24 September 2013


It maybe only once a week that I'm able or inclined to post something on the blog but I shall value the allotted time like a baby values a dummy. It will be no surprise to my friends to read that I've missed the regular contact with the blogging world. Anyway, enough of that sentimental stuff, I'll move on.

A few weeks ago I saw a group of ladies performing at a recent Townswomen’s Guild meeting. The group is known as Music in Motion and they promote sign language through participation. They seemed to be singing but in fact they were miming to music and ‘signing’ at the same time. One of the group members was deaf but none of us guessed until the end.

Music in Motion is a Birmingham based group of deaf, hard of hearing, and hearing people, who use British Sign Language in a unique way to interpret popular songs by performing lyrics in sign language.  This creates pathways between deaf and hearing communities with music and Sign Language.  Their aim is to promote deaf awareness and to introduce the arts to the deaf community.

Music in Motion has visited a variety of venues throughout the country and is frequently invited to give repeat performances!  All funds raised are donated to projects that support the deaf community.  This is only made possible because of the generosity of the general public.

I feel very frustrated right now because for two days I have left comments on a blog and on both occasions it hasn't got through. So if you're looking in, Herman, the comments were for you.

On the subject of blogging, does anyone know how to remove an unwanted follower? No, it’s not any of you wonderful people. I checked out the latest blogger to join the list but was warned off. According to the listed blogs they’re erotic and one is listed as a sex shop. Each to their own but not for me, thank you very much. I’ve checked out the Blogger settings and cannot find out how to remove the name. The old style blogs catered for it but blowed if I can find it on the new one.

At last, an explanation.

Remember me writing about the problem I had using certain skincare products? Well, I have at last discovered what caused the redness, itching, and red weals on my face and neck. Actually, I already knew from years ago that Clarins products didn’t suit me, plus at that time there was a news article about someone suing the company for the same reason. My doctor described my problem as contact dermatitis but what caused it was a mystery!

Years later I was persuaded by the Clarins assistant to try again. She insisted that their products were pure and couldn’t affect anyone’s skin. I fell for it ... and wasted my money since the products were chucked in the bin when my face swelled and more weals appeared.

It was revealed on television just the other night that a certain skin protecting sun cream contained the same ingredient, something known as MI (methylisothiazolinone), which is added to stop the cream going mouldy. It is also used in paint strippers! It was stated that it was an ingredient in Clarins skincare products.  

I do know that one of the other leading skincare companies produced a toner that also upset my skin. I can't recall the name now but I can recall when I last used it. After using it I noticed some hardened spots of hair lacquer on the mirror. Without thinking I rubbed the spots with the already impregnated cotton wool pad. Would you believe it cleared the lacquer completely? I kept that product solely for cleaning the mirror, duly marked so that it couldn't accidentally be used for anything else!

Here’s an extract from The Telegraph 

‘The preservative – known as MI – is used in a wide range of shampoos, moisturisers and shower gels as well as make-up and baby wipes.
But dermatologists warn people are being exposed to much higher doses than before, leading to a steep rise in allergies known as contact dermatitis where the skin becomes red and itchy and can sting and blister.
Experts say the chemical is second only to nickel in causing contact allergies. One in 12 adults and one in five children in the UK now have eczema, of which contact dermatitis is one of the most common types.
MI, which is short for methylisothiazolinone, is a preservative which is also found in paint. It is added to products to prevent unwanted growth of bacteria and yeasts.
Well-known products that contain MI found on sale in shops included Nivea body lotion, Wet Ones and Boots men's face wash.’

I have to say that since using Nivea Soft (thank you, Ron) my skin is now silky soft and feels (and looks!) luxurious.

19 September 2013


My lovely stepdaughter is getting married in November, in Australia, and it’s really sad that her father is unable to attend because of ill health. So what we've done is to give Rosanne a wedding present that we can all enjoy. A video, professionally done, of the whole occasion, the wedding and the reception. I just know we'll be choked up when we see it.

Without going into too much detail, I’ll just touch on the various appointments with doctors and hospitals. After one of the yearly ‘well man’ blood checks our local doctor was worried about Joe’s kidneys, and that led to numerous hospital appointments and the discovery of a cancerous tumour on the bladder. A failed attempt was made to fit a stent to move it away from the kidney and another one was planned.

