Rescuing the Bulbs

Dave planted our sea kale, which we'd been keeping in a big flowerpot, in the ground over the weekend. Apparently it needs lots of room so we're hoping it will be more prosperous there, though we'll have to battle to keep the slugs away from it. It is slugalicious.

Anyway, when he dug out the hole, he threw a lot of dirt back behind some shrubbery against our garden fence. He's disposed of dirt in this spot before. But when I looked at his mini dirt pile I realized it was surrounded by sprouting bulbs -- and deduced there were probably bulbs under it, too.

So yesterday morning, before work, I got out there with the trug, which is this huge garden bucket sort of thing, and collected all that waste soil. Sure enough, I uncovered about six thick yellow bulb sprouts -- they were doing their best, considering they'd been completely buried. Now that they've been exposed to daylight again hopefully they'll survive. I think they're probably bluebells.

I dumped the dirt at the back of the garden, where we usually put leaves and sticks and where nothing grows. I told Dave not to use that spot by the fence for dirt disposal anymore. He probably gets sick of me giving him directions.

(Photo: Rather than a predictable picture of yellow bulb sprouts, how about a pink cow and a broken refrigerator, found near Wormwood Scrubs on Sunday?)

Back to the Scrubs

Saturday was rainy and I spent most of it indoors, reading a terrific book -- "Breath," by Tim Winton. It's a coming-of-age book that prominently features surfing, and it reminded me a lot of William Finnegan's surfing memoir, which I read last summer. (And which I also loved.) I don't really have any interest in surfing myself, but for some reason it's fascinating to read about -- probably because both Finnegan and Winton are excellent writers.

I did successfully give away Dave's old recliner via Freecycle. The glass-topped table is still in the shed, though -- no takers so far.

Because I didn't take Olga anywhere -- except on our routine morning walk, which I documented in the previous post -- I wanted to make it up to her yesterday. I just could not face the prospect of going to Hampstead Heath again, though. I needed a new scene. So I took her back to Wormwood Scrubs, where we used to go when we lived in Notting Hill. (More like revisiting an old scene, I suppose -- but it's been years since we've been there.)

I discovered getting there via the Overground isn't hard at all -- four stops to Willesden Junction and then a short walk. Why I didn't think of this before I'm not sure. But I'm glad to know it's possible and I'm sure we'll go back now and then.

At the Willesden Junction station, we discovered a big advertisement for the Mayhew Animal Home, where we got Olga spayed when we first adopted her from All Dogs Matter. I couldn't resist posing her next to it. They took her uterus, but she doesn't seem to hold a grudge.

Anyway, we had a great time at Wormwood Scrubs. There were lots of kids out playing football, and while we were walking, a kid kicked a ball into the bushes near me. I got it out of the brambles for him, and handed it back, but then he threw it to a friend who failed to catch it. You guessed it -- Olga grabbed it and did some damage. The ball didn't seem punctured but she definitely left the surface tattered. The kids weren't upset -- if anything, it amused them. "Look, she's tearing it up!"

They had other footballs, and I suppose they see them as fairly disposable. They must kick balls into trees and whatnot all the time. Still, once I got Olga to drop it, I got the heck out of there before the coach could yell at me.

The dry, rattly pods of the teasels were standing tall all over the Scrubs. I've tried to get some teasels to seed in our garden, apparently without success. Maybe they'll come up later in the season.

Walking Olga with the iPhone

I brought my iPhone along on Olga's walk yesterday morning and found some interesting odds and ends.

First, the quirky house down the street where the lions used to be. It's been vacated and now it's under renovation. I wonder if the painted purple flowers and old bicycle will be preserved?

Nearby, this tenacious hellebore has taken root in the space between the sidewalk pavement and a garden wall -- and has even produced a flower. Unfortunately our sidewalks are due to be upgraded beginning next month, so I'm not sure what that hellebore's future will be.

A rather unfortunate graffiti tag.

Many of the houses on nearby Sumatra Road have these decorative tile panels next to the front door. They're common on English houses of a certain vintage, but the designs can vary widely. I like this urn-and-flowers motif.

Olga was mesmerized by these op-art front steps.

Barriers -- to keep in the other barriers?

During Storm Doris a few days ago, a tree fell and knocked down a fence, revealing some accumulated rubbish behind it -- including ABBA Gold! (I happen to love ABBA, for the record. But the CD was broken, and I have it already anyway.)

