Normally when I am drinking my morning coffee I like to have something sweet with it, toast with jam perhaps, or toast with honey. But sometimes I like to change things around and have a little toast with Vegemite as well, with the bitterness of the Vegemite complementing the bitterness of the coffee brilliantly.
There is no real point to this observation, though it is pleasant to talk about pleasant things, which is the point to my lack of point, at any rate.
On that point, the general order in which I have things on toast is highly important, I find. Whether to have toast with jam before or after toast with honey is one thing: I used to quite like to conclude affairs with toast with jam, since I consider jam to have a more satisfying complexity than honey: there's fruity sourness and bitterness in there as well as a rich sweetness. On the other hand, I've really begun to appreciate honey a lot more since keeping bees; its golden smoothness seeming to be emblematic of good fortune and luxury. No other condiment melds so well with melted butter, sinking right down into the pores of the toast. But then again, the plum jam we have at the moment is pretty ace.
I still like to have golden syrup on toast sometimes, but whether I have it before or after another slice of toast, it is often slightly disappointing: not quite enough sweetness to stand out against the saltiness in the bread. (Occasionally I even try treacle on toast; treacle really is pretty fantastic, rich and black and viscous, like the Thing from Outer Space. On your toast. And edible. It tastes pretty strange, though in a nice way.) Golden syrup, though, is fantastic on crumpets. It's best for store bought crumpets, although it's good on home made crumpets as well, although I find the very best thing for home made crumpets is honey.
Of course, all these condiments have to go with butter; there's no question about that. A little butter, spread on the fresh toast, straight from the toaster, and then left for a minute or two to melt and sink down into the toast and leave a glistening surface on which the condiment can be spread. The question of butter is another delicious subject which I will enter into sometime at tedious length, if you'd like, or even if you wouldn't like. Though of course there is always honey and cream. (Have you tried honey and cream? It's fantastic.)
Having continued to make my lack of a point for several pointless paragraphs, I have now got to the point where I will stop.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
A disquisition concerning rain, clouds, and grey things
For some reason, about this time of year, on train stations around Melbourne we start seeing ads for holidays in Brisbane. I say "for some reason" though of course I know the reason why: people don't like the cold and wind and rain and wet. People are perverse that way. I was standing on Reservoir Station just the other day glowering at one such advertisement showing people wearing customary "happy" grimaces on their faces, and not much else, in the ocean somewhere, with some smug slogan about "That's why we say/Give me Brisbane any day" hovering over the top. The strange thing was, it was a beautiful day; cool rain caressed my skin and the train platform glistened in the wet. There was a refreshing and crisp breeze coming from somewhere. Curlicues of clouds hung in the sky, mounting one on the other: you never quite realise how many lovely shades of grey there are until you see a bunch of clouds ornamenting the sky. The sight of these clouds louring over old early 20th century terraces and shop fronts was particularly attractive.
A guy called Lantern once said to me: "How could you not like Debussy? His favourite animals were cats. His favourite musical interval was the tritone. And his favourite colour was grey." That struck me as being a Great Truth at the time, and it's why I feel certain that Debussy would have loved winter, clouds, and the rain and wet, also. A sky is always interesting with a few clouds floating about in it. A city is interesting with a few clouds floating around in it as well: smog will do, but fog is even better. It adds just that little touch of adventure and mystery to your everyday life, making you feel like you might end up somewhere wholly unexpected (sometimes, you even do). Perhaps that's one reason why people started the industrial revolution: all those smokestacks and chimneys produce wonderful clouds.
Take a walk along a Melbourne street in the middle of winter or on a cold autumn day and you will discover another reason why these cold seasons are so nice: the whiff of wood smoke. We so rarely have an excuse to set a log fire roaring in Australia, and wood smoke has such a pleasant smell. There is a reason people use it to flavour their foods. Rain, also (though it is more pleasant being inside a house while it is raining) causes beautiful smells to rise in the air: the cool, earthy whiff just before rain comes; the satisfying smell of wet soil that has just drunk its fill; and the pungent fragrance of plant resins, eucalyptus and lemon verbena, that have come to the surface of the leaf or tree bark in the rain.
It all makes me wonder if there oughtn't to be an advertising campaign for winter, the rain and wet, and the colour grey. Something like a picture of an atmospheric, mossy building shrouded in some nice fog, with attractive people doing nice dances around it, and a slogan hovering over it:
Then again, I suppose that would attract entirely the wrong crowd of people.
A guy called Lantern once said to me: "How could you not like Debussy? His favourite animals were cats. His favourite musical interval was the tritone. And his favourite colour was grey." That struck me as being a Great Truth at the time, and it's why I feel certain that Debussy would have loved winter, clouds, and the rain and wet, also. A sky is always interesting with a few clouds floating about in it. A city is interesting with a few clouds floating around in it as well: smog will do, but fog is even better. It adds just that little touch of adventure and mystery to your everyday life, making you feel like you might end up somewhere wholly unexpected (sometimes, you even do). Perhaps that's one reason why people started the industrial revolution: all those smokestacks and chimneys produce wonderful clouds.
