Plasticine tyres

I seem to have made the almost fatal mistake of fitting plasticine tyres to the peerless family grandad-mobile Volvo. Poor quality boots make an erroneous purchase if ever there was one. These mighty chunks of flawed rubber, installed two Venusian years ago have now sadly expired after a mere 14000 miles, mostly spent in orbit around the planet Fife. That's about the distance from here to somewhere else and that's not far enough and to prove it I have a failed MoT certificate to treasure and possibly frame. In dawn's early light, or at least by tomorrow evening I'll be up at the local Farmer's Auto to get proper replacements. This time I'm going to ensure they're made of the finest quality Pakistani plasticine, hand made from holy-cow dung, vulcanised and baked to sun dried road burning perfection. No more of that British or Eastern European rubbish either, I'm out for the best black circles money (up to at least £54 per tyre) can buy. Long may you run.

More pretentious photos

Saturday past was one of those bright, still and frozen days that used to make up most of winter, typically crisp and almost exhilerating. Those were the old days before endless grey, overcast skies, biting rain and the Coalition Government. Petrol was 74p a gallon, we smoked hot fags, ate square sausage and music was some live and alive thing that it can no longer ever quite be. Anyway as I carried out some outside chores, hauling logs, harassing badgers and shoveling the river-bed gravel I took the photos displayed above. I then shoved them through a battered Fender Twin Reverb, a Coloursound Cry-Baby and a wonky Fuzz Face. The results are my low-toned homage to forgotten winters, the search for warmth and the cold hardness of our neighbourhood elements. All pretty much pretentious enough for sharing on a Monday.

We need a lot more logs

The log store has now been safely fastened to the wall and so houses  our small but perfectly formed winter fuel exhibit. Clearly we need more rotting, dead timber to complete the piece.

Reflections in an icy water butt #1.

Reflections in a watery butt of ice  #2. 

Reflections in a buttery ice water  #3.

Watery reflections in an icy butt  #4.

It's hard for me to remember a more memorable weekend than this but that's probably more to do with me and my constant battle with age and biology than the weekend itself. It may also be due to the demon drink, the demon vegetable soup, the demon chicken pie, the demon Lego and last but not least the demon Harry Potter Jelly Bean Collection. We have a lot of demons round here but they'll get their comeuppance one fine day. So on watery reflection it's true to say that sometimes things just conspire against you and sometimes they fall into your lap; all warm, lovely and wet.

Weekend Count:

47 wild birds well and truly fed.
1 butcher conversation.
1 farm shop conversation.
2 sleeps.
7 family members catered for.
1 foot dirty with sticky mud (left).
22 Harry Potter Chocolate toads scoffed.
1 squirrel running across the garden.
1 sock lost.
1 dead tumble drier.
1 stray cat assaulted with slipper (left).
1 MoT expired.
2 glasses of Orangina drunk.
12 text messages sent.
43 potholes dodged.
3 potholes driven into.
1 flat barrow lost in B&Q.
4 eggs, 4 sausages, 2 haggis slices and 6 bits of bacon (rashers) fried.
I could go on...

All is quiet

Cats are highly therapeutic creatures for their human companions with their purring and preening and sleeping and doing not much more. Well every so often they fight or jump around but mostly they are oddly serene - and they pass that serenity onto us...a few cats, a bottle of wine...peace in our time.

Don't drop the Dyson

Modern life (here in the whatever it is) can be seen as a series of encounters with domestic appliances and mechanical and electrical devices. Everyone comes in at a different level on this; the early adopters, the don't care about the details, the use it up wear it out, the avoider, the wrecker and so on. I also see that some families/individuals are prone to equipment failures on a common range of items. For some it will be washing machine failure, kettle burn out, car trouble, phones with rubbish batteries, hard disk failure, irons consuming their own cords etc. Anyway for us it seems to be hoovers, they come, work for a period of time and then give up the ghost, choked by gunge and fluff and that weird cosmic dust that just appears from nowhere but is deadly to any hoover around here. We're in Dyson mode at the moment and despite all the design sophistication and hype it seems to me a fragile and ungainly beast. It does however work quite well.