Olga checked out the colorful rows of crocus and other flowers planted on West End Green. (I photographed these last year, too.) Spring is on its way!

Free Stuff

It got downright chilly after Doris Day -- a low of 37º F yesterday. I'd put some of our plants outside earlier in the week -- our geraniums, for example, which I'm trying to revive after their rust infestation. (I sprayed them with an anti-fungal and they are looking much better.) It was nice to have the area around the back door all clean and open, but then the plants came in again for this burst of bad weather.

It is only February, so I guess I can't expect them to be able to stay outside permanently. Not yet. I'm just being a weather optimist.

Last night I went on a pub outing with Dave and some coworkers. Why, oh why, did I have that third pint? I should know by now that if I have two pints, I feel no ill effects, but a third one always leaves me feeling fuzzy the next day.

I have a few projects for the weekend -- cleaning out the garden shed, offering some old furniture on freecycle. We have Dave's old recliner, which we bought for our flat in Notting Hill but which he doesn't really like and never uses, and we have a glass-topped coffee table left by the former tenants of our current flat. I'm hoping to give them away. We'll see!

(Photo: Colorful houses near Camden Road.)

Doris Day

Thanks for tolerating my rant yesterday! I'm glad many of you agree with me and have experienced similar levels of political and social frustration. I feel less alone.

Yesterday was much better, fortunately. Whenever I found myself feeling agitated, whether with library issues or political ones, I tried to go back to some of my Zen practice -- conscious breathing, slowing down -- and that really did help alleviate the stress.

I read a fascinating article that a colleague posted to Facebook about a certain variety of young, male Trump supporters -- the Internet-addicted gamer types who frequent the website 4chan -- and why many of them have funneled their frustrations into right-wing politics. It's a long article, so be prepared to invest some time if you check it out, but I found it quite interesting and worthwhile.

Meanwhile, we had quite a bit of excitement in Great Britain yesterday with Storm Doris, a big spiraling windbag that blew across the island and caused a considerable amount of damage and at least one death. People were calling yesterday "Doris Day," which was kind of cute, although the real Doris Day certainly wouldn't want to be associated with this storm. (She's still with us, by the way, and either 92 or 94 years old, depending on which source is cited.)

While Doris wreaked havoc across England and Scotland, here in West Hampstead she wasn't too fierce. We had a terrific burst of wind and rain as I got ready for work, but it passed within about 15 minutes, and then it was just a windy day. Very windy, admittedly. The only damage we suffered was to a potted poppy plant that Dave bought over the weekend at Waitrose -- it was sitting on our patio table, and when he got home from work, the empty pot had blown over to the other side of the house and the plant was nowhere to be found. I eventually located it, wedged against the patio table leg, with nearly all the soil blown away from its root ball. I think it may actually survive, poor thing.

At some point we lost electricity -- our digital clocks were blinking -- and when Dave went to Waitrose in the evening the refrigerated food cases were all closed and the store said it couldn't sell the food within because the power had been out. I hope Doris feels well-fed, having consumed all the perishables in our supermarket!

(Photo: Camden town, on Sunday.)

A Long Rant, with Redeeming Street Signs

I have been super-cranky lately. Yesterday morning I snarled at Dave for taking so long in the bathroom that I was afraid I'd be late for work. (To be fair, he was in there a really, really long time.) And then I just had this big, snarling grizzly bear of a day where everything seemed difficult.

On the surface, it was the little things -- having to remind the same kids to turn in their computer chargers by the end of the day, and then having them not do it; having the five-zillionth fifth grader ask me for a book recommendation, and then having them reject all my suggestions; having yet another brand-new book disappear into an alternative universe when it was supposed to be on the shelf.

But then there are deeper frustrations. I'm sick to death of news. I'm sick of the stomach-churning pseudo-administration of Donald Trump and I'm sick of hearing arguments about what is and isn't "fake news" and I'm sick to death of "populism," which seems to imply in its name that it's somehow beneficial for people when it's actually their enemy. I'm sick of ignorance and misinformation.

I don't understand when being polite became a bad thing. Where I come from, being polite is a virtue -- as is being intelligent. But these days, being careful about other people's feelings and tolerant of others' perspectives gets sneered at as "political correctness." If being courteous and respectful and understanding and caring continues to be mocked as eggheaded weakness, well, that's the downfall of our civilization, isn't it?

