Double negative

beautiful bin

I think I’ve never looked properly at frost before.

Coldfinger

I love the way it turns the world inside out.

white line

Writing in lines of white where shadows were.

frosty bin

Light and cold. Dark and heat.

negative

A double negative is a positive.

It grew cold

And the cold grew on all surfaces.

cold nose

The light was tremendous. “This is what heaven is like” said secondspawn confidently gesturing to the other side of the park, “all white and misty and glittering“.

frost

It grew cold, and even when the crystals thawed the ground was too icy to stand on with both feet.

heron

It grew cold, and the cold grew on all surfaces.

hip and hoar

And the light was tremendous.

low sun

Warm fluffy pooter

My computer, I have discovered, is a bit like my bed. Far too extensive for the job required of it but the corner that’s utilised is precisely tailored to my needs.

The MacBook Pro went to the Genius Bar on Friday afternoon and, having been diagnosed as suffering from an ailment of the fan rather than a terminal condition of the hard drive, was admitted for minor surgery.

I returned home and lugged out the old iBook which after a long life of daily service had been handed over to the less than gentle hands of secondspawn. After scrubbing off accretions of semi-masticated sweets, blu tack, marmite, and what might have been glue from the exterior I set about performing a similar task on its interior, aka disc, particularly the area occupied by user: secondspawn which was full of videos of the carpet where shortly before a dog or cat might have been, jpgs of toy guns downloaded from the internet and a bewildering array of random mp3s and podcasts presumably put there by his elder brother.

With the drive and its contents de-cached, -cookied, -trashed and generally cleaned, updated and optimised I turned my attention to user: me and installed five pieces of essential software which were not there – Firefox, Quicksilver, OnyX, Growl and Twitterific.

Hmmm. Now we were getting somewhere. Things were beginning to look a bit more homelike. Firefox needed add-ons and the familiar theme, but that was easy enough. Then I came upon my major difficulty. Bookmarks. There were none. And those left behind and imported from Safari were hugely out of date. I had no access to my own blog’s control panel, for instance, and didn’t have a clue what the url might be. (Notes to self: synchronise browser bookmarks either via .mac or del.icio.us. Or both. Synchronise feeds in NetNewsWire with Google Reader.)

So here I am on a little laptop with a tiddly hard drive and a very slow processor and, for day-to-day purposes, there’s really not much difference in my internet-based computer-using experience which is predicated more on connection speed than chip MHz. Would it really, I ask myself, be such a disaster if my MacBook Pro blew up or melted down? Probably not. Although the non-functioning on the iBook of the shift keys, fn key, ctrl key, alt key and apple keys would become onerous, I reckon, should I need to use it in circumstances where I couldn’t plug in a keyboard. The much-used smilicon 🙂 for instance would be completely impossible. No doubt the introduction of some viscous substance into the keyboard is responsible for these shortcomings.

Similarly my bed. Not to the iBook and the introduction of a viscous substance. No. To the MacBook Pro and the non-utilisation of available capacity. It is a double bed. I am a single person. I curl up every night in exactly the same spot, at the edge, and do not use more than 30% of its available area, if that. If it were not for the malfunctioning keys of the iBook and the photo processing capabilities of the MacBook Pro I should be very tempted to sell the latter. There are no such impediments with the bed. As long as I have my pillow and duvet a single futon would do just as well.
A wise friend once told me to look long and hard at every possession I have, ask myself whether it has utility, whether it gives me joy, and if the answer to both is “no” then to chuck it. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I’m approaching it.

I shall not mention, of course, that the aforementioned wise friend may well have applied these criteria to an item of clothing, chucked it and is now having to acquire a replacement. To do so would merely be a feeble attempt to justify my own syllogomania.

And yes, obviously, I eventually worked out the url for the blog workings (and, even more impressively, remembered the password) otherwise this post wouldn’t exist. Hurrah!

The camping umbrella

the camping umbrella

It is a sad reflection upon the weather both here and, historically, in France and Spain, that the sound of water falling on the taut skin of an umbrella reminds me powerfully of summer holidays. A very large umbrella, ideally a very large umbrella for each person, has always been essential for the camping kit.

The latest incarnation (because we regularly lose them) is a very fine golfing umbrella purchased from the sports section of a well-known department store. It’s now also known as the “taking to school” umbrella since it’s big enough for one adult, one child and one dog if the latter is on a short lead.

The sky is dull and grey, it is wet and blowy, but the willows in the park have been trimmed to be their own umbelliferous forms with their yellowed leaves echoing the brolly’s fabric.

