A tale of three toasters

For about ten years we have shared various abodes with a 1960s Japanese toaster that I acquired from Le Bon Coin - incredibly useful recycling site from which we buy just about everything other than food. 

The toaster has recently become a little surreal in its toasting, carbonising the odd corner, small bits of metal becoming loose; generally a geriatric toaster but still doing its job. I like the simplicity of it - the clicky clockwork wheel which counts down the toasting time, its smart chrome and teal blue livery, solid; and it's called Tornado. Interesting. Not sure if the 60s Japanese design team/marketing outfit thought it through very thoroughly, Sunrise, perhaps, or Summer Breeze Rippled Corn Field - bit clunky, but something evoking bread, breakfast, etc. Or maybe in Japan toast is only eaten in fear as severe weather conditions loom.

For some reason it was agreed in our household that perhaps it was time to update the bread grilling experience, and maybe buy A New Toaster! What?? NEW? Maybe it was the fact that we had actually acquired a new electric kettle a few months back after genning up on the most fuel efficient ones, the gas stove and old stainless steel kettle situation not being ideal . . .

I relegated - a tad tearfully - the old toaster to the dump pile, and Mark enthusiastically unwrapped and installed the new 'vintage' Russell Hobbs, cream and chrome (plastic) interloper. We tested it over a couple of breakfasts all arriving to the same conclusion: it warmed the bread efficiently, but actual toasting . . . nope. Even on the max setting. Maybe it was faulty; the one that had escaped the no-doubt rigorous testing stages in whatever Chinese factory it had been expelled from. Mark repackaged it and off it went to hopefully not join instant landfill via Uncle Amazon. We perused other models after not finding anything suitably 'vintage' on the bon coin other than SMEG which hold their scary price very well on the second hand market. 

The second cream and chrome toaster arrived - a little more like a 50s car, rounded, more knobs, dials and even a little red light to indicate ON. But, the same issue: light warming of the bread, nothing more. Ezra pointed out that the electric elements are spaced much further apart than those of the Tornado. To accommodate fatter slices of bread, or perhaps the machines are calibrated to white flabby bread only, not home made rustic slabs; or maybe it's some paranoid decree over heat levels to stop people burning toast, setting fire to themselves, the house or neighbourhood.

The new model was re-packed and sent back, and the Tornado reinstalled after a major clean of its real metal and chrome.

The Tornado

I've noted recently the rise of 'repair cafés'. What a great idea. I'd love to know that I could actually extend the life of one of our mouldering household appliances when their time would normally be deemed to be up.

                                                     Think I'd rather like this fancy 20s one...

London wanderings, Number . . . I've forgotten.

There have been many recorded on this blog, and here's one from this June. At the end of a round UK trip of a couple of weeks visiting lovely friends and family I rounded it off with a three night stop in my home city, and the best B and B I can honestly remember - an elegant semi in south London stuffed with art, lovely objects, incredible garden, and run by marvellous hosts.

I'm currently working on paintings based on sketches in London - mainly from train windows, and so now how have a good stock built up, mainly from around Greenwich, east London and Highgate - the areas I was doing most of my wanderings, as ever exploring and marvelling over how many undiscovered-by-me places this fascinating city holds even after living there for years, and all the trips since. 

                                    Wig world and carpet corner - new to me bits of South and North London

Lewisham

Greenwich - somewhat different skyline from when I last visited about 30 years ago

Finds from Thames mud near London Bridge

Any problem solved . . . including removal of evil spirits

I would have brought one back . . . just a tad too heavy

but can wear tuxedos?

A very scary clothes shop somewhere on the Strand - I think

The Golden Hind - near Borough Market

 

I enjoyed a gawp-trip into Selfridges

The stupidest bag - ever (reduced to 690 quid )

The ugliest and most expensive training shoe (s) - presume you get two for over 1,000 pounds

The most ludicrous food product - the smallest gold tin of caviar, 900 quid

The most bemused people - other than me - a group of Tibetan monks who had been 'let out' for a day, according their diminutive female minder, from somewhere in Woking - not an average Best Western I imagine

People who should be celebrated nationally

I'll do a long post on Jean-Paul one day soon but I just loved this photo of him washing his just-picked fennel. He's our local producer of beautiful organic vegetables, largely unsupported by the government, and surrounded by industrial farming which benefits in all ways from being supported by said government.