But ironically, I'm sick of being tolerant, too. The other day a coworker came and stood over my desk and launched into a monologue about the difference between economic conservatism and Trump conservatism, and after about ten minutes I thought, "WHY am I being subjected to this? It's not a discussion, it's a lecture."

Which maybe displays my own anti-intellectual, intolerant, impolite impulses. What goes around comes around. I silently endured the rest of the lecture, biting the inside of my cheek.

Remember those old Robert Young commercials from the '70s? "Relax, Jim! You should drink Sanka-brand decaffeinated coffee!"

I am feeling like Jim.

In transcribing my old journals recently, I've been struck by how certain I seemed about so many things when I was in my 20s. I guess that's the province of being young -- being certain. The older you get, the more you realize that nothing is certain and you actually know much, much less than you thought. That's wisdom, right?

Well, I'm feeling cranky and feeling like nothing is certain. Our governments, our Democratic ideals, all the things we learned going back as far as "Sesame Street" about the value of cooperation and working together. Instead we're just pulling apart and apart, getting more and more extreme, and we reward the most extreme people -- no matter how clueless -- with wealth and fame and political office.

I am not going to put the name of this person on my blog, but the recent downfall of his career has been gratifying in that it at least proves it's still possible to go too far. We'll see whether the downfall is merely temporary.

How did we get here?

On a positive note, at least I don't have French class to contend with anymore. I must say, I am not missing it at all. It's been really great to have my Saturdays free. When I hit that wall, I hit it hard.

Also, I found this intersection on Google Streetview, in Fort Myers, Florida -- how I found it is a long story -- and I'm thinking Dave and I need to visit the next time we go to the Sunshine State!

(Top photo: A discarded doll in Margate, last week.)

The Black Cap

I've written before about the gradual disappearance of some of London's historic pubs. With real estate prices so high and development opportunities abundant -- especially for pub buildings, which are often quite ornate and stylish -- the pubs themselves often come under tremendous financial pressure.

Here's a pub that closed back in 2015. The Black Cap had the added distinction of being a well-known LGBTQ venue, featuring drag performers and cabaret acts. The pub was made an Asset of Community Value (ACV), a government designation that's supposed to help protect pubs from redevelopment, but sadly that distinction couldn't keep it open.

I'd been reading about this pub for a while but didn't know quite where it was until I happened to walk past it on Sunday.

This rather dandy-looking fellow is perched up by the roof. (Not the pigeon, though he's dandy too.)

Apparently The Black Cap's owners had applied to convert the two floors above the pub into flats, but their application was rejected. I gotta say, those look like they would be amazing flats, although one wonders about noise levels, especially with drag performances going on downstairs!

At least they didn't simply tear the place down.

There's now a public campaign to buy out the pub and keep it open. Fingers crossed!

Rooster Express, Part 6

Longtime readers may remember that when Dave and I first moved to London in 2011, I was photographically infatuated by the rich variety of fried chicken restaurants. (Examples here, here, here, here and here.) These restaurants always have red and/or blue signage -- it's apparently an unspoken industry rule -- and their names often refer back to the southern USA.

Here's a good example with an unusually cumbersome name that I came across Sunday in Camden. I wonder if they had to pay by the letter for that sign?

And I wonder how "new" Tennesseeland differs from "old" Tennesseeland? Was there even an "old" Tennesseeland? Questions to ponder.

Anyway, what can I say about yesterday. It was Monday, and I was back at work. It may not seem like it but we're already on the downslope of the school year! (That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.)

I've tried to write a politically-themed post several times but I just don't have it in me. It brings me down and I know it would bring you down, too. Rest assured I'm thinking about it all, worrying about the stability of the American government and cringing every time I open The New York Times web site.

I'm pretty sure voters in the real Tennesseeland love Donald Trump, though.

Street Art and Old Books

Last Wednesday, when Dave and I took a taxi to get to St. Pancras train station for our trip to Broadstairs, we passed through Camden Town and saw lots of great street art. I realized it had been quite a while since I went walking in that area.

So yesterday I set out on what I intended to be a brief meander. The sky was gray, which is actually ideal for photographing street art -- you don't get distracting shadows on the walls. One of the murals I visited was this flaming spray can piece (above) by Irony.

