Duck Your Nut

I got up yesterday feeling strangely hungry, considering the elaborate meal we'd had the night before. I guess with tasting menus, though, you don't necessarily get a significant quantity of food. Everything is artfully prepared down to the tiniest morsel, but some of the courses are only a tiny morsel. In other words, calorically, I was at a deficit.

Dave took care of that by cooking up an English breakfast using the supplies that came with our cottage.

We had beans, eggs, bacon, sliced tomatoes and buttered toast with jam. Olga watched from the couch, eagerly awaiting her own piece of morning bacon.

See how low that doorway is? "Duck your nut" indeed! (In the photo it looks like "youre," which would obviously be grammatically incorrect, but that last e is actually just a flourish on the lettering -- not an e at all.)

After breakfast and some reading, Olga and I set out on a walk. We headed through town (top photo) to Braywick Park, where we went almost exactly three years ago.

To get there, we walked a long, raised sidewalk called The Causeway, through pastures and over a bridge across The Cut, a canal. Olga watched the squirrels intently, chasing them in her imagination.

The bridge was made by Tubewrights Ltd. of Newport, Monmouthshire (Wales). I've found an identical bridge in London. I guess pedestrian bridges were a Tubewrights specialty.

I wasn't sure how far Olga would want (or be able) to go, but we got to the park and walked part of its interior loop. Eventually I turned around and took her home again and she did not protest. It was a healthy walk for the old girl.

I, however, felt like I still needed some exercise. Walking Olga these days is just a slow amble. So after dropping her back at the cottage I set out myself for a longer, brisker walk around the park and some nearby neighborhoods. I came across a wedding at St. Michael's Church, and although I didn't linger it was fun to see the bride and groom emerge from the church, to be greeted by all the well-dressed guests.

Then I settled in with some New Yorkers and read until dinner, when Dave and I went to the Hind's Head, the pub that is attached to our cottage. It's also run by Heston Blumenthal, the chef at The Fat Duck, but its style is more casual and traditionally pub-like. A gastropub, I guess. I had fish pie and took it easy on the alcohol.

One downside of this cottage, like Clamato Cottage a few years ago, is the staircase. This one isn't as steep as Clamato's, but Olga is older and frailer, and reluctant to go up and down stairs. (And I'm reluctant to allow her to try.) So I carry her up to bed and then down again in the morning.

Well, last night she got kind of agitated around 1 a.m., squirming around and panting. At first we covered her with her blanket, thinking she was just cold, but that didn't work -- so at 3:30 a.m. I carried her downstairs to let her out. That didn't appear to be the problem either.

I decided I wasn't going to lug this 40-pound dog up and down the stairs all night, so she and I squeezed onto the two-seater couch, which required me to curl up like a cannonball. She was much calmer downstairs and, miraculously, we were both able to sleep.

Fortunately our cabin in Whitstable is only one story, so we won't have this staircase issue during Christmas!

A Levitating Pillow

Well, we made it to Bray, an easy journey on the train. We couldn't check into the cottage where we're staying, called Dormer Cottage, until 3 p.m., so we didn't even leave London until after lunch. We kicked around the house in the morning, watering plants, packing our single suitcase and doing miscellaneous stuff.

Finally we got on the tube with Olga and took the Elizabeth Line all the way out to Maidenhead. Once here, we once again had a bit of trouble getting a taxi because no one wanted to carry a dog. (Remember that Charlie Brown special where Snoopy kept getting kicked out of places as a deep voice sang, "No dogs allowed..."?) Finally an Uber driver accepted our ride without seeing our note about the dog, and he agreed to see the deal through. Poor Olga.

The photo at top is the bulldog door-knocker on our cottage door, and here's the front of the cottage. As you can see, the doorway is quite low! It doesn't get any better inside, where we have to duck as we go into the kitchen and up and down the stairs, but it is charming and comfortable overall.

Above is the street in front of the cottage. Through those gates is the historic churchyard, where...

...a Scout troop built a bug hotel, "Buglins at Bray," many years ago. I photographed it when it was new. It still exists, and it looks like a lot of bugs have made it their home.

It's taken Olga a while to settle in here -- she kept pacing around nervously, sniffing everything -- but Dave built a fire in the fireplace, which helped her relax.

I went for an afternoon wander around the village, past sights like these...

...and then back to the cottage past chilly, misty meadows as the sun began to set. (It was 4:17 p.m.)