He works tirelessly, never takes a holiday - difficult when he's the one overseeing his non-intensive, biodiverse, and lovingly cared-for vegetable enterprise. Often when I go to get our veg it's an interesting process of having to find him, and if he's not ready due to sorting his market supplies, he'll suggest I pull my own carrots, cut lettuce etc. And I do with pleasure; there's not many things more satisfying than arriving home two minutes later with a bunch of sandy carrots, huge cabbage, coriander, potatoes et all, and then constructing a supper around his wonderful produce.

Our non-environmentally aware 'governors' need to wake up and realise the value of small farm producers like Jean-Paul, rather than blindly supporting the massive firms like the one next to us who turn the soil into sand; and now, (thanks to the government relaxing the laws on glyphosate), sand laced with dying pesticide-coated crops that have been part abandoned after whichever supermarket's quota has been filled.

I will rant further soon on this subject but here's a photo of our hedge compared to the 'soil' on the other side of it.

Painting revisited

Recently, two visitors kindly remarked on a few of my languishing works of art dotted around the house; kindly, and with genuine interest on subject. technique etc. I felt the faint awakening of interest in paint applied to canvass - or rather wood in my case. I had partly stopped painting as writing had taken over, but also as I felt unsettled about using so much plastic - in the form of acrylic - the paint, plastic tubes et al. I'd vaguely thought about using earth, naturally made colour - onion skin, beetroot etc but writing was my key interest leaving little other time for paint experimentation. I've kept sketching, mainly when in cities - especially London, so have a good backlog of stuff to work from. 

So, thought I'd leap in between narrating the Londonia audiobook (nearly finished...) and running our B and B. This time I'm using only old board - mainly abandoned pictures found in our local recycling place, and 'second hand' paint - from online old stuff selling sites, or paint donated to said recycling place; stuff that would end up dried out and heading towards landfill. My pictures might too one day but I'd like to have a chance at selling a few. It's all tied in with the Londonia project so who knows . . . audiobook, art expo, film deal . . . :0)

  work in progress - train window London sketch

London sketch from 2011

From a sketch done in 2023 - Muswell Hill (Mossy Well)

Further, further proof that we are seriously not aware of how stupid we are - as a race.

On strolling around our local pet store place recently - in order to buy two goldfish to keep the mozzies down in our pond - I was struck with the fact that 'anima-fishing' appeared to be selling small feline IRM scan machines. On closer inspection the large, white plastic donut affair was in fact a rotating, self-cleaning cat litter tray. I stared for quite a long time, first at the price - a snip sale price of 370 euros rather than 419; then at the sheer ugliness and cumbersome-ness of the thing. 

I am a dog person: dogs' expressions, dogs' delight at your return home, the walking; the general all round feeling that you are all part of a pack. Cats . . . many people love them and find them to be wonderful companions. Our various cats in the past were mainly bird destroyers, rather than rodent destroyers; aloof, observing us as food providers and not much more. There were moments of great joy but on the whole our cat-enthusiasm wained, mainly from the point that we found 'Bronzino' our old bruiser marmalade cat had decided a great New Year's present would be a crap IN our bed . . .

pampered but useful greyhound on her favourite sofa...

So, I can speak with experience on the non-joys of cat litter trays. But then, it's no great deal . . . small plastic spade, take out the wee-clumps and poo, into a bag, into the rubbish or cat poo recycling box if you live in a particularly organised area ( don't think this exists - yet). Or you can get one with a top so the cat can crap in privacy, and or the smell is reduced.  Or don't have a cat. Or have one if you have a garden - then there's the treading in the particularly stenchy cat-effluent, and the bird-depletion problem. Yep. Goldfish or dog. Sorry, you millions of cat-adorers.

Back to the IRM machine. Why would anyone want to spend 400 euros on a bulbous piece of future landfill? I can imagine the average life of one of these things would be similar to the always-soon-to-be-extinct home printer. Then to fix it? Ha-ha. Ever heard of Built In Obsolescence? I had Quick Look online and there are many different shapes of future land-fill cat toilets. Surely the plastic consumed would be better used for actual IRM machines? We seriously need to Wake UP.

Dog walk story.

A cautionary dog walk story inspired by a podcast I heard this morning. 

 Six minutes 

© Kate A Hardy 2024

The military aide paced the few feet from his room to the president's, legs jittery, and an overwhelming urge to piss crowding out his terrifyingly black thoughts. He knocked; no reply, just the faint murmur of voices. Sweaty hand gripping the door handle he entered the shadowy room illuminated by flickering forms on the enormous flat screen TV. For a brief moment the reason why he stood in this room shrank away as he observed Charles Ingalls standing next to his wooden prairie house grasping a long, rectangular Amazon package. Then the enormity of this current moment in time screeched back to him like feedback. He approached the bed.