I normally avoid the area around Camden Market because it's tourist hell and the sidewalks are packed. There are always various costumed characters (yesterday I saw The Mad Hatter) wandering around, looking to make a pound or two. But what makes the area so obnoxious to walk through can also make it fun if you're in the mood for that sort of thing.

So I walked for an hour or two through Camden and into Primrose Hill, where I became distracted by a secondary mission. I happened upon a bookshop with a bin of used books outside, and when I browsed through them I came across this volume (left). I love that cover -- those '50s graphics! "The Green Singers," from 1958, is set in Australia, and I had to have it -- and it was only £3! But of course I didn't have any cash on me, and I didn't want to try to make such a minor purchase with a debit card. (I may be wrong, but the shop didn't seem like the kind of place where they'd go for that.) So I schlepped through Primrose Hill and back to Camden Road to find an ATM, and then back to the bookshop.

In the end, success -- and I also got a second old book (right, below, just £2). I've never heard of either of these authors, but I liked the old-fashioned dust jackets so much. Apparently David Leslie wrote numerous books including some with homoerotic elements. (Score!) And Ralph Arnold's "Hands Across the Water," from 1947, is about trying to find a newly incarnated Tibetan lama in England.

So, who knows -- they might be rubbish. But maybe one of them will be another H. E. Bates -- an author I'd never heard of before I took the plunge on some thrift store books that I turned out to really like! I'll report back.

I walked from Primrose Hill up to Adelaide Road and caught the C11 bus for home. By this time it was past noon -- nothing like a good morning of urban exploration.

Dave and I spent the afternoon in the garden, continuing to prune and prepare for the new growing season. Yesterday I mentioned the crocuses coming up around town, and we found a few in our own flower beds. We also filled three lawn bags with leaves and trimmings. It's amazing how much debris a garden can accumulate.

Last night we went on a "Gogglebox" TV bender. Dave reheated his Sauce Bolognese, but added tomatoes to make it a more traditional red sauce. He was not impressed with his low-tomato-content initial attempt!

And apropos of nothing, here's the word of the day: "broigus." I saw it used in a headline in the Jewish News, which I happened to pick up for free on the high street yesterday morning. (See page 12.) Apparently it's a yiddish word meaning a fight -- in this case, between air passengers mid-flight! It's a great word -- I think I could find room for it in my vocabulary.

En Plein Air

Olga may have seemed exhausted when we got back from Broadstairs, but after a good night's sleep she was raring to go. So we went to the Heath yesterday morning and took a long walk.

We came across this guy painting en plein air in Hampstead. He seemed to be finishing up -- I think he was cleaning his brushes.

The walk went well, and on the way home we found about a million crocuses in the Hampstead Church cemetery. Signs of spring!

Dave experimented for dinner and made a real Bolognese sauce for pasta. Apparently the red meat sauce all of us think of as Bolognese really isn't -- the authentic variety is paler, with less tomato and more veg and even a touch of milk. It wasn't bad, but I don't think either of us were a huge fan. I get why red sauce is so popular!

We also did more garden cleanup. I raked the parking space in front of our house, which was full of last autumn's piled-up blown leaves and tiny bits of street litter. (Technically the parking space is the responsibility of the upstairs neighbors, who actually park there, but we own a rake and they don't, so I didn't mind doing it. Probably should have done it weeks ago, in fact.) Dave pruned our buddleia and some other plants, hopefully getting everything ready to bush out again in a few weeks.

Last night we watched "Beginners," with Ewan McGregor and Christopher Plummer. It's an earlier movie by Mike Mills, the same guy who wrote and directed "20th Century Women," which Dave and I saw last week in the theater. "Beginners" is excellent. I loved it. If you haven't seen it, download it and check it out!

Broadstairs Proper

Yesterday was our day to explore the town of Broadstairs itself. After a light breakfast at our hotel, and a romp with the Kong on the windy, chilly beach, we all took a taxi into town. (Dave was very emphatic about not walking.)

We got dropped off at the bottom of the high street, where the town meets the water at Viking Bay. There's a wide arc of beach guarded by a line of colorful bathing cabanas -- one sign referred to them as "chalets," which sounds oddly alpine.

We promptly found a pub named after Charles Dickens, who summered in Broadstairs and wrote "David Copperfield" there. In fact the big house on a cliff overlooking the bay where Dickens lived is now known as Bleak House, though apparently the namesake novel is actually set in Hertfordshire.

