31 October 2014


Nearly midnight. From where she sat Shelly Cunningham could see the flickering shadows on the dividing wall. She tightened the belt of her dressing gown as if the action would protect her from evil. The pink robe was cosy, a little too warm for the time of year but she needed the comfort it afforded her.

The wall was new a couple of months ago; the neighbours had got rid of rickety fencing in favour of solid brick. Easier to climb than a wobbly wooden fence. The flat was situated on a main road, bedroom at the front, lounge at the rear with views side and back. The Star Inn was on the opposite side of the road. Even at this late hour the busker played his spoons outside the pub, a regular sight when special functions were held. Shelly used to sit on her bed and watch through the window but not so much these days. In any case, now that the nights were drawing in, the pub gardens would soon be empty and the customers either closeted inside or at home.  

She hated this area. It was a main thoroughfare, noisy, untidy, and alive with traffic.  Pizza boxes and cigarette packets were strewn ad infinitum and nobody gave a damn. Shelley and nearby residents were forever clearing their front gardens after the revellers had gone.  

Shelley’s flat occupied the entire ground floor of a converted old house. She and Daniel had been lucky to get it at a time when housing was in short supply. Daniel lasted a year; he couldn’t stand the noisy neighbourhood. It was the best thing, really. They did nothing but argue and, apart from that, he didn’t get on well with the guy upstairs. Continually moaned about him. Shelley suspected he was jealous of Reg Carney’s laidback approach to life.

The upstairs flat had been empty since Reg died. He was killed by falling from some scaffolding, an unfortunate accident considering he was a scaffolder by trade and should have known better than to step into thin air. Still, accidents do happen. At least she had been able to take care of Lisa, his cat, and even she had now departed from this world.

For all his faults Reg had represented security, another soul in their rambling building. He didn’t intrude on Shelly and she kept her distance as much as she could. However, having a man nearby was a comfort when drunks were at large. When he found one totally inebriated man roaming in the yard he dealt with him pretty swiftly. The yard was shared, Reg had his own section of the garden and Shelley had hers. They had their own sheds and took turns mowing the grass. The arrangement was good. Nowadays Shelley wished she could go back to it; if only Reg hadn’t died.

Every night for a week she had seen the shadows dancing on the wall. Every night she willed herself not to panic, especially when she heard a disturbance at three o’clock in the morning. At first she thought there was an animal outside but the noises seemed more human: subdued breathless gasps as if someone was climbing the wall. Yet there was no-one there. She was braver in the beginning, now she was reluctant even to peer through the window.

The wall was about five feet high, easily seen from both main room and kitchen. That first night she was too scared to go to bed, imagining the worst, like someone breaking in while she lay sleeping? For hours she sat in the darkened room, breathing erratically, unwilling to switch on the light. She didn’t want to be seen ...watching.

Tonight, while taking a bath, she heard noises outside: footsteps, the rasping bolt on the side gate, someone entering the yard, the clang of metal against metal. Whoever it was had put something in the galvanised bin and let the lid crash down. Reg used to dispose of rubbish like that, raising the lid and letting it fall without any thought that she might be startled by the noise. It crossed her mind that the culprit could have been a boozed-up patron from the pub, in which case a request would have to be submitted to the landlord for additional security. Only padlocks and barbed wire would keep drunkards out.

Shelly was irate, wished she’d not chosen to take a bath at that time. In a bold moment she felt that nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to accost the person who was using her yard as a rubbish dump. Yes, it was easy to be heroic behind closed doors. She considered calling the police. The only thing that stopped her was the foolishness of her story. Could you come round, officer, I think there’s someone putting rubbish in my bin. She rang a couple of friends but neither of them answered the phone. Eventually, during a lucid flash, she reminded herself that the doors were all locked and bolted so nobody could get into the house.

For the first time in ages she wished Daniel was still around. For all his faults he would have protected her from intruders. He would have put those enormous fists to good use, and probably arrested for it. He wasn’t the gentlest of men when roused, as she knew to her cost. It had taken a long time for the mental bruises to fade. 

Thinking a cup of tea would calm her she went into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Almost immediately fear overtook her. The sink was too near the back door ... if anyone was out there she would be seen. Oh how she wished she’d thought to put a curtain up at the window. Tomorrow, she would definitely buy some material. Dismissing the idea of tea, she grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge and went back to the lounge. Settled in the armchair, tugging the gown closer to her body, she wondered why she didn’t just go to bed. But she knew sleep would not be forthcoming while her nerves were raw. She would only toss and turn and worry herself silly.