"Mr President, Sir . . .  Sir?" He stepped closer and observed the slumbering figure lying amongst rumpled satin sheets, the curious coppery hair wisped across baggy face-skin. A spent MacDonald's box rose and fell with the president's breathing, a few chips splaying onto his chest. "SIR! You must wake up NOW!"

The form stirred, a line of spittle staining the satin fabric as the face left the pillow. "Whaat?" 

As the aide searched for the million-times-rehearsed-words a scream threatened to escape. "Sir - there's been a launch!"

"Of whaat? My new yacht?  . . . is it OK?

"A nuclear attack, Sir. I have the football - you have to act now!"

The president shuffled up against the velour headrest with some difficulty, and scrabbled around in his bedding. "Where's the fucking remote - gotta turn that down . . . and get me some couwfee."

"There isn't time, Sir. We have . . ." the aide glanced fearfully at his watch -"Six minutes."

The president whacked away a piece of burger bun adhered to his temple. "I said, get couwfy - can't think about anything till I get my first cup."

The aide feverishly searched out a number on his phone and waited, sweat dribbling into his eyes.  . . "Mallory - get coffee up here in ten seconds!"

The president seemed transfixed by the flat screen images. "Seen this, Paul?'

"It's Martin, and no, Sir."

"S'great! AI mashup of Little House on the Prairie and Horny Redhead's Gang-bang Fiesta."

The aide turned his fevered gaze to the screen as Charles Ingalls drew a long pink plastic phallus from its Amazon casing. "No-no-no . . ." this must not be the last thing he saw before his eyeballs melted. A rapping on the door interrupted his manic search for the remote amongst pizza boxes and tissues.

Mallory walked in with a cafetière on a tray, and placed it onto the night table, eyes averted from the rumpled president. His arm appeared in a practised way; an index finger and thumb tweaked her arse.

"Sir! Please!"

He sniggered. Then his expression clouded. "Hey, what's this shiiet - I said Starbucks!"

Mallory stepped back, noting the aide's fearful air. She harsh-whispered. "What's happening?"

The aide gulped in air. Nuclear strike - real . . . Mr President . . . I must tell you that we now have only three minutes!"

Mallory felt her bowels contract. "Aren't we supposed to lie down . . . eat plain yogurt, or something?"

" . . . I don't know . . . maybe." He placed the case on the bed and tapped the president on the arm. "Sir, we really have no time - for coffee, or anything."

The president groped a hand towards the cafetière. Martin felt his arm rise. He smashed the tray to the floor. The action appeared to wake the president.

"Really - they sending nukes? . . . Who?"

"We don't know, Sir. It's a submarine strike. It is your decision. Yours alone on our retaliation. We have two minutes."

" . . . Okay. Where are my glasses? Holy Fuck . . . where? . . . ah - here. Shit there's mayo . . ."

The aide grabbed the glasses, wiped them on the gold satin sheet and shoved them on the president's nose. They ran through the procedure.

The president peered at the menu.  " . . . Shall I just do eeny-meeny? or just blow all the fuckers away?"

The aide suddenly stood up. It was happening. Nothing could stop it. The president's burger-greasy fingers had ordered destruction - after a last second query about golf courses. The aide traversed the carpet and drew back the heavy curtains revealing a blue sky day. Not a cloud. Although there soon would be. 

Mallory sobbed quietly. Charles ingalls whispered obscenities about his amazon purchase. The president shouted into his non-cooperating phone.

The aide looked out at the trees. 

He didn't know the name of the trees, or the birds hopping about in their branches unaware of their coming extinction. He wished he had pursued the dream that his daughter had mentioned; that he had laughed at. A small wooden house, near a lake, far from everything. Her dear face swam before him. He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled her number. 

The podcast: Youtube: Diary of a CEO, episode: Annie Jacobsen, nuclear War expert talks about her discoveries, her predictions, and her books. Fascinating, and worrying....

Beaux jours

The lovely days. 

It's worth all the cutting back, mowing, strimming, and all the other months of garden taming (attempted) to enjoy the first days of mid spring/early summer? - very advanced this year after loads of rain, periods of full on heat and very little frost. The roses are spectacular as is all other blossom; and as the 'normal' Saint Glace period (a few days around the 15th May) seems to be rainy rather than icy, we should have mountains of peaches.