Yesterday it seemed that it's suction, when applied to imbedded cat hair in a carpet was a little less than desirable. Had one of those dreaded vacuum bowel blockages occurred? I carried the ill machine downstairs for further investigation and possible surgery. It was during the carrying process that I began to realise the nature of the problem. The main dirt compartment parted company with the Dyson's chassis and somersaulted down the stairs. In doing so it created an artistic and complex pattern of dust and debris that covered the staircarpet, wall, windowsill and the downstairs hall. I stood back and admired the stoorie devastation for a few moments and swore colourfully. Then I put the Dyson back together and Dysoned back up all the mess. It works fine and the stair is clean but I know I'm never more than a mbar (suction measure) from the next episode. What's worse, stuck in a loop or trapped in a vacuum?

Anyway if you like "What if?" as opposed to "WFT?" questions this a useful slight diversion.

Escapes of energy

Well not if this zebra patterned balloon has anything to do with it. It irritates after about five seconds, then you think you see a frog, then you imagine what might be in the balloon making all the fuss, then you stop caring and click elsewhere. This is in fact a good example and summary of all things (well most things) that are web based. I'm still looking at it however and that mysterious energy seems to be trapped in there well and truly.

Other people's lists

Three of my chosen albums; cosmic, twee and pish. Appropriate enough really.

I'm perversely proud of the fact that of the top 100 most influential albums of all time I have (or have owned) a paltry 17. My tastes and those of the rest of the world are strangely out of kilter, in a pleasant enough way. In fact at least 50 of the albums listed here I don't like at all nor would I consider them to be seriously influential (and on whom?), but that's the whole point of lists I guess. I think I can now officially describe myself as rather cantankerous but quite good at building bonfires. Test yourself here.

Cat Flap Repairs

There's only one way to chase the unwelcome moisture from your malfunctioning electronic cat flap and that of course is to administer a healthy dose of hairdryer heat at full force, preferably late at night when it's raining heavily. This practice may well be above and beyond the manufacturer's instructions and to some extent beyond the laws of physics but what else can you do?

Haggis: The Photo Portrait Collection

There can't be too many haggis portrait photo blogs out here/there on the intertwerp. What's the chances of "Haggis: The Photo Portrait Collection" coming up as a Google search? I may have started something. Hopefully in a few hours I'll have also eaten something. Happy Burns Nicht or whatever you happen to call it.

In Search of the Aspirated Wh

The search for the justified and fully aspirated Wh goes on. I was rather pleased to hear than linguists and academics all across Scotland were concerned that the use of the aspirated W was diminishing. The situation has been recognised and help is at hand, I think. This tragic failure is taking place today along with the rampant use of the term Burns' Night rather than the totally correct Burns' Nicht. Anyway the expert witness in all this said he would be eating vegetarian haggis and reciting poems, but not necessarily those of of Burns, on Burns' Nicht. At that point he lost all credibility. But, never the less and yes indeed I now feel fully justified and technically approved of by the great and marvellous bodies of Pictish education and science with seats of learning in such places as Glasgow, Aberdeen and Lochgelly. More blethers about the problem, (demonstrating the aspirated W or Wh as some would have it and the associated problems) are to be found here.

Meanwhile I need to brush up on my Wh-hisky, Wh-heasel and Wh-hat the feck is this all about phonetics.

Photographic Odyssey

 And so the continuing and almost daily photographic odyssey gains more cosmic momentum with another two reflective pieces from today's less noteworthy and otherwise unnoticed events. The first (above) is simply and economically  entitled "Escaped cats stare sadly through a misty window whilst the artist almost drops the camera into the kitchen sink (with new rotation)". As the discerning viewer will detect, a number of tasteful effects have been added in order to provide a little more artistic gravitas to the piece.  Below I have included  the more accessible and conventional catering based "Cheese, tomato and toast torture." Signed prints are to be made available, I'm doing a limited run of 50  at £300 each. Hurry up with the cash you uncultured swine.

Square Eclipse 2

These worlds are probably very economical in their use of words due to the thinning air and the general serenity.

Chaos: all planned out

The local, chilly view.

I had it all planned out, then it snowed and became savagely cold. My only alternative was to retreat right back into the very back of my head and then take stock of things, lo and behold I saw it all so clearly, if a little distorted. "That's just what you get",  some might say.

I typed out ten thousand words. All bright and vivid, hard and poetic, chirpy with meaning and humour, lyrical and as perfectly crafted out as I could make them. They flowed and rolled, they turned corners, looped and danced around. These were sweet moments for me. I lost myself. They swirled and provoked, everywhere all around. They hurt and bound things tight, they contradicted and lied. They went deep. They bent the truth and described the hidden. They were there. It was revelation and I saw the bright light of understanding. I swear I did. Then I picked those words out, highlighted them and deleted them all. Just with the touch of a key and they were all gone. It was a strangely warm, wonderful, godlike feeling. Now they are no more and though I can't forget them I just can't remember any of them. I felt that I had to tell somebody about it. That person must be you.