A car’s headlights lit up part of the garden, moved slowly to reflect on the ceiling as the driver negotiated the crossing. Mesmerising! The mantel clock ticked in rhythm with her breathing, when it chimed the quarter hour she jumped. Rapid heartbeats heralding trepidation. Even as she tried to calm down there was a noise outside. A cough. A serious cry. Shelley froze, grabbed her mobile phone, remembered it was dead. If only she’d charged it when she had the chance. Still seated in the chair, she peered through the window.  As if someone had flicked a switch the scene changed. The car light had gone, the flickering had stopped. Except for the distant mewing of a cat, it was deathly quiet.

An hour must have passed before Shelly plucked up the courage to look outside. There was a French window in the lounge that led straight onto the garden. If she went that way she would be able to peer round the end of the house and see if any damage had been caused by the intruder. She was pretty sure he’d gone. Maybe he’d fallen off the wall and killed himself.
Armed with an iron poker, Shelly opened the French door, lifted her robe and crept out, stepping over the single step onto paving slabs, alternate colours, a whim of her ex. A distant owl hooted. The garden looked eerie in the moonlight. A train rumbled through the valley and a sudden wind whistled through the trees; loose tentacles of Russian vine waved, one glanced against her neck. She spun round, felt the cold tremor run down her spine.

She tightened her grip on the poker. The feel of a weapon in her hand gave her the confidence to peer round the edge of the house. All quiet. Stealthily she eased her body round until she faced the brick wall, in time to see a cat leap up; black as a witch’s cat with gleaming yellow eyes. Without hesitation it disappeared to the other side.


Feeling foolish, Shelly shook her head to dismiss the weird thought.

Further up the yard, nestled between two small hydrangea bushes, was the refuse bin. Glimmers of moonlight played on the hard black plastic. Rooted to the spot she stared in disbelief, unable to believe her stupidity.  How long ago was it that the council replaced the metal bin with plastic?

As if the devil was on her tail Shelly hurriedly retraced her steps, shot through the door, slammed it shut and shot the bolts. One slipper lost in her haste. She leaned against the door, beset by a series of involuntary shivers, relieved that she was safely inside. With her ice-cold hands on her cheeks, she forced herself to breathe normally. It had been Lisa, she was sure of it. She had looked after that cat long enough to know... it... was... her. Yet, how could it be when the cat had died in her arms.

With a sudden intake of breath, she remembered ... Lisa’s medallion, found in the soil when she wrenched out a bunch of creeping ivy.

... and the phone call, days after; the silence when she’d answered, reminiscent of a call when Reg died ... when his ex-wife was too choked to speak. For a few minutes all she’d heard was someone sobbing. But that recent call ... although the line was live she felt there was no-one there. Just static; indistinct and ghostly.

... and the scratching at the back door. Lisa wanting to come in. Only Lisa, like Reg, was dead. She had died in her arms. The vet said she would suffer terrible agony if he didn’t put her down. Shelley remembered thinking it was fortunate that Reg didn’t know what she had done. Reg would never have counselled the idea of killing his cat.

Slowly exhaling, she recalled the footsteps, one late evening, loud and purposeful on the floor above, around the time the landlord was paying spasmodic visits. She had gone to the front door to say hello, to check if he’d decided what to do with the property, found Reg’s door locked; the landlord ... gone? With all the strange noises she wasn’t sure he’d been there at all.

Gyrating her head to relieve the tension in her neck, she felt certain she was going mad. Normal people didn’t see ghosts or hear noises in the night; therefore she must be going off her rocker. Her sister always said there were more insane people outside the asylums than in. Perhaps she was one of them. Perhaps she was due for a visit from men in white coats?
The phone rang as that thought passed through her mind. She hesitated for a moment, then went to answer it. Nobody ever rang at this hour unless it was an emergency.

As she walked up the hall she heard music: soft, but getting louder. Pink Floyd. One of Reg’s old favourites, the one he played over and over until she felt she like screeching. Reaching the phone, she lifted the receiver, whispered into it. ‘Hello’.


The receiver crashed down so hard it almost fractured the cradle. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Her head pounded, her brain felt like cotton wool. She tried to scream but no sound came. Whoever it was sounded just like Reg. Groping her way down the hall, hand over hand, using the wall for support, she felt something warm brush against her leg.

Lisa moved her head against her shin, just like she did when she was alive.