We also had super helpful people staying in the form of nephew and partner who built a small greenhouse/lean-to with found windows and stone blocks, plus mowing and weeding, The Son planted early veg plants and I, fuelled with such help - what a difference team work makes! - got a load of other overdue outside jobs done.

A few pictures of the garden in its manic glory before everything heat-shrivels in real summer.

Londonia extract capitula 23

We're steaming along with the project, and felt it was time to put out another little taster - this one from chapter 23.

Only a few chapters to go, then a HUGE check through, mastering and then - how to get it out there... Watch this space.

Dog walk story

As mentioned in an earlier post - stories concocted on a dog walk then transferred to screen/paper when entering the house, as a stream of consciousness rather than something worked on at length. Flash fiction, but longer....

                                                                      G78.     

© Kate A Hardy 2024

 

I stretch my legs out under the desk, wincing slightly as the metal implants tug at my kneecaps. The pinstripe wool trousers are still rather too long but the medics assured me within a matter of sevdays my legs will attain their extra four cms. Of course, I should store the suit away - wait until the trousers fit correctly but I just need to adapt into my new persona completely.

 

"Trank!"

I wince again, not from the knee pain but from the fact that Benkins is calling me as he wheels himself in my direction. I fight the rising nausea that always threatens whenever I see his bizarre form. The product of an AWOL artificial creativity mishap some months back, Benkins is now half man-half grotesque vehicle, of sorts. He approaches, his fleshy wheel creating strange sticky noises as it passes over the shiny flooring. The other reason I keep away from him as far as is possible is his incessant use of the latest short-lang. Short-lang goes against everything I hold precious in this life where so little of any substance remains.

 

"Trank - sums done?"

I avert my eyes from the wheel and focus upon the compubanks stacked behind him.

"You mean, have I the figures for the number of new telephonic apparatus required for the lowest ranks, I assume?"

He sighs causing his robo-surgeon lifted cheeks to inflate as much as they can. "Talk norm, man."

"I am. This is normal - for what I have chosen."

He eyes me suspiciously with his pale irises. "Century?"

"Mid 20th. I like the clothing, the trappings, the words."

"Time-waste. Watch above . . ."

I know he refers to the occasional swooping on the higher ranks who might have assumed a bit too much freedom of choice. But my work is excellent; my control over what could be something explosive, well maintained. I turn and snatch up the figures as requested, handwritten on a sheet of luxurious paper. He takes the sheet and scowls at me.

"I sent mind question. Why not respond?"

I have had this procedure - it's very difficult to refuse it, but I hate the feeling of someone's questions snaking about in one's brain. Also, unless you develop the skill to its maximum you overhear and audibly digest all sorts of drivel that others are thinking or possibly trying not to think. I try an excuse that occurs.

"It gives me plurial headmals - and, recently I started receiving ancient televisual divertissements from the early twenty-first century. The worst being an example named 'who wants to be a millionaire'. The associated music made me want to kill someone."

The second part of the excuse is true and made me feel totally unnerved - enough that I've had the implant disactivated - something not strictly illegal but considered as very odd, veering on untrustworthy.

He grunts a reply and steers back to his work area, glancing back at me with incredulity. He's still peering at me when he's installed himself back in his work bay, those curious opal eyes darting about behind the replicate Ficas Benjamina plant. It wouldn't take much for him to whisper a few suggestions about me into certain ears or minds. I decide it might be a good time to double check those figures as when I had done it previously it had been following a rowdy night involving too many hooch sticks which tend to fog the mind, to say the least. 

Sighing, I stand up and take the currently functioning lift to the cleansing area. While the metal box descends, I wonder what Benkins does when encountering a broken lift; stairs and wheel not being a good combination... Maybe he lives in the office - has a suite somewhere in this enormous sterile place. I only ever enter the main door, show my palm to the digistar register and proceed to my desk; anything else is strongly discouraged, apart from a visit to the servo machines at mealtimes.

The lift jolts as it stops at the basement. I cease thinking about Benkins and pass through the security door into the steel corridors of the formicages. Why this name has been employed I don't know - from the French, meaning ants. Maybe antcages doesn’t have such an easy ring to it. 

A base worker waves me over.

"Cleanse room free, if you are going in."

I wish I could just say, thanks, but I'm just having a quiet stroll down here to think a few things over, but I'm here to count heads, and check thumbs. He opens the grating door, rusted at the bottom from countless showers. I pass through and go through the routine of undressing, carefully hanging my precious wool suit in the closet and pulling on the grey overall waiting on a hanger. Goloshes added, mask snapped on and rubber bonnet in place I open the door and nod to the worker. 