Some pairs

The armwarmers adorn one arm each of two friends.

hands

Two attempts to diagnose the macbook pro rattle. Is it a rattley cough (the fan) or a rattle of approaching death (the hard drive)?

can't you hear it?

seriously, it's making a weird noise

Two baubles from the rather attractive Christmas decorations in John Lewis on Oxford Street

huge green bauble

huge pink bauble

And two pictures of one rainbow.

rainbow 1

rainbow 2

Which do you prefer?

I wish life was like an escalator

A smooth, effortless upward progression. Like the groovy huge new one running silently up a wall inside the National Portrait Gallery. Conveying shiny happy people up to some invisible and unimaginable shiny happy land (called, apparently, the Tudor Gallery).

Or, even more appositely, like the one in the Natural History Museum Earth Galleries that takes one, an onlooker, through the story of the planet and its place in the universe and through the centre of the earth itself.

But, er, life just aint like an escalator.

And I’m fucking tired and fed up. Because at the moment it does not resemble an escalator in any respect what so ever. It is very closely akin to having to drag myself and the children and the animals up the side of Great Pyramid of Giza. Every single fucking day. After day. After day. After day.

The steps are too big for me to clamber comfortably. So imagine what it’s like for the children. I have physically to pull them up. And their stuff. And make sure the dog doesn’t run off. And the cat is keeping up.

And there is nobody to help. There is nobody to hold the children’s hands or carry a bag or call the dog. There is nobody to help with them, and there is nobody to help with me. Nobody to say well done or never mind. And I can’t generate the required levels of internal resources all by myself all the time.

So now I’m going back to bed.

I am not depressed. I’m just fucking exhausted.

Out and about

 

I was out and about today, and took the camera.

First to St Martin-in-the-Fields for a short (very short) period of quiet for Just This Day. It seemed particularly appropriate to think about the peace talks in Annapolis. I had read Rachel’s post about hope before I left in the morning, and rather unexpectedly, it was hope that I found.

Then to the Photographic Portrait Prize exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. I managed not to be utterly depressed and demotivated by exposure to wonderful photographs. My favourite was taken by a 24-year-old who sounded, from the blurb beneath the picture, to be a complete hero. I also liked this one and this one. You can scroll through all the pictures in the exhibition from any of the previous three links.

A spot of spawn-stocking-present-shopping left me exhausted and with a very heavy bag so I retired to an excellent cheap Spanish greasy spoon and took pictures through the window while consuming hearty paella.I’m breaking all my self-imposed rules about taking pictures of people. I only asked one of the subjects shown above if I could photograph them.

Nameless Cat is no more

No, he has not died of starvation or indeed any other ailment, self-inflicted or otherwise.

He has… a name!

Since his appetite returned in spectacular fashion (and for all you anxious googlers concerned about anorexic cats the sure-fire remedy is sardines tinned in tomato sauce – the flavour of sauce is very important – and most vets have large quantities about their premises apparently), Cat has very quickly become – gasp – overweight. Or so said the vet when I took both creatures for their jabs and she weighed them.

Sigh.

The reason for this incipient obesity is probably Cat’s major carbohydrate cravings. The other day he demolished most of a french stick, bread being one of his favourites. But he also likes sweet things, particularly cake. A swiss roll was massacred recently but not as devastatingly as yesterday’s cherry and walnut cake.

Herein lies the genesis of the name. What else can one call a cat who, if there is no bread deigns to eat cake, other than Mario Antoinette. Mario for short.

And while we accustom him to his new handle we’re calling him Mario Kat.

Deliquescence

A light mist pearled the morning.

dandelion

No surface was exempt from damp fingers.

mrs dropple

Small drops drained together to collect in hidden places.

droplet

Leaves layered gold on gold.

layers

Where no leaves were, an alien form with a heart-shaped handle flapped from a branch.

heart

Despite earlier frosts some flowers just can’t give up, thrusting new petals from the brown carapace of the newly blighted.

thrusting rose

Poor Maizy was much troubled by the vile and verminous tree-rats who flicked their tails contemptuously in her face as she, leashed as bye-laws require, barked choked and goggle-eyed threats of violent death.

Painting with light

This morning the early sun tipped over the rooftops and shone the yellow leaves of a small silver birch to a fountain of firework brightness.

This afternoon a lightbrush washed leisurely lines behind the trees.

skypaint

Round the corner we marvelled at a sky full of fiery scarlet scales. By the time we reached home a few minutes later they were gone.