Take a walk along a Melbourne street in the middle of winter or on a cold autumn day and you will discover another reason why these cold seasons are so nice: the whiff of wood smoke. We so rarely have an excuse to set a log fire roaring in Australia, and wood smoke has such a pleasant smell. There is a reason people use it to flavour their foods. Rain, also (though it is more pleasant being inside a house while it is raining) causes beautiful smells to rise in the air: the cool, earthy whiff just before rain comes; the satisfying smell of wet soil that has just drunk its fill; and the pungent fragrance of plant resins, eucalyptus and lemon verbena, that have come to the surface of the leaf or tree bark in the rain.
It all makes me wonder if there oughtn't to be an advertising campaign for winter, the rain and wet, and the colour grey. Something like a picture of an atmospheric, mossy building shrouded in some nice fog, with attractive people doing nice dances around it, and a slogan hovering over it:
That's why we say
Give me rain and the colour grey.
Then again, I suppose that would attract entirely the wrong crowd of people.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Shrouded in fog and dust and smoke and mystery and shit
My brothers and I were walking down the street in Raymond Terrace. Euan wanted us all to see Godzilla. Lachlan, rather poetically, wanted to see a sunset. I wanted to lie down on the couch at Mum and Dad's house and scoff chocolates. "How about if you just go and see Godzilla on your own?" Lachlan suggested to Euan. "We can go down to the river and you can see it and report back to us" I helpfully put in. Naturally, we all ended up seeing Godzilla. Euan is good at winning debates like that, mostly by refusing to enter into them in the first place.
I don't really need to describe the plot of Godzilla to you because you'll pretty much know in advance anyway: gigantic prehistoric monster is awoken from his slumber by radiation, wreaks havoc on a city, the end. What's striking about this latest Hollywood adaptation is how bad they are at sticking to even this simple rule: there's a ridiculous 20-30 minutes of backstory before we even get a decent sight of a monster. Then for most of the rest of the film you don't even get a chance to have a decent gawp at the beasts (there are several), because they're shrouded in fog and dust and smoke and mystery and shit, even though there's no mystery really, because when you walk into a Godzilla film, how can you not know that you're in for a few hours of a gigantic monster trashing a city?
But anyway, the bit where Godzilla wins the battle by breathing fire down another monster's mouth was kind of good. But on the whole, it was a bit of a disappointing monster flick. Definitely not as good as a sunset in all its beautiful transience, or lying on a couch scoffing chocolates in all their beautiful transience. I think I prefer Blue Oyster Cult's version:
PS I just realised this blog post might contain spoilers. Spoiler! Gigantic monster trashes a city the end!
I don't really need to describe the plot of Godzilla to you because you'll pretty much know in advance anyway: gigantic prehistoric monster is awoken from his slumber by radiation, wreaks havoc on a city, the end. What's striking about this latest Hollywood adaptation is how bad they are at sticking to even this simple rule: there's a ridiculous 20-30 minutes of backstory before we even get a decent sight of a monster. Then for most of the rest of the film you don't even get a chance to have a decent gawp at the beasts (there are several), because they're shrouded in fog and dust and smoke and mystery and shit, even though there's no mystery really, because when you walk into a Godzilla film, how can you not know that you're in for a few hours of a gigantic monster trashing a city?
But anyway, the bit where Godzilla wins the battle by breathing fire down another monster's mouth was kind of good. But on the whole, it was a bit of a disappointing monster flick. Definitely not as good as a sunset in all its beautiful transience, or lying on a couch scoffing chocolates in all their beautiful transience. I think I prefer Blue Oyster Cult's version:
PS I just realised this blog post might contain spoilers. Spoiler! Gigantic monster trashes a city the end!
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Living down to expectorations
I'm in Newcastle again (what? why?) at my parents and have had the chance to read over once again that fine work, B J Ratcliffe's and Sir Holward Elphinstone's English-Swahili Phrase Book. You might be wondering why my parents come to be in possession of an English-Swahili Phrase Book, but the answer is simple: I bought it at a school fair once as a joke present at a school fete for Mum.
Part of the fun of reading any such phrase book, of course, is to find ridiculously specific phrases like the Monty Python classic, "My hovercraft is full of eels", and there are a few like that in here: "I want also two cucumbers for afternoon tea", "I want you to bring four sheeps' tongues". But the really odd thing about this phrase book is just what phrases it assumes will be useful; almost all are orders of one sort or another. Look at the beginning to Chapter III, The House:
I want a good house-boy
One who knows house-work
One who has good manners
Have you a registration certificate?