The lecopad and pen are ready in the zipped pocket. My stomach clenches slightly as I anticipate the noise that will ensue as the studded metal door gradually opens. I could just stop, collapse, feign death . .. but then that would be viewed as deeply suspicious, lacking in motivation, ignoring the common good, and possibly be found out to be a lie - if tests were deemed necessary. I sigh as loudly as the northerly gusts that will later flay my darkened apartment building, and nod to the door operator. 

They don't notice me for a few moments, even though the sliding door had pierced the air with its screech. I take in the perspective lines of the room; the ugly, green-tinged lighting that highlights the shining baldness of many heads, heads bowed in silent all-absorbing concentration - if it is concentration. I imagine more a sort of flickering visual captivity, eyes seeking every movement of the screens before them.

Then the gathered realisation of the door noise enters their collective minds. Some attempt to stand up on long-forgotten legs. They fall back to the benches, mutter, eyes pulling their attention back to the scrolling images. Others shout, waving their fones, demanding the feverishly anticipated upgrades that are promised every sevdays but rarely arrive within the promised time. 

The door-guard fulfills her second job of pressing the sustenance release button, and the troughs begin to fill with the usual beige sludge. A few minions look without interest at the steaming gunge; others, taking one last glance at their fones, place them territorially close to themselves before taking up the alu-spoons. This is the best moment to take the measurements. I pass silently behind each grey-encased back and watch fingers juggling clumsily with spoons. The increasingly large thumbs are causing problems with cutlery, and there is talk of tubes instead - the minions to be fed like baby birds. I pass the lazer counter over each thumb, requesting briefly that they be stretched out if they are still curled around the fone's black casing. 

No one has escaped; I doubt if they would have the brain capacity to even imagine such a thing. The thumb lengths are as I had previously logged. I glance once more over the long thin room, press the door release, and go back through the clothing routine, my appetite for a servo machine protein burger even more diminished after viewing the sludge.

The lift is broken. I take the stairs slowly, each metal pin under my kneecaps making its presence known. A distant, bright voice chirps from the area I have just left.

"Great news, partners. The awaited upgrade has been superseded! G78 will now be channeling all your feeds. Praise the Custodian!"

A muffled cheer leaks from the room beyond the showers. 

Pulling wool over the eyes

Drug companies, bottled water companies, food company giants, domestic chemical purveyors . . .

We're in bullshit territory, and have been for so long that most people don't even notice it, but, in part, thanks to the free information out there on the net (not all of it reliable obviously) and in part thanks to a certain general angst that all is not good on our shared sphere perhaps people are beginning to question that what manufacturers and marketing agencies etc state may not in fact be true - at all.

Our bathroom sink has been semi-blocked for several months; we've tried the plungy thing, the coiled metal drain unblocker, taking the mysterious tubage under the sink apart and cleaning it many times hot water, vinegar and bicarb, shouting at it, and I even bought a bottle of blasto-drain or similar title but as it has to not contain anything very caustic because of our lovely reed bed, I was very doubtful that it would work - which it didn't.

None of it worked so I finally called the plumbers who turned up yesterday with a massive black plastic tube and suction handle - thing, and proceeded to grunt away for a good half an hour until finally the stuff deep within our 1980s bathroom system finally gave up and moved on towards said reed bed - lucky it!

After congratulating him on his skill and determination I asked about 'blasto-drain' and he said - beh, NON - faut pas! or, "do not ever use this shit or similar shit as it does nothing at all except cost loads of dosh and is very bad for the nature!" I could have hugged him except he would have been very frightened - it was so amazing to hear a young (very) person in the building trade stating such truths.

I worked - for my sins - in advertising for years (on the side of producing the visual elements for campaigns), so have clear memories of sitting in mind-crushingly boring meetings concerning the best way to dupe the public and the best way to sell as much as possible of whatever the products happened to be - anything from kitchen carpet (weird!) to dog food, paint, biscuites, shoes, office furniture, curtains and sanitary towels. I think it was at this meeting that I finally knew I had to escape . . .  'so, what colour should the fluid be? and which colour ribbon to dress the item with . . . flowers? ideas, Kate? 

In my head, I had whapped the boney, nicotine-drenched art director about the head with a fully saturated (blue fluid) sanitary pad and had ran from the room laughing manically into Oxford Street and all its over-stocked shops of unnecessary goods. In reality, I marked that as a point that I would up the writing and illustration and leave the easier money world of styling.

