This weekend we've been burning peat from Peterhead, bought at a geriatric friendly cafe on the A90 near Brechin. The mild highland aroma hasn't quite altered my consciousness but it masks the earthy smells of November leaving behind a rich trace of familiar but far away wild lands and their histories in the blue smoke and fierce heat. The Picts and Vikings knew a thing or two. I wonder if it's edible if prepared properly?
Our house is turning into a vacuum cleaner graveyard. Nothing that's mechanical lasts long here, they burn brightly, make a bit of a foul smell as they fail and then die quietly. They await Valhalla in the cupboard under the stairs beside assorted boxes. Pet hairs, fluff on steroids and general user abuse get equal amounts of blame for their untimely demise. Pushed to my limit and fed up with snapped Vax drive belts I tried some necromancy on them today using a mix of thrusting broom handles, twisted coat hanger gropers and high pressure water spays. Large plugs of both wet and dry colourful gunge emerged from pipes, tubes and nozzles, it was immensely satisfying as an exercise but has probably not made any real difference. This place is the Hoover Bermuda Triangle, they come here, suck up for a while and then disappear leaving no trace of their brief spiralling orbits.