29 October 2014

The Bane of my Life

One of the funniest sights I have seen in my garden is the squirrel sliding down the upright pole of the bird feeder. Slithering gracefully downwards as the Vaseline prevented a sure foothold. It reminded me of an incident at our old house when we hung bags of birdseed on an old washing line suspended from wall to wall…. and the squirrel doing a good impression of a Commando on exercise. However, contrary to my original thought that I had defeated the squirrel, he has now mastered a way of standing on the wrought iron ring and helping himself to sunflower seeds. Admittedly he can’t break anything since the seed holders are constructed of solid all-in-one pieces but it still riles to see him there. The only consolation I have is finding clumps of squirrel fur stuck in the Vaseline. With a bit of luck the varmint will soon be coatless! Ah, what a sight that would be!

Animals are remarkable, though. Take the other morning, for instance, when I had a full parade of field mice instead of one or two. The morning was fine and sunny but the forecast was for a hurricane to hit the UK so I reckoned the mice were gathering food in case it was wiped out by that white and wet stuff known as snow. The squirrel too was collecting nuts instead of eating them on the spot. They are, after all, well known for hoarding. As it turned out my area suffered very little damage from the storm so I guess the food hoard was scoffed ready for replacement.

That’s not to say I’m friends with the squirrel again, how can I be when he tries to eat everything in sight and totally defies human beings. He treats the new feeding station like a gymnasium, sliding, swinging, climbing, and gambolling. He is nimble fingered, sure footed, cunning, totally fearless, and is becoming the bane of my life. Yes, I’m beginning to hate him. After all he comes from the rat family and we all know what little horrors they are.

My cleaning lady told me that her mother feeds the squirrel, to which I replied ‘So do I’. Well I do … unintentionally.

27 October 2014

Latest find in the garden...

I spotted this in the wild part of the garden, the patch dedicated to wild life. 

At this time of year the pretty wild flowers have gone, flowers that in truth I didn't know and couldn't identify. It didn't matter though, I still enjoyed seeing the various new flowers as they opened up to the summer sun. So, when I spotted this the other day I was mystified about it's name. 

The nearest I can come up with is the Iris but other irises in the garden didn't have seed pods like this. Similar, yes, but much smaller and a less dense shade of colour. They almost look good enough to eat!

Gardens can be such mysterious places!

24 October 2014

A VISITOR... but not to my house

A few days ago I parked the car by the tree outside my house and spotted the snail.

I'm wondering if  he's made it a permanent residence. 
I always fancied a tree house as a kid and now I wonder if that's how I got to like birds so much.
Oh well, t'was but a silly dream.
If he's still there I shall let the snail be ... so long as he doesn't expect bed and breakfast!

22 October 2014


Can you comprehend the current craze of taking ‘selfies’? I can almost understand youngsters (and others) taking pictures of themselves to send to friends, or people just wanting a bit of fun, but I CANNOT understand why prominent, important or even ordinary people have succumbed to taking and sending indecent shots of their personal bits. And they wonder why their phones are being hacked. Are these people mad or degenerate? What kind of world are we living in these days when people send lewd photos of themselves to all and sundry? Take the recent case of the politician forced to resign because he sent pics of his bits to a male reporter posing as a young, sexy woman. Oh the things they do for a story. I’m not sure who is worse, perpetrator or newshound.

I used to think topless or nude bathing was indecent but it was nothing compared to the nakedness of today. Never mind the beaches, I only have to go to the shopping mall to see barely dressed young women. If we think that’s bad imagine what is ahead of us in five or ten years…. or less. I know there’s been worse in years gone by but it was usually kept under wraps for fear of possible arrest; now it seems people can’t wait to publicly expose themselves. I say ‘publicly’ since that is what it amounts to when the hackers get to work.

The example we set our children is important, heaven help those whose parents parade their wares for all to see. Okay, so I’m an old fuddy-duddy but I think my views match those of many others. These days we keep hearing the word RAPE … which is a terrible thing … but I sometimes wonder if the way females dress (Dress?) steers a man’s thoughts towards taking what is not rightfully his. The law says if a woman says No her rights must be respected… but temptation is a terrible thing and I firmly believe that women should take that into account when dressing for a night out on the tiles. Dress style nowadays is full of questions: Should I? Shall I? Or, will he? Please don’t tell me that young women on a night out don’t dress to capture a man. Of course, they have every right to dress how they like but we have to admit that today’s fashion barely covers all. Don’t you like that word ‘barely’?

