foot … yes, that worked. Writing is agony, but here is a keeper (especially since I discovered that St Menas may have won the Battle of El Alamein):
It was lonely without the sky so in a heavily symbolic act … I may have overbought. It came today,
and I have been using the cathedral spire to align the red dot finder. Can’t see the spire? The scope can. In fact it can count each red warning light and the knobs on the cross on top.
But can it see anything else? Naturally, the moon is rising behind a band of high cloud and has turned itself into a gigantic fuzzball. Isn’t astronomy wonderful?
I have left the snowflakes behind, supplied the mice in the attic with a treacherous Christmas dinner (O please not rats), and may or may not have locked the back door. The shops in Salisbury are much better than those at home, but there are ways of not shopping, thus:
First go to the local library to look at the Kathe Kollwitz exhibition, and look very carefully at her looking very carefully at herself.
Then go to St Thomas’ and contemplate the Doom painting.
After this, proceed through the darkening crowded streets and brightly lighted shops, solitary, disorientated, and immune to temptation, and purchase one spoon.
Returning, I finished reading a book which in some places became a time machine
and now I have to choose the next title from a selection. One for night and one for day.
They have reached W now. Hurray!
In another vein, I found this little treasure.
I expect everyone else knows about Tan, but I didn’t. Grandpa’s story had great charm, and Night of the turtle rescue was brief and bold (and tough). But I think my favourite was Distant rain, about the reciprocal gravity of unread poems; close to my heart.