In the meantime an emergency visit was made to our surgery where we were seen by a new-to-us doctor, Dr Begum, believed to be a locum. Dr Begum, a lady of Asian [presumed] descent, was apparently a former surgeon. Since then she has telephoned twice to see how Joe is and to offer assistance in the form of explanation about what goes on inside the body and what the operation attempts to achieve. Bearing in mind she is not the doctor we are registered with, I think it was very kind of her to take time out of a busy schedule to check on Joe’s welfare.

So the BIG C hits home. Not something you plan for under normal circumstances, is it? However, whilst Joe is not overjoyed at the news he is being level headed about it and I know that as reality sinks in he will face it and the future optimistically. There are two choices on which medical route to take, surgery or chemo plus radiotherapy. Both were fully explained so make a decision easier. At the moment we’re thinking about surgery, since there is a chance the cancer will grow again after radiotherapy. However, the final choice may well be influenced by the outcome of the next scan (known as nuclear medicine). It’s definitely a wait-and-see game. 

Right now Joe is back in hospital having had an operation to fit a new stent. Please God this works.
View from the ward window
View from Joe's bed
Needless to say my blogging time is limited. However, Joe and I are indulging in the good wishes of friends. My heart overflows with all the kindness, concern and encouraging words.


To give me something to do while spending so much time at home I’ve been sorting out all my writing and getting it printed. Yes, I’m having everything turned into books by a great printing firm I found on-line. Not overly expensive, either. It was something I had wanted to do for years to pass on to the family.

 I’m half way through the operation and enjoying it immensely. Several copies of each book have been ordered and I’m donating one of each to the WI to raise funds. We have an auction coming up soon so it will be interesting to see if there are any bids! I’m actually enjoying this more than when I put stuff on Kindle, and the print is more accurate than Kindle manages to achieve. I get the layout I want, and spaces and indentations where I want them, instead of submitting it correctly and having Kindle change it to their way of doing things.

I get rather frustrated when I read downloaded books and find so many large gaps between paragraphs and layouts that I’m pretty sure are not the fault of the author. Gone are the days when publishers edited our work before printing but since we can’t get them interested in the first place I guess we have to put up with second best. It’s a tough world!

Will visit you all as soon as I can.... you can bet on that. Hugs to you all.

16 September 2013

Thank you

Joe and I really appreciate the lovely comments from our blogging friends. Future prognosis is not good but we are going to try and maintain as normal a lifestyle as possible and I shall be back blogging quite soon. I love you all.

15 September 2013

Sunday Scenes

I may be a bit hit and miss with blogs while Joe is in hospital but I promise to visit you all as soon as I can. Fortunately I had a couple of scheduled posts for weekend viewing, after that it's anybody's guess! 

The travelling to and from hospital is very tiring, consequently when I get home all I want to do is collapse on a chair or bed. Hey, listen to me moaning, and I'm the fit one in the family.


Scenes today show the Heron, taken at the local wildlife park.

Plantsbrook Wildlife Park covers almost 27 acres of natural space. It is situated in a suburban housing area with industrial estates and parkland nearby. The reserve has a number of pools, surrounded by woodland, wetlands and a wildflower meadow and is a real oasis for wildlife, all accessible by well prepared paths and boardwalks. 
We are very fortunate to have this facility on our doorstep.

14 September 2013

Saturday Special

I may be a bit hit and miss with blogs while Joe is in hospital but I promise to visit you all as soon as I can. Fortunately I had a couple of scheduled posts for weekend viewing, after that it's anybody's guess! 

The travelling to and from hospital is very tiring, consequently when I get home all I want to do is collapse on a chair or bed. Hey, listen to me moaning, and I'm the fit one in the family.

Anyway, here's a little video for cat lovers. Enjoy!

