Sacking and ostrich feathers.

Mmm, good title for a book . . .
Look at this lot.
I mean, really - HOW did anyone think this up. Can only think it was the product of a heavy evening on some hideously strong liqueur made from old cheese.
Limoux Carnaval du Monde on Saturday featured this group. They were hotly followed by girating samba dancers: the contrast being, well, a good example of how very different us humans are.
The sambistas, despite it being about 12 degrees, and not 35 as one might find in Rio, smiled, and wiggled their bits about seemingly with great joy and verve. Or it could have been gritted teeth, either way—a general fun ambience.
It was amazing to see old men, sunk deep into their anoracks suddenly acknowledging that something was DIFFERENT in Limoux square on this particular Saturday morning—their heads emerging from scarves and collars like old tortoises.
The sacking and feathers brigade walked achingly slowly with expressions of varying sterness, and misery. Perhaps all their tax returns had arrived that morning, or their hotel had a cockroach infestation, or maybe it was all very noble . . . and I just missed the point. But I couldn't walk along in an inflated sack with a meter high white feather hat and a small basket of oranges without at least a small smirk on my face.

As in the words of Mr Orwell. Four legs good . . .three legs better.

Runty dog stakes his claim at 'tea-time' with his own brand of hideous growling.
The pack psychology is always fascinating at this time of day.
These two protect each other from ferocious poodle-attack, snuggle together on the sofa, sometimes in a cheeky threesome with the cat, but . . . tea time - forget it. Every dog for themselves. Una is such a street dog. Long after everyone has sloped off to bed, given the choice she would still be out there, a lonely silhouette, hunting for the last nano-grain of rice or atom of minced up God-knows-what, and dreaming of the next tea-time.

Post for Mark. Happy V day.

Every year since I have known Mark we have spent Valentines day either apart due to a gig/work generally, or it has passed by unnoticed. Odd, when shops are suddenly transformed into red, pulsating flower filled dens of . . . romance, well, not the dog washing parlour perhaps, but all others that can think of an excuse to sell more of anything.
This year Mark is in Brum on Valentines day, but a bunch of red roses had been left (with price tag) on the kitchen worktop. Yes! We are edging ever nearer to a full blown MEAL OUT in candlelit restaurant situation. Thanks, darling. I was going to embarrass you with a single red rose via interflora turning up in the middle of a world music lecture . . . remember that?? BUT, I got sidetracked into helping with other people's burst pipes.
When Mark rang me this morning to say something lovely, I think he was anyway, I looked exceptional. This photo is the closest representaion I could find, except I wasn't wearing a top hat and the dog now only has three legs. But you get the idea.
I would like to have been attired in a flowing, pink, Bette Davis gown, languidly holding three bouquets of roses from various admirers . . . was actually in filthy jogging pants, leopard skin slippers clutching firewood, and with hair like a wookie.
Next year . . .

Oh no, not again

Some people are saying it's going to snow again tomorrow. They are lying. I predict a light drizzle of sleety vile substance, and then a good downpour of RAIN on Thursday to wash all this half arsed grey-white residue away. Then the sun will shine madly, temperatures rising to a balmy 12 degrees on Friday. Birds will tweet, dogs will once again lie in the warm rays on the porch, and we might venture outside with less than eight jumpers on.
I could be wrong, but am wallowing in new found optimism after huge close-to hibernation sleep yesterday.
Shouldn't moan anyway. But then . . . why the hell not. Some folks love snow; my friend is in the Alps on the family sking trip. They love the fact that it is -15 and there is more snow than they know what to do with. I don't. I prefer it to be at the other end of the spectrum: 37 degrees, fine.
People always seem to say that big heat is worse, and at least in cold weather you can put more layers on.
There is a limit to how much clothing you can put on at once and still fit though a doorway.
Here is a pic of the tiny three legged beast barking at a terrifying recycling bin just out of the frame.

Yes, one would like a glass of Blanquette.

If you were in Limoux yesterday morning, you might have glimpsed the royal personage opening the olympic games,(Les Droles version.)
God, it was cold . . . about -4 in the morning and I was dressed in light sportswear. Going up to a balmy -1 for the 5.00 p.m sortie, and -6 or 7, with severe wind chill for the last tour. Vast quantities of pastis, blanquette and hot chocolate consumed in order to keep warm. Quiet day of creeping about in nasty pyjamas today.

There's snow business like snow business.

A whole new meaning to being up to your neck in it. Sorry Bert.

YEHAAAA! 2

Ezra on frozen winter day playing sounds from the deep south.