... and so, even though little red riding hood had chosen the path "less traveled by", the pub was still shut

... actually, the idea of little red riding hood encountering the green man might enchant other fans of "the thinking man's lightly toasted teacake", ms marina walker

stuff between westminster and victoria

elementary, my dear watson ... the man we seek is a self-taught artist with an astigmatism ... who has just caught the night bus to kingston

dreaming

… dreamed I was cycling through Kent very early on a warm misty cuckoo morning & passed through a village of huge stone buildings festooned with ornament & coats of arms that might have looked more appropriate in Whitehall or Santiago. Perhaps I was thinking of the venerable public school we deliver cheese to in Tonbridge. The air was filled with birdsong, no human was to be seen or heard, there were masses of laburnum & ivy & virginia creeper everywhere, & families of deer tiptoed daintily on the tops of walls & on every ledge to tear off & feast noisily upon their juicy boughs …

garlic on toast

i used to share a kitchen with a lovely feller named robert stredder who ate garlic as if it were fruit ... there was uproar one sunday morning when i bit into my toast and realized he'd just used my shiny new breadknife to chop his little mountain of garlic

saturday ... time to practise my fruit cocktail makin'n'shakin skills

easily distracted

another flurry of snow coming down across the sugar loaf

Llanfihangel Tor y Mynydd

i've reached page 350 of moby dick

... and i'm enjoying it very much

melville is delightfully witty and he's such a lucid narrator

later: a moby dick web site via meta filter: http://www.powermobydick.com/

our easter dvd ... nacho libre ... i shouldn't laugh, but i did

easter is the ideal time for a quiet family gathering

self indulgent ? not really, because i only ate the one that was nearest to me

good job we left the christmas decorations up until easter ... it just started snowing

easter

yesterday i popped in to the national gallery and made an habitual bee-line for this painting by the master of the saint bartholomew altarpiece

know thine enemy

no need for you to ask which side of the creationist.v.scientist ding-dong i'm supporting ...

my sympathies are with the old man with the white beard so i enjoyed discovering this topical little anecdote today

http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/2008/03/expelled.php

as brigadier ritchie-hook used to say, "biff the enemy"

maximum potential ... my money is on this kid ... first spaniard to captain a world cup winning team and win a nobel prize

they also serve who only stand and wait

city of dreaming spires

the glorious memory of the all-conquering spanish synchronized swimming team's performance in eindhoven will never fade

the station at atocha

they've cleaned up the crystal palace in the retiro and made it in to a gallery

a full half of the national archaeological museum is currently closed to visitors ... but it is still worth the trip

the big hairdresser's

spain's national film theatre

the roman aqueduct at segovia ... logical, methodical, perspirational building, 2100 years old

palm sunday in segovia

a spanish swimmer imposes her will on a giant crayfish, as you do

segovian beggar

hedz will roll

rust and verdure

we're back

what should i wear when we go to madrid ? ... choosing the correct old pair of sunglasses

blue veils and golden sands

... is an interesting radio play by martin wade about the interesting but short career of the inspirational sound engineer and truly english eccentric delia derbyshire ... you can catch a repeat of it for just the next three or four days on the radio 4 web site

apropos de nuffinque

further symptoms of accelerated regression copied verbatim from the clinical notes ...

Breathless thoughts provoked by the excitement of an impending trip to Madrid and my dream of introducing a new dimension of transcendant spirituality in to the great game ... the magic sponge might become a relic ... the thrice-blessed universally-revered holy sponge, permanently floating in a silver bucket suspended over a holy well, to be carried in procession on match days by a team of hand-picked virgins ( or tv weather girls ? ) wearing translucent classical robes, chanting every step of the way from the bishop's chapel to the stadium, to the accompaniment of thumping drums and wailing flutes ... the water would, of course, be genuine certified holy water, not yer ordinary bottled stuff, and might be paid for by the donations of pious widows and spinsters of the parish ... in fact i see no reason why the sponge shouldn't be administered as a kind of unction by a priest, and/or by the mother superior of the nearest holy order, with the blessed hem of her robe rolled up and tucked into her formal suspender belt as she kneels to give succour to the distressed combatant, whilst singing nuns and choirboys encircle the injured player to protect his privacy and to soothe away his pain with a medieval psalm, or an uplifting medley from rogers and hammerstein’s sound of music ... we could even send on a military brass band to escort the bucket & lend further ceremonial dignity at this difficult moment ... and then, once the magic has taken effect, the star player could leap on to an ornate mobile pulpit, drawn to the centre of the pitch by a team of prancing white horses, grabbing the microphone to give up a suitable prayer of thanks for his deliverance, followed by a vote of gratitude to almost everyone present, and to the various sponsors, for their kindness and consideration ... except for the stone-faced blue-chinned piratically-cynical back four of the visiting team, of course ... i'm not sure if i want to raise the crowd to lord leighton's lofty ideal of elegant and fashionable piety ...











... or if we should give preferential sponge unction in the purely emotional sphere hinted at so eloquently in the hyper-spiritual imaginings of el greco

symptoms of accelerated regression ... wot i am reading this weekend

my mum loved the art of edward ardizzone, an illustrator who somehow understated his skills with a his loose penmanship, but never failed to fill his pictures with appropriately theatrical lighting and atmosphere, old-world romance, and vigourous body-language