12 September 2013


Oh dear, it looks as if Google is less than efficient on the Blog Roll. Frequently now I notice that a particular blog is missing or that the post recorded is an old one, yet when I visit I find a brand new post waiting to be read. Sometimes it repeats posts which, to say the least, is even more of a nuisance. It rather looks as if the time is coming to remove the Roll and rely solely on BlogLovin’, even with its own hiccups such as the occasional inability to reply to comments when accessing blogs through the Bloglovin’ site. I can’t believe this is only happening to me so I would be grateful if Bloglovin’ users would give their opinions.

On the subject of computers, well, talking about Google is near enough.... grins... can someone explain why they 'go slow'. I hear noises as if things are going on in the background and even though I regularly empty the trash, defrag, remove files, and generally tidyup, I still get freeze-ups and tawdry operation. My gadget is still quite new (maybe a year old) so it's a surprise to me that it's started whining! I'm still looking at a way to stop all the updates, maybe that's the answer.

I’m still feeding the robins. There are two babies now and they’re not a bit shy. Each time I go out to top up the feeders the babies fly in and wait while I drop morsels of suet for them to pick up. Mom or Dad sometimes come to watch but usually keep his or her distance. The young birds’ appearances are changing from speckled breasts to red so they won’t be babies for much longer.


Store assistants have gained a reputation for being three things, vague, unhelpful and impolite so when one comes along that lacks all three a mention is warranted, both at the store and on the blog.

On a recent visit my trolley was overloaded and I silently dreaded getting to the cash-out. I wouldn’t admit that to anybody, though. Not me, who mostly faces situations with a smile ... no kidding! It was a bank holiday so not overly busy and there was a noticeable reduction in staff. I couldn’t even see an opening whereby I could unload. However, I caught the eye of a supervisor who hastily summoned the attention of an assistant, a pleasant young Asian lady, who promptly opened up a new till section.

I started to unload the trolley. Imagine my surprise when the young lady offered to help. Without waiting for a reply she came round to my side of the counter and started removing everything from the trolley ... and stacked it neatly on the conveyor belt. Back she went to her side of the counter to start the check-out. I was fully prepared to fill my own bags but she insisted on doing it for me. Was I grateful? You can bet I was ... and pleasantly surprised, although a trifle shocked. It has never been known for an assistant to do all that. She even offered to escort me to the car and help load the goods into the boot. Apparently she was finishing her shift and about to knock off work. She even offered to escort me to the car and help load the goods into the boot. Apparently she was finishing her shift and about to knock off work. Since my car was parked right by the door I declined the offer. It was time, I thought, to do something for myself!

The supervisor walked towards me so I stopped in order to praise the attitude of the assistant. In reply to my suggestion that the young lady should be promoted, she quipped about getting her a box to stand on... but I knew she would take it further.  Quite right, too. The final shot from the supervisor was: ‘If all assistants were like that it would be a pleasure to work there.’

The girl’s name badge revealed that the girls name was Amina. I can’t forget it since the word ‘amenable’ so suited her.

That was a week ago. A week later I had similar treatment from a different young lady. Again I made sure I passed on my opinion to the right people.

10 September 2013


It's two years, almost to the day, since I posted this story and I wondered if enough time had passed before posting it again. What the hell, I love the story, the place, the people, I'll probably post it again in another two years. 