Soon the bearer of the phrasebook is ordering his house-boy:
Do not leave the house without permission
Come and ask if you want to go out
I especially like the opening question in the last chapter, Chapter VIII, Sickness:
What is the matter with you?
An exceedingly useful phrase that, not to mention
Do not expectorate about here
There's something in that for all of us.
Part of the fun of reading any such phrase book, of course, is to find ridiculously specific phrases like the Monty Python classic, "My hovercraft is full of eels", and there are a few like that in here: "I want also two cucumbers for afternoon tea", "I want you to bring four sheeps' tongues". But the really odd thing about this phrase book is just what phrases it assumes will be useful; almost all are orders of one sort or another. Look at the beginning to Chapter III, The House:
I want a good house-boy
One who knows house-work
One who has good manners
Have you a registration certificate?
Soon the bearer of the phrasebook is ordering his house-boy:
Do not leave the house without permission
Come and ask if you want to go out
I especially like the opening question in the last chapter, Chapter VIII, Sickness:
What is the matter with you?
An exceedingly useful phrase that, not to mention
Do not expectorate about here
There's something in that for all of us.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
I think these things so you don't have to
If the proverbial brain surgeon met the mythical rocket science at a party, what if they swapped jobs for a while so that the brain surgeon did brain surgery on a rocket while the rocket scientist practised rocket science on somebody's brain? Hadn't thought of that, had you? (If you had thought of that, shoosh!)
Memories! I remember what it was like to have those!
Got a new memory stick because I can't remember where I left my old memory stick.
Subsequently spent hours searching around my house for my new memory stick because I can't remember where I left my new memory stick either.
I need a memory stick for my memory of where I put my memory sticks. Or maybe just a memory.
Subsequently spent hours searching around my house for my new memory stick because I can't remember where I left my new memory stick either.
I need a memory stick for my memory of where I put my memory sticks. Or maybe just a memory.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Sneezy does it
Sneezing is great, isn't it? Admittedly when you've just put a bee suit on and have opened up the beehive and angry bees are flying everywhere and you have a knife and a hive tool ready to take out frames, then might not be the best time to get something caught in your nose to start you sneezing, though that in itself might be preferable to being a brain surgeon in the middle of their craft caught with a sudden dose of sneezes. (Though has that ever happened? What do brain surgeons do in these circumstances?)
Even so, sneezing is awesome! A small volcano explosion in your own head. I like to give myself over entirely to the sneeze, to luxuriate in it, to be teased by the tingling anticipation before sneezing as loudly as I possibly can, throwing my head into it. The Baron sneezed just then and I have to admit I was a little jealous. I especially like it when a whole row of sneezes happen, one after another. Anytime to sneeze is a good time, but one especially good time might be in an important workplace meeting, just when the head of the company is getting up and waving his or her arms around and pointing at an important graph that no-one, including themselves, understands; if possible, you should sneeze on these occasions, a small volley of nasal eruptions to entirely block out their pointless speech.
It occurred to me the other day that sneezing is so wonderful that there should be a small daily apparatus devoted to them. We should have sneezing jackets, and sneezing rooms, and most especially sneezing chairs - a voluminous brocaded armchair, with antimacassar. Of course, it would be called a Sneezy Chair.
But I suppose no-one likes other people having that amount of pleasure. The last time they did stuff like that, with smoking, folks got incredibly jealous, and tried to ban it. It just goes to show what sort of a rotten, wicked world we live in.
Even so, sneezing is awesome! A small volcano explosion in your own head. I like to give myself over entirely to the sneeze, to luxuriate in it, to be teased by the tingling anticipation before sneezing as loudly as I possibly can, throwing my head into it. The Baron sneezed just then and I have to admit I was a little jealous. I especially like it when a whole row of sneezes happen, one after another. Anytime to sneeze is a good time, but one especially good time might be in an important workplace meeting, just when the head of the company is getting up and waving his or her arms around and pointing at an important graph that no-one, including themselves, understands; if possible, you should sneeze on these occasions, a small volley of nasal eruptions to entirely block out their pointless speech.
It occurred to me the other day that sneezing is so wonderful that there should be a small daily apparatus devoted to them. We should have sneezing jackets, and sneezing rooms, and most especially sneezing chairs - a voluminous brocaded armchair, with antimacassar. Of course, it would be called a Sneezy Chair.
But I suppose no-one likes other people having that amount of pleasure. The last time they did stuff like that, with smoking, folks got incredibly jealous, and tried to ban it. It just goes to show what sort of a rotten, wicked world we live in.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Definitely not
(How did this blog post come about, I hear you cry? I'll tell you. It's because of the brutally efficient IT system we have here at home:
TIM: Hey, how do I get the strike through to operate in Word?
BARON: I know how to do it on mine, but not on yours, your version of Word is all.... weird.
TIM: Ooh, idea! You could do it in your Word and send it through to me!