20 October 2014

For Joe




17 October 2014


Photo courtesy of Ron

She had always thought Carl’s balcony was romantic, especially in the evening when the street lights came on. The soft amber hue made her think of the scene in Romeo and Juliet although there was nothing in their relationship that remotely resembled that famous Shakespearean pair.

Balancing on the low wall opposite the building, cursing for the umpteenth time that his doorbell didn’t work, Aggie felt all she could do was watch and wait for a sign that he was on his way out. Once the light was switched off he would be down those stairs in about two minutes and she would be ready for him at the outer door. Of course he might have left the light on to fool her. Aggie tossed her blond locks in anger; she wouldn’t put that past him. He’d been in a funny mood ever since their argument about who had the responsibility to propose. He maintained it should be the man but Aggie was adamant that a leap year gave women equal rights in the proposal stakes.

Aggie didn’t know if it was a modern practice. Would Juliet have dared to propose to Romeo in Elizabethan times? Did Anne Hathaway offer her hand to Shakespeare? Would Carl have been agreeable if she’d gone about it in a more romantic way?

It had started half-heartedly when Carl was talking about settling down and Aggie jumped in and asked him to marry her. He didn’t lose his rag straight away but he must have dwelt on it a lot because after the initial bout of ludicrous laughter he went into a three day sulk and then told her their affair was off.

Aggie had pondered long and hard. She talked to girl friends who all agreed that (a) Carl was an idiot and (b) although it was slightly unusual Aggie was entitled to propose. Her mother, of course, thought otherwise. She maintained that Aggie had lowered herself by being so forward while her dad put it down to female idiocy.

The road was quiet, devoid of cars and people, only an alley cat skulking from gate to gate in search of food. Everyone was probably out enjoying themselves and for several minutes Aggie wondered if she would ever be able to enjoy life without Carl. The evening chill was beginning to penetrate, forcing her to pull her wrap closer. She would give it another half an hour and then go home. Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou?


In the quiet of his third floor apartment Carl sprawled on the couch. Propped up by cushions, one long, jean-clad leg on a footstool, the other hooked over the arm, he drank his beer from the can. All evening he’d kept away from the window, hoping Aggie would think he was out. Ever since she stormed off he’d known she’d come back to harass him, looking up, waiting for him to show so that she could scream at him. She’d been there for three nights and he could almost hear her saying she wouldn’t budge until he let her in.  It wasn’t that he was afraid to face her. On the contrary, he was more scared of throwing himself into her arms.

He still couldn’t understand why she had suggested marriage. It wasn’t as if they’d been going out all year. They had gotten close, though.  His dad ventured to say they’d got too close, too fast. ‘Mark my words, boy, you don’t regularly sleep with a woman and expect her to wander off when you get itchy feet. Women aren’t made that way, son.’

Itchy feet? He’d only gone out with the other girl once and they hadn’t even come close to having sex. How could he when sex with Aggie was so good. It was fortunate that Aggie didn’t know about his wandering, that would really have given her something to shout about.

Oh God, he wished the thought of sex didn’t disturb him so. Thinking about their evenings of passion disturbed his equilibrium. So many times he’d wanted her to stay over but she always had to get home to her mom before a search party was formed. It had always been a bone of contention but he felt he’d overcome it.


Aggie lay in bed, her knees drawn to her chest in foetal position. She felt both sad and angry that she hadn’t seen Carl. Her mom said it was time they stopped acting like kids and made up but how could she make up with a man who wouldn’t show his face. She wished now she’d accepted his offer to take possession of a flat key, although it wouldn’t be proper to barge in, not after they’d split. Her insides positively ached for him and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Perhaps if she got up and did something she might tire herself out.

Uncurling her body, she slid out of bed, slung her dressing gown round her shoulders, and crept out of the room. She could hear her father snoring in the adjoining bedroom. He and her mother always retired early. Passing her sister’s old room, Aggie wished yet again that Charlotte hadn’t left home. It was lonely here without her. She and Charlie had always been able to talk about intimate things like sex. Not Aggie’s sex, of course, Charlie had left home well before Aggie headed into that area.

Barefooted, Aggie went into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk. She could still smell the sausages her mom had cooked for tea. Carrying the milk, she ambled into the lounge and flopped into an armchair. Spotting the laptop where she’d left it on the sideboard it crossed her mind that maybe she should send Carl an email. It wasn’t late, not for him anyway. He would probably still be chatting on Facebook.