I couldn't explain why I was glad to be home because I didn't understand it myself, but as I lugged the case from the taxi, too impatient to avail myself of the bearded, tic-eyed driver's help, I got this tremendous feeling of relief. Safe at last, that's what struck me as I fumbled in the flight bag for the front door key. You'd think, after such a brilliant holiday, I'd be sorry to leave. All that heavenly sun, and there was I turning my face to the rain and drinking in cool air as if I'd been starved of it. And enjoying it. Me, Sun-worshipper Class One.
That was a week ago, and I am only now able to think about Giovanni subjectively. Guiltily, as if I'd deceived him. Holiday romances, I told myself, and had been telling myself since the day we met, were to be avoided at all costs. His proposal, sincerely and solemnly delivered, given his inebriated condition that last night, came as a complete shock. Not for one second did I imagine he thought anything of me other than someone to have a good time with. And we'd certainly done that. Had a good time, I mean. From the word go we'd done everything together. Well, almost. I drew the line at sex, even though we both desired it. The idea of getting pregnant hadn't appealed, you see, and how was I to know if Giovanni's suave, romantic approach was genuine. He might have been the sleeping-around type; he might have been stricken with AIDS.
But, that last night, Wow! We'd been sunbathing by the pool all day, apart from a couple of hours when we'd lunched in the hotel: salmon roulade and fancy salad, Positano style. On the night, Giovanni suggested we go down to Marine Grande for a drink at Geranno's. We sat at a table not far from the water's edge. You could hear the water lapping gently around moored fishing boats. We kissed, him stretching his lean, long body across the table, jolting the carafe of wine in his haste to meet my lips; me keeping a beady eye on the azure-blue vessel as it tottered unsteadily on its base. Rather that than ruin the skirt he'd bought me. Organza. Soft orange and cream. It looked terrific with the lace top and I didn't want even a dribble of wine on it, let alone a deluge. It was okay, though, the carafe steadied itself. Breathe again, Deborah. Naturally, Giovanni didn't notice. He was too busy licking the lipstick off my upper lip. I swore he was calculating the hairs that I try so desperately to disguise.
There was a bit of cloud round the top of Vesuvius that night, a sure indication that the next day would be fine. There was a bit of cloud round my brain, too, but I didn't realise that until later. I told Giovanni I couldn't wait for it to get dark so we could look at the stars and maybe see the lucciola, or fire-fly as it's known in England, and he said, in that gorgeous velvety accent that caressed my heart and sent it leaping to the skies, Molto bello. I wasn't sure if he meant it was the idea of watching stars he found beautiful, or me, but, given that he was holding my hand and riveting his inky eyes to mine, I took the credit for the remark. It was then he proposed. I thought I'd misheard and was trying to work out what he had said, when he repeated it. Marry me. His voice was clotted with desire. He urged me not to catch the plane the next morning, saying I could leave the hotel and stay with him in his apartment. I don't know what he expected me to live on, unless it was love, and we all know love doesn't go far in the shopping stakes. You're probably thinking I'm a mercenary bitch, turning romance into realism before the poor guy could draw breath. And I guess you're right, looking back. 
The yellow currency-converter is still in my pocket, a constant reminder of foreign shores.
I did warm to him that night. Not a temperature change. Real desire. I'd been keen on him from the start, flattered that a man with such magnetic Latin looks and magnificently proportioned, sun-bronzed body, had selected me to dance attendance on. But the feeling that was churning my insides that final night was dangerous and I pushed his hand away. Just in time by the look on his face. He was eaten up with passion. Eaten. Smouldering, he was. His libido had really got going. He shuffled uncomfortably on the slatted chair. It reminded me of the day we went to Amalfi, both of us wearing navy shorts and white cotton T-shirts, and he got stung on that part of the leg that joins the buttock. He had trouble sitting for a whole day after that; couldn't even drive his little black Fiat in comfort.
I forced myself to look him squarely in the eyes. I was disappointed to note that the amorous look was fading, as if he knew he was getting the brush-off, but I told myself it was for the best. Holiday romances do not work. Christine and Mark's didn't; Lucy and Ken's didn't. Both couples married; both got divorced within the year. I couldn't risk that happening to me.
Giovanni, I went, as steadily as I could, given that my voice was quivering something deplorable. Giovanni, I went again, adopting a pretentious tone, like my mother did when she was laying down the law. I can't marry you. It would be impossible. We'd have no life together, both of us out of work.
I mean, it would be idiotic giving up a well-paid secretarial post with the Council to become unemployed in Sorrento. I didn't say that to him, though. I didn't even think I should have mentioned work at all, since it wasn't the real reason for turning him down. It was an excuse, that's all. You know, a desperate search for a way of alleviating pressure, as well as lessening the blow. Giovanni whispered Capiri. He didn't put non in front of it so I gathered he was saying he understood. That was a relief. His expression came close to being comical, his pouting mouth more like that of a disappointed school kid than a thwarted almost-lover. It eased things for me, I can tell you. Made me think he wasn't quite as genuine as I'd taken him for, and I felt as if I'd been released from shackles, which wasn't fair, I suppose, considering he'd cosseted me for three whole weeks. Did I mention that? Did I say he took me to Capri on the Cuma Ferry on the second day and a tour of Vesuvius on the third? I could've done without that. I found it extremely alarming and a big, big worry. What if it erupted while we were up there. It didn't, of course, but he did. He grabbed me round the waist and whirled me to him so he could munch my mouth. Thoroughly. A trifle vigorous, I thought, for a first kiss, but at least it knocked the worry away. All I was aware of was responsive breasts and galloping groins.
We walked a lot in the countryside and lazed by the hotel pool (where someone suggested he must be a gigolo because he wasn't staying there and he was ever so slightly younger than me). The list of things we did was endless. We dined out, sailed to Positano with the Marine Club, swam in the Bay, clambered the rocks below the hotel, sunbathed, and kissed beneath the stars. I'm finding it very difficult to discuss this. The gut is reeling with the pain of it. Suffice to say, I rejected Giovanni Rossi's overture and flew home the next day.

