Box sets

Ahhh, winter: log fires, soup, hot water bottles and  . . . box-sets - mostly Nordic Noir at the present time. Sad but true; they see us through the long winter nights. Why we both want to sit and look at grim, pale landscapes and discoveries of grizzled corpses, etc, is a bit of a mystery, but the urge seems to persist.
This is the best yet: The Bridge - to my mind anyway. We're way behind most people and I think there's another series with different actors now. I would be unable to watch it however as this cast are supremely brilliant.
Take a  robotic and obviously mentally damaged, genius woman detective, and a warm, troubled, over-emotional man detective and throw them together over a murder mystery planted exactly between Denmark and Sweden on the magnificent bridge connecting the two countries; throw in a twisting demonic plot, cold designer houses, bleak cityscapes and a good splash of black humour and you have something utterly memorable.
Here's a clip of 'Saga' engaging 'Martin' whether he likes it or not on the subject of his sex life; something she has been reading up on in 'self-improvement' books in order to make sense of the mysterious emotional world most other people inhabit. I can't remember where the scene is from in the series, but they're probably on the way to investigate some tortured body in an icy, grey empty warehouse on the edge of the icy, grey nordic sea.

Stove plant.

I was reading the other day about Bougainvillea plants. In parts of America where it was too cold to leave them outside, as it is here, they would be brought in their pots and put near the stove to winter.
What it didn't say was how they are very useful for drying your underwear on if you don't possess a tumble dryer.
Yes, I have slight cabin fever due to huge snow coverage. We did however make it down to the square to see the Carnaval with it's very small but cheery crowd of onlookers. One of the trumpet players said they did the 10.pm sortie yesterday and it was minus six. Urgg, frostbite in all extremities I would imagine.

Wot . . . not again

I had this horrible dream last night, in which I opened the shutters expecting bright, spring sunshine, twittering birds and unfurling almond blossom; instead, there was a boring blanket of whiteness on everything.
Birds sat with drooping feathers, their nest plans dispersed, the silence only broken by the distant thud of cars sliding into street furniture.
Anyway, must get dressed, and open the shutters, it must be getting quite warm out there by now.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.

Mark did an excellent sound installation in Garth's 'cuve' (wine vat) for our art bazarre. A weird and slightly drunken mix of different versions of the above song. Bing, Fred, Elvis, Vera Lynn, etc, confetti snow, soft lighting and a glokonspiel (no idea of the spelling) for people to play along to the tune as it slid in and out of various keys. Unfortunately I forgot the camera so couldn't film it . . . so here is our road looking very festive.

Thanks Garth for hosting the event — lovely food, wine, and brilliant art by all concerned.

Thanks Emma for giving us prunes covered in dark chocolate . . . could be the most delicious things in the world.