Carl logged on to his AOL account. A chat with Freddie might clear his head. An email first, then if there was no response he’d go on Facebook. Shoving a lock of dark hair off his face, he typed with two fingers Are you there? then clicked send.

He walked across to the window, gazed out. On the opposite side of the road, a light went on in the bedroom of the house with the red door. They were newly weds, just back from honeymoon in the Seychelles. The young woman waved to him. Carl lifted a hand to wave back, let it flop when she drew the curtains. He adjusted a few of the taller stems on the plant that stood in the window space, trying not to imagine what they were getting up to. Lucky devil, he thought, and immediately wondered why he thought that. Was he going soft, did he want to be in the same position? Married? All evening he had felt wretched and for the hundredth time questioned his motive for staying away from Aggie.

You have mail

Carl shot back to the computer.


Aggie had thought long and hard about the email, deciding she wouldn’t harp on their silly upset. She would simply ask him how he was and add a bit of chatter. There was the story her dad told her about a guy at his works who’d fallen off the toilet pan and broken his leg. It wasn’t funny but … oh maybe not. Maybe she should write something more delicate. She would tell him about Charlie’s new beau only Carl might think she was deliberately pursuing a romantic angle. She started to type.

Hi Carl. How are you?


Now what?

Did you have a good day at work? Isn’t the autumn weather lovely? I bet you left your shirt off on the building site …….

No, no, no. Delete, delete.

Did you have a good day at work? This weather is brilliant; I really hope it lasts for a while. Mom and dad send their love. They’re both fine. Dad works far too hard but you know what he’s like. I am going to the hairdresser at the weekend. I feel like having a shorter hairstyle. Cropped is all the fashion. Oh well, that’s enough chat, I’m off to bed now.

Good night, Carl. I really do hope you’re okay.

Love Aggie x

Aggie closed the laptop and went back to bed, content that he could read nothing more than friendliness in her email. She was glad she’d made the effort. It was no use harbouring grudges forever.


NO! She mustn’t have all that wonderful hair cut off. NO, NO, NO. He saw with his mind’s eye an image of loose curls draping her pale skin, forming a cloak on bare shoulders. He saw himself weaving his fingers through the curls, bunching them together, making her laugh when he pulled those glossy locks around her lovely face, attempting to tie a bow under her chin. He saw how damp her hair got when they made love.

Click Compose.



Next day, right after work, Aggie sauntered towards Carl’s flat. She carried a lightweight jacket to cover her arms when the night cooled down. The jacket was new, bought that day to wear with her best black pants, a skintight red top, and the red tiptoe shoes. She wore her hair loose. She had made the effort to look good although the shoes might turn out to be a bad choice. She wore them because Carl liked them; he said they made it seem like she was walking on her toes, but apart from that they made her feel taller. She was such a midget compared to Carl who was almost six feet tall.

She arrived at the apartment and took up her position on the wall. If he came to the window she would merely wave and hold up the card she so carefully carried. She had a gut feeling that things would be all right now. But she wasn’t letting him have all his own way. She smiled, her mind taken up with a possible outcome of her action. She settled down to wait. Somehow she knew he would come to the window this evening. Carefully she took the card out of the A4 envelope, hoping desperately that the words were large enough to read. Holding it in front of her, she looked up at the balcony. And saw. A notice. Tied to the wrought iron with red ribbon.


Aggie looked at her own card and grinned at the words.


Carl stood at the open window and held out his arms and suddenly Aggie felt so lighthearted she thought she would fly right up to him. They met half way, on the stairs. And they kissed as if they’d been separated for months, both knowing that their future was secure with each other.


Many years later, Aggie and Carl told their children and grandchildren about their romance and in particular about the balcony scene.  Even in her advanced years Aggie had a good head of hair; she always kept it long, and Carl always wove his fingers through it at bedtime.  

15 October 2014


With the lounge area at the back of the house I seldom get to see the setting sun. 
I'm glad I stirred from the chair in time to catch this one.

13 October 2014

CHRISTMAS IS COMING... but it's not here yet

Just made for a Christmas competition
Once upon a time, in the dim and distant past, I wrote my Christmas cards and wrapped presents early, and by early I mean round about September. It went on for several years and ended when two things happened to make me think that too early can be worse than too late.

The first thing to go wrong was the sudden death of two people to whom I had written cards. The cards were addressed to Mr and Mrs … with an appropriate happy note inside wishing them both the best Christmas they’d ever had, or words to that effect. Thank goodness I didn’t post them early! I asked myself how I would feel if I received a card at such an inappropriate and raw time. Well, looking at it at an advanced age I don’t think it would upset me too much. I think I would spent more time appreciating the kindness of the sender but I was a lot younger then and very sensitive about such things.