It was a bit too early to eat again, so we walked through town to the train station, passing some intriguing artwork along the way (the result of a local contest among children to decorate some vacant shopfronts).

Olga found her favorite shop. It was all we could do to keep her out of there. I hope the proprietors appreciate our dedication, because otherwise she would have been doing full-body rolls in the meat case.

We wandered back down to the bay -- Bleak House is the castle-like brown structure at left. There's also a Dickens museum in town, but we didn't go.

Instead we went back to the Dickens pub, where had pints and a sausage sandwich (in my case) and Olga sat on my lap because she was a bit shivery on the chilly pavement.

We finally caught our train at 2 p.m., and I finished the second of my "Blind Date with a Book" novels on the way back to London. Dave read too, as did a pink-haired girl with a nose ring across the aisle -- she was engrossed in a book of Tennyson's poems. (There'll always be an England.)

We got home and Olga promptly fell into a deep, snorey sleep on the couch. She was happy to be back in familiar surroundings -- as were we all!

The Shell Grotto

Yesterday Dave, Olga and I walked along the seaside cliffs to Margate, the next town along the coast to the northwest of us. It took a couple of hours to walk there and back -- I don't know how far it is, but surely a few miles at least. We looked down from the clifftops upon the mysterious blue maps and abstractions left in the sand and seaweed by the retreating tide.

Olga got about as much exercise as a dog could stand, I think. She enjoyed chasing her Kong in all the grassy areas along the way. (It's basically one big park.) And once again, we had a sunny day!

I figured we needed a destination in Margate, and while checking out the town on Google Maps beforehand I saw an intriguing landmark called "The Shell Grotto." Turns out this is an underground passageway and chamber covered with 4.6 million seashells in various patterns. What saves it from being a merely kitschy tourist attraction is that it's really old and mysterious -- apparently it was re-discovered in 1838 and opened to the public, but its origins are murky.

Is it a medieval devotional chamber? A Renaissance curiosity? A Roman relic?

My guess is, it was some wealthy guy's garden decoration, but who knows? Apparently carbon dating is expensive -- and it's unreliable unless they test several portions, because the grotto has been repaired and restored over the centuries -- so that hasn't been done. But it is historically listed and I love weird stuff like this, so I got a kick out of it. Dave stayed up in the cafe with Olga, watching an over-energetic boy break not one, not two but three items in the gift shop, which his poor beleaguered mother then had to buy.

We walked back along the cliffs, wearing the dog (and Dave) out even more. When we got back to the room, Dave declared, "No more walking!" But we did manage to stagger out to a nearby pub, the Captain Digby, for an evening pint before dinner. Unfortunately Olga wasn't allowed inside so we spent a chilly half-hour at a picnic table in the "beer garden" (aka the parking lot). That brisk ocean air!

Today we're going to check out the town of Broadstairs before getting on our train for home.

Olga at the Beach

The beach is a new experience for Olga. All that sand! And weird, fishy-smelling sea things!

Kelp, we learned, must be peed upon. By dogs, at least.

We also learned that chasing the Kong toy on the beach leads to a Kong covered with sand. Which of course mean's Olga's lips and nose become covered, too.

Not that this particularly bothers her.

She doesn't show much enthusiasm for the water itself. She'll approach the retreating waves and then back up when they surge forward again, hesitant to even wet her toes. My fears that she would leap into the ocean and be swept away by a rogue current appear to be unfounded.

We are in an area of Kent famous for its chalky cliffs. The porous nature of the stone leads to some very unusual, Swiss Cheesy beach rocks. (I kept this one.) There are also scattered seashells of limpets and mussels and periwinkles.

Here's our hotel. We're on a bluff atop the cliffs, and there are steps down to the sea nearby. (Not the famous "Broad Stairs" of Broadstairs, which apparently really was named after a set of steps. Technically, we're in Kingsgate, just north of Broadstairs on an inlet called Botany Bay.)

Our journey here went smoothly yesterday. Before we left home, I put my Valentine's Day tulips on the windowsill in the alcove next to the front door:

I figured if we're not home to enjoy them, at least our neighbors can!

The train trip was a little more than an hour, and Olga handled it admirably. Once off the train, we walked to the hotel, which was a bit of a schlep but allowed us to both exercise the dog and see the town.

I did a terrible job packing -- forgot my toothbrush and deodorant and Olga's dog towel! We can make do without the latter, but even two nights without the former would be unacceptable. I suppose I'll have to pop into a neighborhood shop today...