Deranged fool. I've regretted it for a week, especially now, ambling through Gracechurch Centre which for some reason has hired a brass band to harry the hurrying customers. Maybe if he'd said it earlier I would have given the proposal some thought. I am that frustrated, I could kick myself. Evenings lately are interminable. From the moment I leave the office they stretch into eternity. Silent and lonely and cold. I miss his arms, his lips, the happy laugh pirouetting from his luscious mouth. Nights are the worst. Sleepless, as though sleep has been abolished. Tired as a dormouse, I lie in bed studying wallpaper. If I've counted the petals on the roses once, I've counted them a million times. Twelve. Well, there's more, but the centres are tightly closed so I have to discount those. I wait impatiently for the sandman. He bypasses me every time.
The reflection in Beatties window is ghastly. I don't reckon on looking good at the best of times, but that's awful. Straight up and straight back down figure, bowed shoulders bearing the weight of guilt and self-reproach. The band breaks into a Gracie Fields number: The Biggest Aspidistra in the World. Fluke, or what? I wonder if she had similar qualms when Boris paid suit. Or the other two, before she married them. Married three times, according to one of the tour guides on Capri. Me, I turned down the first decent chap I'd ever landed.
I yawn; the reflection yawns back. Beyond, there is a display of suntan products, with a picture of a tree-lined boulevard leading to a beach. Quaint, but nothing like Sorrento. In fact, walking round the Centre is not nearly so interesting as promenading the Corsa Italia, stopping at every window to admire the shoes and suits, Baldan, Ferragamo, and Armani. God, I do miss it.
Pulling a face at the image in the window doesn't help the mood. In fact, it makes it worse. Depression is closing in like the door of a tomb. Would death be as painful? I move on, giving a last minute tweak to the collar of my mac. Sighing.  Wishing I'd had the sense to bring an umbrella. The Sorrento umbrella, blue and yellow, bought that day it rained, when we swooped into the doorway of the Coin store, blind to everything except the need to shelter, colliding with a basketful of gamps. The sales staff pounced like ravenous locusts, intimidating in their determination to make a sale. We gave in. We bought an umbrella. Wise choice, considering the pelting rain. See how easy it is to remember, how hard it is to forget? Everything I see, or hear, or do, reminds me so forcefully of that place. And him.
I see Maples' window-display has changed. That pine table is similar to the one Giovanni has.  Did I mention his apartment? It was above the shops in Piazza Tasso. Enormous rooms with high ceilings. And so cool. The windows were huge, with small balconies. You could lean right out and not be feared of falling. The horses were stationed below, harnessed to carriages, waiting to take sightseers on guided tours. I couldn't bear the sight of those dumb animals hanging around in all that heat. I wanted to yell to their owners to let them loose. It wouldn't have done any good; they wouldn't have understood me.
I purchased a souvenir or two to bring home, and I bought Giovanni half-a-dozen of the plates he'd admired. Bright green with bright blue squiggles round the rim. Sounds awfully garish, but they were actually quite nice. It seemed a bit like reimbursing him for all he'd spent on me and I rued it like crazy the minute I handed them over. But I needn't have worried; he was overjoyed. Mother always said I was a mitherer of the first order. She was right.
His mother liked the plates. She reckoned he should chuck his old ones forthwith. She was a nice lady, obviously affluent, and as beautiful an Italian Signora as I ever saw. It was manifestly clear, then, why Giovanni had spent money like it grew on hedges. He was well-to-do. He was no more a gigolo than the King of Spain. It didn't change my mind though. I still believed holiday romances didn't work.
I hadn't noticed the bus was in. Breaking into a gallop, I go down the steps and across the road. The currency-converter slaps against my thigh with every step. I aim for the end of the rapidly reducing queue, tagging on behind a frail woman who can only shuffle to the bus. The breathing space is welcome; the panting stentorian. The woman turns to stare. You're too young to be wheezing like a bronchitic crone, she goes. I nod my agreement, wondering how on earth I trekked up Vesuvius, breathing steady. The woman thanks me for helping her up the two deep steps and I wonder how she would have managed on her own. It's okay, I go. When I'm her age, I hope I'll have a partner in tow.