Annoying Orange

What happens when an orange is left buried and abandoned in the bottom of a busy person's handbag for many a long year. It was at one time, a while ago, virile and at least three inches in juicy diameter. Now it is a shrivelled and dried out and useless relic (an angry inch?) and a husk of a bygone age of  one time citrus perfection. There may well be a lesson here, a universal lesson applicable to all or maybe just a few but who really knows? So squeeze my orange/lemon/pineapple etc. etc.

Square Eclipse

Towel Art

The ancient Japanese art of towel folding and arranging comes to Scotland at long last. Three not so easy pieces by Ali.

Seven for a secret

Tesco: I for one am quite prepared to believe that it's possible to get mixed up between the cows and the horses during a busy day at the abattoir. That's the food chain for you. I also don't understand the apparent outrage at mixing up bovine and equine meats, it happens every day in France and they are far more civilised than we'll ever be. As the vegetarian butcher once said "It all tastes the same to me, I just never swallow any of it".

Tax the poor: Twenty five million pension plans will go up the spout when they double the price of a Lottery ticket to £2 later in the year. Hours or even seconds of pointless amusement strangled for the masses. They'll be turning to religion next. I can't be bothered with the stupid games, quiz panels and rubbish that surrounds a ridiculous raffle with hopeless odds. Having said that the £25 for three numbers has a certain attraction.

Growing old gracefully: The eternal question at these difficult ages, which strategy or role model do you follow?

David Bowie: Geriatric reflections on 80s Berlin. Dressing as a stuffed teddy and looking sour with a Chinese pal. Dull synth dominated songs with mournful lyrics and dense drums. A backing band of anonymous session guys happy to take the money and run. Sense of humour failure (or so it seems).

Mick Jagger: Gangley, wrinkled, cocky blues boy at a fancy dress party in a silly hat. Still shouting rubbish  and strutting like you're 21 but not really meaning any of it. No new ideas for material, just reruns of years ago. Worn out riffs and a baffled and battered Keef fronting the ugliest looking band you ever saw.

I'm settling for the Groucho method - whisky, red meat and obscurity.

Reflection

Tuesday: Traditionally not a day for reflection or anything of that sort but I did briefly wonder as I munched a dry sausage roll why January seems to be such a desolate little month? Why we are plunged into this cold and dreich winter experience, lost without the light and colour of December to help us along? Today it's -3C, cold but still not deeply cold. I'm assembling IKEA storage equipment, removing dead mice, recycling, listening for the tinkle of snow, looking out into the dark place that is the garden and reorganising a cupboard - and that's after a normal day's work.  Perhaps it's the recognition of the overwhelming threat of the weather turning really bad and all of our local bits of civilisation just breaking down. That's it, January anxiety, along with preparing for the Volvo's MOT.

Life of CGI

Far away....

...a bit closer.

Here in the colourful land of the back of beyond, where the pothole is king, the scent of cabbages wafts in the breeze and cats grow confused we always allow the sun to drop down in the sky at least once a day. When this happens and we're aware of it we rush down to the seashore, disturb innocent birds that are minding their own perfect business and take out our mobile phones. Then we run up and down the stone and shingle beach, phones held high in the evening air as we focus, click and search for that elusive and perfect five megapixal shot. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes we just step in dog poo.

The Life of Pi is a good film (and a good Kindle read no doubt), full of allegory, seascapes, tigers, humour, violence and high quality CGI that will burn out your retinas. In fact it's so trippy and far out that when I came out of the cinema I was convinced that it was still 1971. I had to be talked down from a high branch by a very understanding young social worker who bribed me with a sugar donut and the diluted threat of possible physical or sexual violence. Once down I was restrained by pipe cleaner handcuffs and Ovaltine but I escaped and made my way to Brazil in a Beechcraft Bonanza piloted by Sophia Loren who it turned out had cannibalistic tendencies. When I got  there I settled for a quite life on a brood mare ranch spending my time as an honest  plastic surgeon and part time Nazi hunter. I also found God and then promptly lost him in the post. Well that's one version of events, then of course there is the truth - which one makes the better story?

My Favourite Pillbox

My current favourite ex-WW2 concrete artifact is this grand but slightly weather stained (jagged) little pillbox that presently stands guard over the recycling centre at Fyvie in Aberdeenshire.