Tulips and Another Day of Sun

Yesterday was much nicer than I expected, weather-wise. The sun decided to hang around and grace us with its presence for at least another day. Overall, the seasons seem to be turning -- it's a bit brighter out, more spring-like, and we neatened up the garden a bit.

And it was Valentine's Day, which wasn't really on our radar. We made no special plans, but Dave came back from getting his hair cut with a bouquet of red tulips, which was cute. I sort of had it in my head that our trip to Broadstairs today would be Valentine's celebration enough, but I did tell Dave how much I love him and how glad I am that we found each other. I gave him a verbal bouquet.

This feeling was especially acute because I worked more yesterday on transcribing my journals, and reading about all my struggles to meet people and go on dates -- especially when I was living in Southwest Florida more than 20 years ago -- made me appreciate what I have now all the more. It's actually somewhat exhausting to re-read parts of these journals, the moments of youthful drama and loneliness. I don't transcribe those pages! Seriously, editing can be a challenge -- to represent the mood of the entry and my state of mind, yet eliminate the superfluous (and embarrassing) self-indulgence.

Overall, though, it's a very fun project and I hope it's creating a useful and accessible record.

In the afternoon Dave and I went to see "20th Century Women," which I enjoyed. It was another slow-paced talker of a film, about a single woman raising a teenaged son in Santa Barbara in the late 1970s -- a time period with which I can identify! The film is well-acted by Annette Bening and others, and visually beautiful. I loved the cinematography, the shots of turbulent blue ocean and brilliant magenta bougainvillea and golden West Coast sunshine. I'm thinking Dave and I need to go to California sometime.

We considered going out for a martini afterwards but navigating the crowds around Piccadilly Circus made us decide to come home instead. A gin & tonic on the couch is hard to beat!

(Photo: A workman's lunch break, Monday in Chelsea.)

A Sunny Day, and Hockney

We had beautiful, clear skies yesterday! Pretty much unheard of for this time of year, and if the weather reports are to be believed it's pretty much the only sunshine we'll see through the middle of next week. And yet, there was not a cloud to be seen. Are the weather gods toying with us, or what?

I seized the opportunity to take a photo walk through Chelsea and Battersea. I took the 328 bus down to the Chelsea neighborhood known as World's End, which is exactly what it felt like after 45 minutes on a city bus. London bus drivers must be the most Zen people on Earth. They seem utterly unfazed by cars cutting in front of them, pedestrians stepping out into the street, construction zones. They politely wave drivers to turn in front of them and proceed in slow dignity along their routes. (Sometimes very slow dignity.) If I were a bus driver I would be consumed with rage.

When I finally got to World's End, I explored the neighborhood around the old Lots Road power plant, now under redevelopment, and then crossed the Albert Bridge to Battersea. I visited the Peace Pagoda in Battersea Park (above), which I'd only seen from a distance before. It has brilliant gold sculptures of scenes from the Buddha's life on its four sides.

I crossed back over the Chelsea Bridge and got a good view of the old Battersea Power Station, which has changed dramatically since I visited more than five (!) years ago. It's also being redeveloped, including rebuilding the smokestacks and apparently some of the walls. Eventually, it will be surrounded by (and contain, I believe) apartments, like the ones at right in the photo above.

I remember John Pawson, in his book "Minimum," about his minimalist architectural aesthetic, citing the Battersea Power Station as an icon. I bet he hates the thought of these apartments cluttering up the view.

My goal for the day was to attend the David Hockey exhibit at the Tate Britain. I'd bought an entry ticket the day before, anticipating crowds, and sure enough it seemed well attended. I was introduced to Hockney's paintings as a kid because they were used in the opening credits of Neil Simon's movie "California Suite," and I've loved them ever since. I used to have a poster of "A Bigger Splash" when I lived in Florida.

I'll say this for Hockney -- he's a master at painting the shimmery, rippling quality of light in a swimming pool. I was also unaware of his earliest work -- which was remarkably gay, at least for its time period in the early 1960s. More recently he's done photo and video collages involving multiple shots of the same scene, taken at different moments or slightly different angles, and giving an overall impression of depth and movement. Hockney likens traditional photography to the view of a Cyclops -- the single lens and flat plane. I'm not sure I entirely agree with that, but the collages were interesting and effective.