Home again, sipping lukewarm coffee, finishing the books I brought from work: columns of figures that needed totalling, which the boss wanted urgently and which I didn't get round to on Friday. I wonder: should I write? A letter of thanks? I've deliberately not done it before, needing space to air my emotions, to purge my mind of tangled emotive webs. I remind myself that holiday romances don't work, and feel better for the prod.
The coffee's well past its best, so I chuck it down the sink and make some fresh. I see the rain has stopped. There's a peep of sunshine somewhere in the sky, it's glistening on the empty milk bottle on the sill. The grass outside is as near to emerald as it'll ever be considering its weedy state. And extremely long. And long it'll have to stay now the mower's broke. There's something to be said for procuring a partner. Man for hire: will mow, and cook, and wash-up. Making love a speciality. Hah!
Shades of Giovanni.
Tears? This is ridiculous. Why on earth am I crying? Hadn't I been a great lemon about making love. If I hadn't been such a wet lettuce, I'd know how good he was. Is. And pregnant, probably. Alone. I collapse at the table, coffee forgotten. The silent tears run their course, dripping unimpeded down my nose. The make-up will be ruined, but what the hell. There's no-one to complain about the eyesore. Only me. It's the first time I've ever felt lonely. I'm devil-may-care normally and a bit of a gad-about, yet I'm content with my own company; relishing the break, likely, after hectic nights out, dancing. I'm charged with an image of Giovanni and me, dancing so close we could've been glued at the hip. Man, does that make me go gaga. And even more weepy.

This is no good. Three in the morning and still I haven't slept. The phone's ringing in the hall, but I'm not going to answer it. It'll be a wrong number, I expect. Wongs Takeaway. That's the most recurrent wrong number, though why anyone wants spicy food at this hour is beyond me. I couldn't understand Giovanni treating himself to chicken curry at half-past two, after dropping me at the hotel. He told me when I removed the tinfoil tray from the car. Sheepishly, and no wonder. We'd only finished a turbot supper an hour earlier, and you know how filling turbot is.
There, the phone's stopped its ruthless racket. If I'd had enough gumption, I'd have switched on the answering machine. Let it tell everyone they've got the wrong number. That's a laugh. Wouldn't the opening announcement disturb me as much as the unrelenting peals? Of course, I could use ear plugs. 
Four hours, I've been tossing. Four hours of frustration, interspersed with melancholy. I wonder: if I shove my feet to the cool side of the bed and straighten this rumpled sheet, will I sleep? I don't know who I'm trying to kid. There's no chance I'll drop off just because the toes have cooled. No way. Therefore, a pair of earplugs is the answer.