Back to the wool. It's continually being pulled, over-hyped, or even made to be a one and only option in the case of pharmaceuticals for example. Drugs certainly have their place and wonders such as antibiotics are life savers when used correctly, but maybe we should all be doing our own serious research into other ways of coping with aches and pains of body and mind. I've just listened to an excellent talk featuring psychiatrist Mark Horowitz who himself suffered for years while trying to get off antidepressants and other drugs which were added as his side effects required other treatments. It took him eight years and he now spends his time writing and lecturing to help similar sufferers find their lives again.

About ten years ago I went to see a nerve specialist in our old town as I was having very unpleasant and scary attacks in the face  - see very old posts a long time ago... After slapping me a bit he suggested that the 'beast was asleep' but as it would likely awaken again I had to take drugs every day . . . for the rest of my life. I explained that it was indeed intermittent and I certainly didn't want to take strong drugs (and they are very strong) forever, when there might be other possibilities. If I had mentioned meditation or restricting screen time - both of which I use to help the condition now - he probably would have eyed me quizzically then called for security to remove a clearly deranged person from his office. 

When I got back from the pharmacy with afore-mentioned box of drugs which he had insisted again I take, I read the first item on the side effect list: may cause suicidal thoughts. Great. I can admit that one or two had already sidled into my terrified mind, and I certainly didn't want easy access to any more . . .

Food companies. Writer flexes hands and approachers keyboard. Nope - enough for now. That's a massive rant for another time. Suffice to say the food industry pulls more wool over more eyes than anything else does. Check out Ultra Processed People, by Chris Van Tulleken. think I did a whole blog post about his book a while ago. A real eye-opener...

Fateful encounters - good ones!

About two months ago I set about trying to find a useful 'Workaway' (for those who don't know - people that have signed up to said site to help out others while being lodged, fed and hopefully enjoying some cultural exchange) to help out in our scarily rampant early spring garden.

It can be a mixed bag - Workaway; we've found some fascinating, warm hearted and hard working folks over the years, and others who have wished to find themselves (or not) while smoking and sitting on the terrace, the work reluctantly done, without care and timed to the millisecond. 

The last woman, who arrived with allergies, barely concealed anger over her unraveled life and an annoying habit of telling me how everything should be done, gleefully announced after a few days she had contracted covid and would therefore be taking up residence in our almost finished gite, while I trotted backwards and forwards with carefully prepared meals. I consider myself to be a mostly very tolerant person, but I almost revelled in telling to remove herself to wherever she had appeared from. We are pretty sure that the covid deal was an excuse to settle in to our lives and welcome a steady stream of pity and food. We didn't contract the malady, despite her hissing into my face - don't put a comment on Workaway and I won't put one on you as she left.

I almost closed my account after that episode but decided she was just one amongst hundreds of good souls, ands therefore started a search for someone who knew a fair bit about gardening, and or DIY. All these types were well and truly booked up, and this time I really wanted someone with actual knowledge so I could show them the outdoor madness and say -off you go, lunch at 12.

After a week of no replies I was contacted by an enthusiastic young Swedish guy who issued me that although he didn't actually have plant knowledge that he was good humoured, hard working and 'self-propelled'. The latter part of the paragraph made me smile, and encouraged me to hit reply with a yes, why not.

I went to collect Gustav from Tours station late one evening, and despite that he had been on a bus for 50 hours, he was alert, super friendly and interesting. We struck up an immediate friendship as if we had known each other for years; the drive back a melange of discussions over politics, literature, nature, cookery - his next project is to take up chef studies.

After a very long lie in - understandably - he emerged blinking into the early spring sunshine, amazed at the early spring colour after a more winter-bound Sweden, and we continued our conversations over lunch. The next day he started on the work and despite a lack of knowledge was incredibly helpful in the garden especially with things I have rather had to give up on - moving rocks, gravel, reinstating collapsed rose structures, etc. 

Over the week he fitted in more and more with all of us, until it seemed as he was really living with us, and could continue to do so pretty much indefinitely. This is the best side of Workaway, finding someone who shares many interests, wishes to exchange things about their life and culture, and is genuinely enthusiastic about helping out and leaving their own positive mark on their hosts' lives.

I'm sure we will see Gustav again. And I wouldn't mind a trip to Stockholm one day to discover the city with a knowledgable guide. 

Yeast wars

You either love it or hate it - the UK ad campaign re Marmite, or at least that was the last campaign I was aware of. I don't know what the Australian equivalent is for Vegemite but I wonder if they have such a divided opinion on their own dark brown yeasty substance.