As if in keeping with the bright subtropical theme of Hockney, we saw a parrot on one of our bird feeders! They've come around before, but I hadn't seen one in our garden in a while, so it was an unusual treat -- like the suet balls undoubtedly were for the parrot.

Last night we had dinner with our friend Tim, visiting from the states, and his friend Mark, who lives in Bournemouth. We went down to Kensington (on the 328 bus, again!) and had a good time, although I burned the roof of my mouth on my overly-hot cottage pie. I hate that.

Oscar Movies

Olga and I often pass this house on our morning walks. I've always found the marble wall and front walkway a curious addition.

This photo was taken Saturday, and you can see flecks of snow falling. Yesterday's weather wasn't a whole lot better. It was definitely an indoor day. We seized the moment to walk over to Hampstead and see one of several movies we've been wanting to catch in the theater: "Manchester by the Sea," which was terrific. Casey Affleck entirely disappears into his character, and although it's slow-paced it's deeply moving and quite beautiful to watch. It's not everybody's thing, though -- I overheard one guy emerging with his wife saying, "That was terrible!" She replied, "Oh, I thought it was alright."

Even Dave liked it, though, and that's saying something for a serious drama. Recall that he did not feel the same way about "Boyhood."

So, one down, and a few more to go. I definitely want to see "20th Century Women," and I think we should see "La La Land" since it's probably going to be the big thing at the Oscars. Dave is interested in both "Arrival" and "Passengers" as well. The fact that all the good movies come out at once, in order to be fresh in the minds of Oscar judges, is quite annoying.

I slept more than nine hours last night! I feel like a new man!

Hearts and Gloom

Yesterday was one of those days you'd just really rather not be outside. We got a dusting of snow flurries, which clung to our newly planted primroses, and Olga and I managed to get our morning walk despite the frozen precipitation. (She won't go out in rain, but she doesn't seem to mind snow -- which I can understand.) We walked the black path, which seemed even blacker than usual.

When we got back home I dragged a chair into the kitchen, got out the cream cleaner and cleaned the upper shelves and cabinets -- a job I've been avoiding. That thin layer of kitchen grease just finally got to me. It looks a million times better in there now.

I finished Paul Kanithi's "When Breath Becomes Air," which I enjoyed although it's not exactly a happy book. Kanithi was a neurosurgeon and all-around brilliant guy who fell victim at a young age to cancer -- a cruel irony. Here's a little etymological oddity I gleaned from his book: the word disaster literally means a star coming apart. Dis-Aster. (Actually, the dictionary says it comes from the Latin for "an ill-starred event," which isn't quite the same thing, but I like that image of a disintegrating star.)

Etymological questions are always interesting. The other day I used the term "field day," as in, "So-and-so will have a field day with that." And I got to wondering where that term comes from. Apparently it's an old military term for a day spent in field maneuvers, but its literal meaning is almost never used anymore. Dave and I have questions about this kind of stuff all the time. Language is fascinating!

I spent part of the afternoon watching birds at our feeders. We got coal tits, blue tits, pigeons (of course), crows, blackbirds and the starling above. A fairly mundane day.

At least, until this Eurasian jay showed up looking for peanuts. I set some out on the table and watched it come and go several times. (Not the best photo -- Juanita was in the way.)

Our "Blind Date with a Book" event on Thursday and Friday seemed to be a hit with the kids. Above was my wrapped book -- some parent volunteers helped with the wrapping, and let's just say this one looked a little rough. Rather than rewrap it and waste the paper, my boss plastered it with stickers to spruce it up. It turned out to be a novel called "Small Acts of Amazing Courage" by Gloria Whelan, and I know nothing about it, but I'll give it a read this week.

(Have I mentioned that we're on February break now? We don't go back to school until a week from tomorrow. Lots of reading time!)

One kid came into the decorated library on Friday, looked at me blankly and asked, "Why are there hearts everywhere?"

Ummm...Valentine's Day?

"Oh yeah," he said. (This was the same kid who did the freedom survey. Kind of spacey, between you and me.)

Anyway, back to yesterday -- Olga and I finished the day with a gloomy afternoon walk through the cemetery. It was gloomy to me, anyway -- once again, the dog had a great time and didn't seem put off by the weather at all. She did need a bath when we got home, though.

I've finally finished posting all my photos from our December cruise to Flickr. I already blogged some of them, but if you want to check out the rest they're here.