My second realisation was never to take things for granted or assume that life goes on as normal no matter what. I loved organising presents, from the decision making to the actual purchase, and when bought they were wrapped almost immediately. I would happily speculate about how they would be received and what people would say when they opened their parcels at Christmas, hoping they would be pleased. After that I would store then in the wardrobe in the order of post or delivery. What I didn’t know was that I would be incarcerated in hospital and unable to do anything.

It was November, the month I suffered serious burns (more about that later) and likely to be in hospital for a long time, four months to be exact. So my mother took over without asking or telling. She found the presents in the wardrobe and delivered the ones to people she knew – two months early. However, instead of asking me about the others she decided not to bother. Instead she opened the parcels and used the contents for presents of her own… to people I didn’t know. On top of that, when snow hit the UK, she pinched my brand new suede boots, bought specially to wear at Christmas, and ruined them by wading through the white stuff on a daily basis. I guess she assumed I would never walk again.

So you see, it doesn’t always pay to buy cards, presents or posh boots much earlier than the event for which they are intended.

07 October 2014


You would think it a simple matter to get keys cut, wouldn’t you? Recently I decided that a set of keys should be left with my son on a ‘just in case’ basis. Well, we never know when they might be needed. Anything can happen at our time of life so it pays to be prepared.

There are a lot of keys on my key-ring. Apart from the car keys, of which there are two (ignition/locking and steering lock) there are three front entrance keys to the house (porch and front door which has two locks). In addition there is one for the side door, leading to the back of the house, and one each for doors to kitchen, garden and patio. I agree, that’s a lot of keys!

Having removed the car keys I took the rest to a key-cutting shop, asked for copies of each, then tootled round the shops for half an hour. They were ready and waiting by the time I got back.

First thing I did when I arrived back home was to test all the keys. All bar two worked perfectly. Later in the day Joe took the useless keys back to the shop (you’ll note I said Joe took it back… yes, folks, he is out and about again, but more of that later.) One key was successfully cut again but apparently all the guy did was file the second one in a certain place. ‘That should work’ was his comment to Joe. Only, he was wrong. It didn’t. Joe took it back again, this time insisting on and getting a re-cut. That didn’t work either. Bearing in mind they had successfully cut all the other keys this was a surprise, after all it wasn’t an unusual kind of key, just the normal Yale like all the others. This kind of problem has been known before at this shop but hitherto they were always able to rectify the matter on the first return.

We’re still wondering how to put this right!

Picture taken in Oz, well before his illness
Now, about Joe. Currently he is bag-less and loving it. Isn’t that wonderful? He looks a lot healthier now and is eating well. No longer is he the thin, drawn and poorly man of the past 15 months or so, what's more he's even had three baths in as many days. What luxury! He was beginning to think he'd never be able to bathe again. 

Last week he said goodbye to the district nurse and hopes never to see her again… the feeling was mutual, said the nurse, although I think they will all miss him. There are two appointments to keep with consultants but they’re not until November and we can’t hazard any guesses about the outcome of either. So three cheers for Joe, he’s been quite remarkable through it all.

05 October 2014

Pic and Mix

I have been a bit lethargic lately, not even bothering to dig out the camera and take a few shots. So the other day I took myself in hand and started to really study the camera's settings. Hitherto I went for the auto shots, this time I experimented. Some examples are shown below, but there are also some on-the-spot pics taken with the iPhone. 

I made a note of the name of this butterfly and promptly lost it.
Never mind losing the pic, I think I'm losing my memory!!
Cones on our Christmas Tree (for want of a better name!)
A feather, the property of either a Magpie or Wooodpigeon
Pampas in full show at the front of the house
Apples in the garden
Young lady collecting for charity, namely ponies for the handicapped. She stood in the rain hoping people would give money, which most did. I came out of the store and saw someone else taking a photograph so I pulled out the iPhone and jumped on the bandwagon. 
It goes without saying that this is a shot of the sky!
Our new bird feeding station
See how the squirrel sits neatly on a wrought iron ring? 
This is the only place he can get to on the new station. 
Why? Because I covered the poles with Vaseline.
This iPhone pic shows a vegetable cart that was at a restaurant we went to,
obviously advertising a show.

Well, that's all folks. I will try and play with the camera again.
Who knows, I might even get the hang of it.