Discontented mind, that's my problem. And not because I can't find the cotton wool. It's the business with Giovanni I can't sort. It's now approaching four o'clock and I'm reclining in a sudsy bath, Imperial Leather Mild. I concluded that I might as well have a soak as lie in bed sweating. The phone starts again. I remember too late about the answering machine. Fortunately, the noise promptly stops and I relax back in the water.
I'm soaping the bits beyond the suntan when I'm suddenly hit by a major realization. I am in love. There's a warm glow coursing through me. Giovanni's face appears like magic, framed in the porthole that serves as a window, as if he's been spirited there by a mischievous genie to hear the revelation. Caprice. Enlightenment kills the misconceived logic about holiday affairs. Excitedly, I toss the soap on its dish. I am suddenly unafraid. Debs, I say, you're a real nitwit. So what if Lucy and Chris made a mess of their lives. They obviously chose the wrong men. It doesn't mean Giovanni's wrong for me.
Moving like a whirlwind, I shoot out of the bath. I'm so lively, you wouldn't believe I'd had no sleep. There's foam on the floor, and the towelling robe. Leave it, Debs, I say. Get on that blower and ring your man.
The phone rings just as I reach it. I'm not one to blaspheme, but right this minute I could curse the caller to infernal regions. Angrily, I snatch up the receiver. Now look here, I go, all set to recommend what the caller should do with his Chinese chow-mein.
Come sta, Deborah? goes Giovanni.
How am I? How am I? I am floating to the top of this wonderful world, and it's quite likely that by the time I come down I'll have great difficulty speaking. My heart sings. Joyfully. Three words. No, four. I love you, Giovanni. 

08 September 2013

Sunday Scenes

I looked up because the sudden bright light attracted my attention 

It's not often I see next door's TV aerial lit-up!

It's not often I see a skeleton either, 
but within as many days I saw two

Poor quality picture of a window display depicting a scene in New York

Morning coffee at the supermarket.
Just the place for a sleep providing you DON'T snore!

Places I've been and would love to visit again

Isn't it sad that these have now gone... roll on next spring!

05 September 2013


My latest read is a book by Lee Childs called A Wanted Man which was published last year. I’ve only just started it but already I feel the excitement that precedes a good read. Lee Childs is a local man, coming from Coventry in the UK. Coventry is roughly about 20 miles from my home so I think of Lee as local man made good.  The fact that he now lives in the US is irrelevant. New York Times described the book as “Smart, breathless... more ingenious than other Reacher books” ... hence my excitement.

Another thing that excites me is the release of new traffic clampdowns when police are expected to focus on:
  • Driving too close to the vehicle in front
  •  Failure to give way at junctions
  • Overtaking and pushing into a queue of traffic (oh the times I see that!) 
  •  Being in the wrong lane and pushing into a queue at a roundabout (that happens ALL the time)
  • Needles hogging in middle or outside lanes
  • Inappropriate speed
  •  Wheel spins, handbrake turns and other careless manoeuvres
It would make my day to see those culprits picked up and dealt with. Perhaps if they were all arrested there would be more room in the car parks. Although, having said that, I was lucky enough to have an entire floor in the local car park all to myself. As Joe would say, they must have seen me coming and kept out of the way!

The other day I received an unusual email from a gentleman trying to trace my WI institute. Apparently his mother recently died and amongst her possessions he found a nicely bound recipe book with recipes from members of, yes, MY WI. He asked if we would like it. I didn’t even wait to ask the President... I just said yes. Well, you never know, it might be valuable.

The guy got my name from a blog I once edited for the WI. The blog is no longer in existence but apparently Google still had it ‘on file’. Strange, because when I Google’d it out of curiosity I was ‘told’ it no longer existed. I wasn’t even given details of a post prior to the discontinuation yet the guy said he saw the last one dated April 2013. Isn’t that amazing? But I’m getting away from the point.

The man used to live in my area so whilst writing he tossed in a few names that we might know. The plan now is to have a slot at the next committee meeting so that I can throw the names at the members and see if they remember anything. There was only one name I knew but I’m not sure if she was one of our members or one of the other WIs.

Isn’t it strange what we get in our inbox?

Finally, a bit about bites...

This year I’ve had my fair share of insect bites. Strangely enough they all seemed to come in awkward places like the crook of the arm or leg, thereby reducing the healing time. Whenever I moved the bite disappeared inside the fold of flesh which had the effect of continual scratching. And that, as we all know, is not recommended. I’m thinking of putting arrows on my skin to indicate where the insect should bite. Someone told me that only those with an excess amount of sugar in their blood get bitten; if that's true and considering I don't take sugar or eat many sugary foods, does it mean I'm depriving insects of their daily ration, or is it because they're so desperate for the sweet stuff they'll eat anything?