BARON: Why don't I just do it in my email? I can do it in my email too!
TIM: Yes! I'll watch!
BARON: Hang on.... hang on, I've got an even better idea. Why don't you do it on blogger and just cut and paste?
TIM: (Crestfallen) Yes you are absolutely right. Thanks.
Got a problem? Just call us. We'll help.)
Sunday, May 11, 2014
A poem about Gaia
Gaia, Earth Mother
(Bountiful, radiant,
Burgeoning, beautiful)
Walks to the shops.
Behind her spring daisies,
Birds singing and bunnies,
Rainbows and kittens,
And non-GM crops.
Her phone rings. Oh bugger.
Her old 90s boyfriend,
Captain Planet, the arsehole.
That does it, she thinks, I'm calling the cops.
As Mother-of-all,
Gaia's feeling her age,
A zillion year's old,
Not counting today.
And Nature, her kid?
Hardly bothers to call
Smokes far too much pot,
And is probably gay.
(Bountiful, radiant,
Burgeoning, beautiful)
Walks to the shops.
Behind her spring daisies,
Birds singing and bunnies,
Rainbows and kittens,
And non-GM crops.
Her phone rings. Oh bugger.
Her old 90s boyfriend,
Captain Planet, the arsehole.
That does it, she thinks, I'm calling the cops.
As Mother-of-all,
Gaia's feeling her age,
A zillion year's old,
Not counting today.
And Nature, her kid?
Hardly bothers to call
Smokes far too much pot,
And is probably gay.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
If you haven't pressed apple cider in your underpants you haven't lived
We made cider. Windfall apples, picked from all over Bright and Wandiligong when we visited during Easter, combined with Granny Smiths and Pink Ladies from our own trees, formed the base. We came back to our house with boxes of the stuff, which we poured out onto the lounge room floor, making them go every which way and get under the table and under cats' and chickens' and visitors' feet while they mellowed (read: a good quarter of them went mouldy and the other three quarters went from looking rather dubious to looking exceedingly dubious over the course of a week or so). This mellowing is an extremely important part of the process, as all good cider makers will tell you. Otherwise, there won't be any opportunity for one person to say, "when are you going to make cider?" and the other person to say, "I can't make cider yet, the apples are mellowing!" and the first person to say "if they were any more mellow they'd be rotten" and the other person to say "don't be ridiculous!", and so on.
To make cider, you're going to need a mill to load the apples into and crush them into chunks, and a press to squash the juice out of those chunks, and a partner to whinge at every time something gets stuck and won't press or squash any further. Well, no, you don't really need all those things, but it really is incredibly therapeutic to have someone to moan at when things look like they're going wrong. Last year we didn't have a mill and we ended up just breaking up the apples into a pulp in the blender before squeezing the juice out of them in the press, which is just about as much fun and lasts even longer than breaking up the apples into a pulp in the blender before squeezing the juice out of them in the press sounds.
So, in full on industrial mode this year, we piled all the apples into our freshly bought mill. I ended up with a gigantic pot full of apple chunks, which I took scoops out of and loaded into the press. While I was in the middle of crushing one bunch of apple chunks, Pamela the Chook happened to wander through the house, as she likes to do from time to time. As soon as she saw the pot full of apple chunks, she made an incredibly excited cluck, as if to say: "I can't believe my luck!" She was in the middle of ogling the pot up when I and a tasty looking pot of yoghurt intervened.
Crushing all those apples is hot work. I took my jumper off and rolled up my sleeves and then rolled down my sleeves again and took off my shirt and wiped a calloused hand over my shining brow as the relentless sun beat down on the fields full of toil-weary peasants and saw, far off, in the hills, a vision of Julie Andrews singing and dancing and then knew I was hallucinating again. But, you know, it is pretty hard work. And if you haven't pressed apple cider in your underpants you haven't lived (though, on the plus side, you may not need to get a new pair of underpants after all).
At the end of all that - the collecting boxes of apples, the milling, the crushing, the collecting of the juice - I ended up with.... about four litres of juice.
FOUR LITRES!
Yeah, but when we taste our scrumpy when it's finished fermenting and been bottled and aged it will be worth it. In another ten months or so....
To make cider, you're going to need a mill to load the apples into and crush them into chunks, and a press to squash the juice out of those chunks, and a partner to whinge at every time something gets stuck and won't press or squash any further. Well, no, you don't really need all those things, but it really is incredibly therapeutic to have someone to moan at when things look like they're going wrong. Last year we didn't have a mill and we ended up just breaking up the apples into a pulp in the blender before squeezing the juice out of them in the press, which is just about as much fun and lasts even longer than breaking up the apples into a pulp in the blender before squeezing the juice out of them in the press sounds.
