Fromage

After a morning of puttering around the house, doing things like vacuuming (how does a house get dirty when no one is in it?) and adding soil to a cyclamen on the front porch that had been excavated by a squirrel, I inaugurated the new year by taking Olga to Hampstead Heath.

We passed these posters on the way. Olga had hoped to go to the NYE party at Club de Fromage. Look at her -- she's so disappointed she turned her back to it.

We found this chewed-up rainbow dog ball on the Heath. The stratified layers remind me of a class I took in college called "Geology of National Parks," in which we learned all about the rock layers of the Grand Canyon. The only one I remember now is the Vishnu schist, clearly represented here by that red area.

London's earliest clump of snowdrops is once again blooming before any others. At least they're consistent!

After all the cleaning, organizing and walking, we took it easy in the evening. While Dave worked on music for school, I watched "Buster and Billie," an old favorite, even with its ultimately tragic outcome. I like the rural Southern atmosphere, although it struck me this time that there are no black people in that movie, which is pretty bizarre considering it's set in rural Georgia in 1948. I suppose their absence conveys the depth of segregation in that society. Jan-Michael Vincent was certainly a looker; it's a shame his life later took such a turn for the worse.