I've been having an ongoing 'discussion' with an Australian friend for a couple of years now re the attributes of our respective oil-dark, salty spreads, and neither of us is going to back down and admit taste defeat. Interesting how our taste buds acclimatise to something from childhood days and stay with us - not everything; I did refuse my Mothers several attempts to get me to like Spam fritters, and I think that was probably a good self defence move.

So, I love Marmite, especially with a faint haze of jam spread over the top of said spread, just to add to the umami flavour. My mother loved it, my brother loves it, my at home family are indifferent - thus negating the total efficacy of aforementioned ad campaign; all French people I have offered it to hate it, and our 'Workaway' Swedish guest wrinkled his nose at the merest taste of the stuff. I think it is certainly a British comfort thing - tea and hot buttery toast with accompanying thin layer of Marmite, or thick if you are seriously tough.

Earlier mentioned friend kindly brought us a pot of the other one, and we gave it fair trial. Ezra thinks it tastes of liquid plant fertiliser, and actually . . . I know exactly what he means. Sorry, Will . . .

                                                               Vegemite Swedish test person

Londonia audiobook showreel

So, we're past halfway on the Londonia audiobook, and I decided we should make a small sample video mainly to let our Kickstarter backers know how it's going.

Obviously it's an audiobook so either just listen or watch the images that we had fun putting together - as you like.

Mark is creating a wonderfully atmospheric soundscape with all original music and sound effects, and I'm tackling the narration. Londonia is a big book and the audio version is a long project but we're thoroughly enjoying the process.

The audiobook should be completed by the end of April.

Crap neighbours and insurance companies.

So, already blessed with warm, friendly and fascinatingly interesting neighbours (irony...) on one side of our property, we gained another set on the other side last summer. 

Keen to welcome them and show that we wanted to be helpful and friendly, I went over with a bottle of fizz and duly said welcoming stuff. They seemed slightly bemused but accepted the bottle, and we had a brief chat about life, dogs and everything else. Their dogs in question were (another has been added recently) a small, annoying hairy yappy thing and a black morose looking hound. The bloke had nodded to our other neighbours - where in their yard are housed six bored, frustrated and over-vocal dogs - and had assured me that the black hound only barked a small amount at passers by and then would always stop. Cheered by this information and with a warm feeling that we now had some respectful and relatively approachable next-door dwellers I went home and felt slightly less annoyed by the baying on the other side of the hedge.

A few weeks later, I went out to attack a rampant rose area and found one limp grey chicken carcass, feathers scattered and obviously the victim of a dog or fox attack. Most of the other chickens, including our special ornamental ones, were missing. I wondered where the other bodies were; did foxes drag them off? None returned the next day and then I recalled having seen the black dog wandering around outside their house. On seeing the new neighbours I asked nonchalantly if it was at all possible that their dog might have been responsible for the chicken demise. They shrugged, all innocent and, beh, non . . . c'est pas possible, so I assumed it had been a fox or errant wolf/dog and apart from feeling sad, life went on.

A few days later I was in the UK and Mark rang to say the black dog had got into the chicken enclosure and had killed all but two of the flock. He was in a state of shock, not only from the massacre but the fact that the neighbours had come over at his request, acknowledged that the fault had been their dog - Mark had taken a albeit emotionally shaky photo of the beast in full kill mode - but had shrugged again and reluctantly said, desolé - sorry. No, OMG, let us help you clear up; no, here, let me write you a cheque immediately, it's the least we can do, nothing. A big F you nothing, and a gruff mention that they would engage the insurance company to deal with it.

Then ensued much farting about with paperwork, all of which appeared to be down to us: drives backwards and forwards to our insurance company, phone calls, etc etc. That was four months ago. After more prodding, we received a letter stating that our carefully worked out claim of around 500 euros to cover dead chickens, wrecked enclosure, loss in egg production (considerable!) not to mention all the physiological stress which we obviously would receive nothing for was overreaching and that they required proof... this is where the farce element started. A quote from the chicken provider was required, although we had already furnished them with a receipt for the same amount for the original purchase... AND, a statement from said breeder as to how many eggs would be have been laid during the time we had had chicken absence. 

The breeder kindly cooperated and, surprise! the chickens now cost more, and we had very much underestimated how many eggs would have been laid.

Mark, who is surprisingly dog (no pun) matic about these sort of Kafka-novel dossiers set to it and sent them back every grain of info including the large hike in price. 