So, in full on industrial mode this year, we piled all the apples into our freshly bought mill. I ended up with a gigantic pot full of apple chunks, which I took scoops out of and loaded into the press. While I was in the middle of crushing one bunch of apple chunks, Pamela the Chook happened to wander through the house, as she likes to do from time to time. As soon as she saw the pot full of apple chunks, she made an incredibly excited cluck, as if to say: "I can't believe my luck!" She was in the middle of ogling the pot up when I and a tasty looking pot of yoghurt intervened.
Crushing all those apples is hot work. I took my jumper off and rolled up my sleeves and then rolled down my sleeves again and took off my shirt and wiped a calloused hand over my shining brow as the relentless sun beat down on the fields full of toil-weary peasants and saw, far off, in the hills, a vision of Julie Andrews singing and dancing and then knew I was hallucinating again. But, you know, it is pretty hard work. And if you haven't pressed apple cider in your underpants you haven't lived (though, on the plus side, you may not need to get a new pair of underpants after all).
At the end of all that - the collecting boxes of apples, the milling, the crushing, the collecting of the juice - I ended up with.... about four litres of juice.
FOUR LITRES!
Yeah, but when we taste our scrumpy when it's finished fermenting and been bottled and aged it will be worth it. In another ten months or so....
Friday, May 02, 2014
Education time! Tannins - what even are they?
For today's exercise in raising consciousness, attaining a higher
state of being, and becoming one with the universal all, I thought I'd
find out a little bit about tannins, a frequent ingredient in wine,
cider, and sometimes beer . It's about time really because I've often
advised others starting out in cider or meads "you'll need to get
tannins in that" or "tannins will provide some balance". Without ever
really knowing 100 per cent what the damn things are.
So, I took myself off to that fount of all wisdom and knowledge and benevolence, Wikipedia. It has this to say:
Righto! So that clears that up then! Now that I know that, I just need to find out what "polyphenolic compounds", "proteins", "amino acids", "hydroxyls", "carboxyls" and "strong complexes with various macromolecules" are. Actually, I didn't have time to look all that up, but I did look up what seemed to me to be the most important terms: "polyphenolic"...
Well wank you very much, Dikypedia. So a phenol is....
A carboxyl.... well, we get redirected here:
A hydroxyl:
Er.... and I'm not even drunk.
And as for "strong complexes with various macromolecules", I'm not even going to go there, as I'm a happily married man.
So there you go folks. That's what tannins are. So know that I know what they are, I still don't know what they are.
*Fun party trick: try reciting all of that while drunk.
So, I took myself off to that fount of all wisdom and knowledge and benevolence, Wikipedia. It has this to say:
A tannin ... is an astringent, bitter plant polyphenolic compound that binds to and precipitates proteins and various other organic compounds including amino acids and alkaloids.
The term tannin (from tanna, an Old High German word for oak or fir tree, as in Tannenbaum) refers to the use of wood tannins from oak in tanning animal hides into leather; hence the words "tan" and "tanning" for the treatment of leather. However, the term "tannin" by extension is widely applied to any large polyphenolic compound containing sufficient hydroxyls and other suitable groups (such as carboxyls) to form strong complexes with various macromolecules.*
Righto! So that clears that up then! Now that I know that, I just need to find out what "polyphenolic compounds", "proteins", "amino acids", "hydroxyls", "carboxyls" and "strong complexes with various macromolecules" are. Actually, I didn't have time to look all that up, but I did look up what seemed to me to be the most important terms: "polyphenolic"...
Polyphenols.... a structural class of... organic chemicals.... of large multiples of phenol structural units.
Well wank you very much, Dikypedia. So a phenol is....
Phenol, also known as carbolic acid, is an aromatic organic compound with the molecular formula C6H5OH.
A carboxyl.... well, we get redirected here:
A carboxylic acid /ˌkɑrbɒkˈsɪlɪk/ is an organic compound that contains a carboxyl group (CO2H).
A hydroxyl:
A hydroxyl is a chemical functional group containing an oxygen atom connected by a covalent bond to a hydrogen atom, a pairing that can be simply understood as a substructure of the water molecule.
Er.... and I'm not even drunk.
And as for "strong complexes with various macromolecules", I'm not even going to go there, as I'm a happily married man.
So there you go folks. That's what tannins are. So know that I know what they are, I still don't know what they are.
*Fun party trick: try reciting all of that while drunk.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Away with the fairies
"So, to summarise," I typed on the piece of work software I use to keep in touch with other people who work at the place I work while actually staying at home, to another worker, "When my status is 'away', I'm not actually 'away'. Unless I actually am 'away'."
Which would have been all very funny and witty if, by the time I actually started typing that, my fellow worker had not quietly 'gone offline'.
It's enough to make me want to set by status to 'away'.
Which would have been all very funny and witty if, by the time I actually started typing that, my fellow worker had not quietly 'gone offline'.
It's enough to make me want to set by status to 'away'.
Great steaming pile
A great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit sits in our driveway. This great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit has been sitting in our driveway for several days, ever since the friendly man in the truck with the pink shovel arrived last week and asked where I would like him to put it. I told him to arrange it neatly on the front driveway, though this was a joke, because really, who wants a great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit to be arranged neatly? It's not neatness we're after when we order a great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit: it's mess, wonderful mess, chaos, disorder, slopping in every direction and stinking up our front driveway.
Mess may look somewhat incongruous, sitting in a glorious, steaming pile on the front driveway of a suburban house - what, with its placid concrete, its bland right angles, its regulated nature strip - but what could be better suited for such a location than mess? Plants have no such compunctions; they thrive on, live in mess, they soak up the steaming and the stink and the shit, they writhe around in it, ardent voluptuaries of great, glorious steaming piles of shit. They love it.
Animals, no less: within hours of said mountain of dung awesomely manifesting itself on our front driveway, both of our cats had surmounted its disgusting peaks and luxuriously rolled in it, or, alternatively, supplemented this fecund, fertile foment of crapulosity with their own humble leavenings.
Neighbours, however, may need some education before they fully appreciate the significance of this great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit.
Mess may look somewhat incongruous, sitting in a glorious, steaming pile on the front driveway of a suburban house - what, with its placid concrete, its bland right angles, its regulated nature strip - but what could be better suited for such a location than mess? Plants have no such compunctions; they thrive on, live in mess, they soak up the steaming and the stink and the shit, they writhe around in it, ardent voluptuaries of great, glorious steaming piles of shit. They love it.
Animals, no less: within hours of said mountain of dung awesomely manifesting itself on our front driveway, both of our cats had surmounted its disgusting peaks and luxuriously rolled in it, or, alternatively, supplemented this fecund, fertile foment of crapulosity with their own humble leavenings.
Neighbours, however, may need some education before they fully appreciate the significance of this great, glorious, steaming pile of elephant shit.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Zonkey poem
A zonkey, a rare cross between a zebra and a donkey, has been born at a zoo in northern Mexico. - The Telegraph, Zonkey born in a zoo in Mexico
When a zebra has some hanky panky with a funky donkey
Then, birds and bees, and A plus B and - HEY PRESTO! - zonkey!
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Blue clothing and smiles
A lady came round to our house to talk about investment, which is to say after her first two words, 'Well, the....', I had no idea what she was talking about. Occasionally Bea the cat walked in and out of the house and I began to wish she'd bring in a mouse or a sparrow to liven up proceedings. I looked in a glazed fashion at the succession of stock photographs flickering by on her laptop, mostly of couples wearing blue clothing and smiles. I became fascinated in these, couldn't notice anything else, started to wonder if the Baron and I should be posing like this.
At one point she talked about a 'growth matrix', and my ears really perked up. Could we have that great mythical beast, a growth profit matrix, in our own house? Eventually another one came on the screen and I almost felt like cheering. Another page in her computer seemed to simply consist of a circular red band with a word in the middle. She pressed a button and another red band appeared inside the first one, and a different word replaced the original one. I began to feel like she was giving us an ad for Target by mistake.
Why is it that these talks invariably make me look in all directions but the one I am supposed to be looking at and start obsessing about the furniture, about how pretty the mountains look on the graph, about the obscure choreography of models in stock photographs? I suppose this is a failing in me, this inability to fully appreciate portfolios, or to use phrases like 'going forward', 'fully across', 'grasping the opportunity'.
Finally the lady came to her grand conclusion, which of course I hardly noticed because I wasn't even sure what she was grandly concluding. She turned her computer off. She put it in her bag. She got ready to go. "Ooh, ooh, ooh," I cried. "Do we get a booklet?" Everyone gives you booklets. The Mormons even give you booklets; I felt sure she would have one as well. She gave us a comfortable, reassuring booklet with blue cardboard covers, rather like the comfortable, reassuring booklet with blue cardboard covers I got from the old place of employ when they made us all redundant. Ah, that's nice. We thanked the lady for her time and apologised that we couldn't do business with her and offered her dinner, which she refused, and sent her on her way.
I'm pretty sure I practiced my stock photograph posing in my sleep though.
At one point she talked about a 'growth matrix', and my ears really perked up. Could we have that great mythical beast, a growth profit matrix, in our own house? Eventually another one came on the screen and I almost felt like cheering. Another page in her computer seemed to simply consist of a circular red band with a word in the middle. She pressed a button and another red band appeared inside the first one, and a different word replaced the original one. I began to feel like she was giving us an ad for Target by mistake.
Why is it that these talks invariably make me look in all directions but the one I am supposed to be looking at and start obsessing about the furniture, about how pretty the mountains look on the graph, about the obscure choreography of models in stock photographs? I suppose this is a failing in me, this inability to fully appreciate portfolios, or to use phrases like 'going forward', 'fully across', 'grasping the opportunity'.