I fear there will no doubt be some further hoop to clamber through - proof of whether the chickens were not in fact actually terribly miserable and were thus grateful at the prospect of been mauled to death; or an insurance company team inspection of the compound to point out the fallible areas of fencing which enabled the dog to create a way through, or the fact that step ladders were available in the open garage which could be employed by said dog or any other dog in order to climb over if the fence was a slight challenge.

I wonder how much time and paperwork at the insurance bureau has been wasted on this pathetically small dossier . . . and we still have the pleasure of seeing the chicken killer jumping up on our wall and barking at us pretty much constantly when we step into that part of the garden. The saddest thing is the neighbours seem to consider that the dog was at fault, not them for letting it escape, and have now chained it to a wall. It, as with many 'country dogs here' are never taken out and spend their lives bored out of their naturally inquisitive minds.

If we ever get the money I may invest in a flashing neon sign to be mounted on their wall: Take your F-ing dog out, connards! No, obviously we will buy some more chickens, and maybe a few trees to plant in memory of our funny flock of weird Russian leopard spotted hens and the Peruvian one with earrings.

Human folly

Follies... odd little buildings without particular usage, playful, harmless. Folly, from the French (folie) meaning foolishness. Nothing wrong with a bit of playfulness in architecture, or your own pimped garden shed, but then there's the bigger and more scary version of the word, folly, which seems to be appearing with rapidity in this world of shrinking natural 'resources' and ever-increasing pollution.

After doing a spot of garden reconstruction yesterday, revelling in the very early signs of spring and feeling how important it is that we embrace all the smaller stuff: birdsong, shapes of trees, simple food made with as-local-as-possible ingredients, examining in detail our local environment, etc etc, I came indoors to start work on the audiobook and happened to see the front page of the online guardian. 

My peaceful thoughts transmogrified into utter incredulity as I stared at the picture of the latest and gargantuanly (if that's a word) huge cruise ship - Icon of the Seas. In a time of human shift towards a probable extinction event - yes it could happen; it's happened before many times - it seems unthinkable that people are still wishing and able to create bigger, grosser, plastic-filled, fuel guzzling atrocities such as this. 

But it's ok... it runs on green energy. Oh . . . yes, right. LNG. Natural gas - natural. It just appears magically without consequences of further climate disruption and vast levels of pollution. 

I personally don't understand the draw of cruises anyway. The few crossings I took on the piddly (in comparison) ferries between Britain and France I found only possible either by lying on the floor - preferably in a cabin - or standing on deck even in horizontal freezing rain. The idea of being trapped on a astronomically huge boat with around eight thousand other people - however manically happy they might be - (or not, if you are a member of the two thousand or so staff) is the stuff of technicolour nightmares, not to mention being swept along within a stream of slightly claustrophobic humans keening for on-land distractions when the mega-boat finally docks somewhere. 

The vessel has an infinity pool, so you can sit and look at a chlorine infested stretch of water hovering above the real ocean infinity, along with seven other pools and spas, a highly naff water park (thrill island), a 55 foot indoor waterfall (?!), and all the usual gyms, cinemas etc, etc. As far as food goes apparently there are forty ways to dine....an odd statement - on one leg? smothered in foam, being lectured by a rabid maths teacher, surrounded by hyenas, suspended above a giant vat of custard; sitting alone at a small corner table while Gordon Ramsey picks your meal apart - what the fuck is this!, naked in front of a gospel choir? and that's just seven . . .

Give me a small rowing boat and a tranquil river in early June - waving river weed, dragonflies, weeping willows, and a picnic, maybe with a bottle of Cava thrown in. Or just a flask of tea. That'll do.

Getting stuck in

Anyone reading this blog will know that I did a Kickstarter to raise funds for making my optimistic, post-apocalyptic novel, Londonia, into an audiobook.

I must say honestly that I didn't enjoy the process - at all. It's certainly not for me but we did get there after masses of hard work, and I was touched and amazed by the number of family, friends and acquaintances who pledged along the way to make the project a reality. Thank you so much to all of you. I'll keep you posted on the finished audiobook- we're still looking towards the beginning of April.

There have been some changes which have meant that the narration has shifted to me - an alarming prospect at the outset - and Mark doing the soundtrack; not just a bit of incidental music but a full on textural masterpiece, full of his compositions, collected environmental sounds from his vast back catalogue, and us making up things as complex as a gospel choir... I'm thoroughly into the narration thing now, learning as I go on less familiar accents and listening to the characters' voices that have sat in my mind for so long.

So. we're about a third the way there, and I will be producing a 'trailer' splicing together moments of tension, excitement, eeriness and humour to hopefully entice people to take a listen. 

Watch this space, as they say, whoever they are...