Finally the lady came to her grand conclusion, which of course I hardly noticed because I wasn't even sure what she was grandly concluding. She turned her computer off. She put it in her bag. She got ready to go. "Ooh, ooh, ooh," I cried. "Do we get a booklet?" Everyone gives you booklets. The Mormons even give you booklets; I felt sure she would have one as well. She gave us a comfortable, reassuring booklet with blue cardboard covers, rather like the comfortable, reassuring booklet with blue cardboard covers I got from the old place of employ when they made us all redundant. Ah, that's nice. We thanked the lady for her time and apologised that we couldn't do business with her and offered her dinner, which she refused, and sent her on her way.
I'm pretty sure I practiced my stock photograph posing in my sleep though.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
The education of Pamela
Advocates of gradual political change would do well to study the glorious reign of Bella the Fox Terrier over the Train family affections in the later years of the 20th century. "Right", said Mum. "We have a dog, but she's not allowed inside. Dogs are outside creatures". A few months later, the rules seemed to have changed. "Okay," said Mum. "She's allowed in the laundry but not anywhere else in the house, her fur will get all over the place". Winter arrived a while after, and it's a well known fact that in winter, it is compulsory for dogs to lie in front of fireplaces and/or heaters. "Fine", said Mum. "She's allowed inside, but not into the bedrooms". Suffice to say that in short order, Bella had not only found her way into the bedrooms and onto the bed but also in the bed, which was naturally right and proper and soon became the established way of things.
As it turns out, the Baron and I have been enjoying a similar education with Pamela the chicken. Of course, chickens are outside creatures; naturally we shouldn't let them too near our food; and so on and so forth. Which is why I am currently sitting on the bed typing this with Pamela the chicken a few short metres away in the laundry, her head tucked up in her feathers, safe from everything except perhaps the occasional house fox (and the less said of house foxes the better).
Naturally when we set off to Bright we took Pamela with us, and while the other chickens enjoyed the best of the Baron's ancestral lands below, Pamela mostly hung out upstairs with the Baron and my mother-in-law and myself, watching football, playing scrabble* and eating roast lamb (which she pronounces exceedingly good). She has gone to sleep on the occasional shoulder, perched on arms and laps and even the occasional foot. And, while occasionally venturing outside to take a turn about the gardens herself, she mostly stayed indoors, so that once, as I held the door open, both cat and chicken leisurely wandered inside after me, making me feel rather like Saint Francis**.
Pamela is soon to conclude her sojourn with the Baron and myself and lead a life of active retirement at the place of K, a few kilometres away from us in Heidleberg. I'm sure K has got all sorts of jolly adventures for Pamela, including regular meals of roast lamb, cheese curds, and the occasional nap on the shoulders. She's a chicken of very refined tastes, after all.
*Here's a tip for playing scrabble with chickens: don't. They cheat by trying to eat the tiles.
** The similarity doesn't go very far, considering my own proclivity for roast lamb.
As it turns out, the Baron and I have been enjoying a similar education with Pamela the chicken. Of course, chickens are outside creatures; naturally we shouldn't let them too near our food; and so on and so forth. Which is why I am currently sitting on the bed typing this with Pamela the chicken a few short metres away in the laundry, her head tucked up in her feathers, safe from everything except perhaps the occasional house fox (and the less said of house foxes the better).
Naturally when we set off to Bright we took Pamela with us, and while the other chickens enjoyed the best of the Baron's ancestral lands below, Pamela mostly hung out upstairs with the Baron and my mother-in-law and myself, watching football, playing scrabble* and eating roast lamb (which she pronounces exceedingly good). She has gone to sleep on the occasional shoulder, perched on arms and laps and even the occasional foot. And, while occasionally venturing outside to take a turn about the gardens herself, she mostly stayed indoors, so that once, as I held the door open, both cat and chicken leisurely wandered inside after me, making me feel rather like Saint Francis**.
Pamela is soon to conclude her sojourn with the Baron and myself and lead a life of active retirement at the place of K, a few kilometres away from us in Heidleberg. I'm sure K has got all sorts of jolly adventures for Pamela, including regular meals of roast lamb, cheese curds, and the occasional nap on the shoulders. She's a chicken of very refined tastes, after all.
*Here's a tip for playing scrabble with chickens: don't. They cheat by trying to eat the tiles.
** The similarity doesn't go very far, considering my own proclivity for roast lamb.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Deceptive derrieres
Late night fart excuse:
Him: "Not me". Her: "Me either".
False bottom again.
This Easter I have mostly been spending my time writing poems about false bottoms.
He went
To sit down
But his bottom
Was false.
Actually it's a concept from brewing, a false bottom can be used to drain the beer wort from the cracked grains once you get sugar out.
Don't trust him, girls!
He bared his bum to someone else!
It's a false bottom.
I didn't say the poems were any good.
False bottom: for when
JLo's famous behind just
Isn't good enough.
Him: "Not me". Her: "Me either".
False bottom again.
This Easter I have mostly been spending my time writing poems about false bottoms.
He went
To sit down
But his bottom
Was false.
Actually it's a concept from brewing, a false bottom can be used to drain the beer wort from the cracked grains once you get sugar out.
Don't trust him, girls!
He bared his bum to someone else!
It's a false bottom.
I didn't say the poems were any good.
False bottom: for when
JLo's famous behind just
Isn't good enough.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Ask the Easter Bunny!
Got problems? Sure you do! Just tell them to our guest psychologist, the Easter Bunny, and he'll give you much-needed advice for this complicated modern world!
Dear Easter Bunny,
I would like to get my Mummy a present to show her how much I love and appreciate her this Easter. What do you think it should be?
Hester, age 6.
Dear Hester,
Hey, I've got this great idea. Why not give her some Easter Eggs? Yum!
EB
Dear Easter Bunny,
I have severe dietary problems and the doctor says if I don't give up sugar I might die. What do I do?
Arthur, age 90
Dear Arthur,
Nothing a few chocolate easter eggs won't fix - here, have some now! Have some more!
EB
Dear Easter Bunny,
I have no idea what I am going to do with my life! I have just left uni and split up with my boyfriend and I am not sure I can take it anymore! Help me, it feels like everything is crumbling around me!
Linda, age 23
Dear Linda,
Okay, I'm thinking something round, but not completely round. A bit ovular, actually. It's covered in colourful foil, and it's made out of chocolate and extremely tasty. It's - an Easter Egg! Here, have ten! No, make that twenty!
With loving kindness,
EB
Dear Easter Bunny,
What do we do about the complicated military situation in the Ukraine?
Tony, age 56
Dear Tony,
Sometimes the most complicated solutions require the simplest answers. Have you tried Easter eggs?
EB
Dear Easter Bunny,
What should I go for - plain milk chocolate eggs, or fancy Violet Crumble and chocolate eggs?
John, age 30
Dear John,
What am I, a psychologist?
EB
I would like to get my Mummy a present to show her how much I love and appreciate her this Easter. What do you think it should be?
Hester, age 6.
Dear Hester,
Hey, I've got this great idea. Why not give her some Easter Eggs? Yum!
EB
***
Dear Easter Bunny,
I have severe dietary problems and the doctor says if I don't give up sugar I might die. What do I do?
Arthur, age 90
Dear Arthur,
Nothing a few chocolate easter eggs won't fix - here, have some now! Have some more!
EB
***
Dear Easter Bunny,
I have no idea what I am going to do with my life! I have just left uni and split up with my boyfriend and I am not sure I can take it anymore! Help me, it feels like everything is crumbling around me!
Linda, age 23
Dear Linda,
Okay, I'm thinking something round, but not completely round. A bit ovular, actually. It's covered in colourful foil, and it's made out of chocolate and extremely tasty. It's - an Easter Egg! Here, have ten! No, make that twenty!
With loving kindness,
EB
***
What do we do about the complicated military situation in the Ukraine?
Tony, age 56
Dear Tony,
Sometimes the most complicated solutions require the simplest answers. Have you tried Easter eggs?
EB
***
Dear Easter Bunny,
What should I go for - plain milk chocolate eggs, or fancy Violet Crumble and chocolate eggs?
John, age 30
Dear John,
What am I, a psychologist?
EB
Wednesday, April 09, 2014
Neigh, I say!
Those frames for drying clothes indoors are interesting, aren't they? The Baron calls them "the clothes horse". I call them "the vine". "Where's the vine?" I say. "No-one ever calls them the vine", says the Baron, though they totally do because I totally just did. "It doesn't look anything like a vine". "It doesn't look anything like a horse" I reply. "It looks like a clothes horse" she retorts. "Or a clothes vine" is my swift come back. Why can't I call them a vine, after all? It's a perfectly good metaphor. Thank you for your support.
Anyway, that's not what I'm here to talk about today. What I'm here to talk about is this: why do we have a greeting for the morning and night - "good morning", "good night" - and yet no greeting for when we go to the toilet? "Happy wees!" "Magnificient motions to you!" Something should be done about this. I'll write to Mr Abbott this minute.
Thank you for sharing this moment in the mind of a Tim.
Anyway, that's not what I'm here to talk about today. What I'm here to talk about is this: why do we have a greeting for the morning and night - "good morning", "good night" - and yet no greeting for when we go to the toilet? "Happy wees!" "Magnificient motions to you!" Something should be done about this. I'll write to Mr Abbott this minute.
Thank you for sharing this moment in the mind of a Tim.
Tuesday, April 08, 2014
Thing for reasons of thing
No need to adjust your channel. Carry on spending your time wisely and valuably.
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