Last night, Dave and I tucked Olga into her pink blanket at the cottage and went to dinner at The Fat Duck, Heston Blumenthal's famous restaurant, one of the chief attractions in Bray. On past visits we'd never been able to get a reservation, but the people we booked the cottage from were able to make it happen. We had the tasting menu, and I got wine pairings, which started with a martini! Heaven. It was a wonderful, clever and eccentric meal, featuring gastronomic surprises like a carrot coated in 24-karat gold leaf (which we ate, or rather, drank). The main entree was venison, but there were also scallops, a prawn mini-sandwich and other delights. Our menu was styled like an advent calendar and we got Christmas crackers containing a traditional paper crown, souvenir coin and a small toy. (Dave got a wooden top; I got a yo-yo.)

That gold leaf seemed so decadent. I told Dave I felt like the grotesque rich people in "The Hunger Games."

"When the revolution starts, we're the ones who are going to be killed," I said.

Here's a good example of the eccentric dishes we experienced. This dessert, a pair of meringues (Dave had already eaten his by the time I made the video), was served on a pillow levitating above a music box playing a lullaby. We were blindfolded while it was brought to the table, so when we uncovered our eyes it was revealed already floating. (Spoiler alert: They do it with magnets.)

We didn't start dinner until 8 p.m. and it was after midnight by the time we stumbled the 20 meters back to the cottage, miraculously not hitting our heads, and fell into bed. Olga was none the worse for wear and seemed to have slept during our absence, as she's doing now.

Quite a Thanksgiving!

Medical Matters and Boiled Sweets

There are still colored leaves out there, looking a little more tattered and trodden with every passing day. I would like to say that I intentionally and cleverly included my feet in this photo, but that would be a lie. That was a complete accident.

I endured my neurodivergency training yesterday. Neurodivergence, as many of you guessed, is an umbrella term that means people who process and/or express information differently from "normal." (I'm putting that in quotes because I'm not sure any of us are truly standardized in that respect -- we all have our quirks.) This includes people diagnosed with autism or what used to be called Asperger's (but now apparently is not, partly because of Hans Asperger's involvement with the Nazis), as well as people with ADHD, dyslexia, dyscalculia, dyspraxia and other conditions.

The training only lasted an hour and a half and I did learn a few new things. I suppose my awareness was raised even if I may not practically apply that knowledge every day.

Then I went into the non-fiction section and spent about an hour shelf-reading, which was peaceful and satisfying. I found several books that were way, way out of place. This speaks to my own neurodivergence, which probably includes a touch of OCD.

Dave had a doctor's appointment yesterday with a rheumatologist, who thinks he has something called Anti-TNF Lupus-like Syndrome. He's been struggling with facial swelling, rashes, red eyes, vision issues, eczema, ear problems, fatigue, you name it -- and apparently all this can be triggered by treatment with Infliximab for inflammatory bowel disease. He's been taking Infliximab for years. So the doctor gave him some steroids and is going to recommend to his gastroenterologists that he be switched to a different drug for his Crohn's.

He also learned that his hernia surgery has been scheduled for Dec. 6. This has been on the horizon for ages and he's glad to finally get a firm date -- especially since he can use Winter Break to recover. We figure he can recover just as well in Whitstable as here, so we don't think it will affect our holiday plans. He will need to stay several days in the hospital after the operation, though.

We're in for some fun times here at Chez Olga.

Dave's medical literature sternly warned him that he was not to eat for several hours prior to his surgery, including chewing gum and "boiled sweets."

"What the heck is a boiled sweet?" I said.

"I think it's hard candy," he said -- and indeed it is. If I ever knew that hard candy was boiled, I'd forgotten it.

Several nights ago I put the garden cam back out, to see what's wandering around out there in the wee hours. (I gave it a break for several months.) Here's the result -- some good shots of foxes, a couple of neighborhood cats, and of course Olga.

This afternoon we're off to Bray, so I'll be coming to you tomorrow from our hideaway in Berkshire. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Geometry

I came across these crazy front steps while on my way to a pub outing last night to celebrate a colleague's birthday. I wonder if that's a single building, or two buildings with a common owner, or just two neighbors who adapted the same style of tiling?

Going to the pub was just about the only interesting thing that happened all day -- I tried a beer called "Pretty Good Beer," or something like that, which I thought was a refreshingly candid name. (Actually it may have been from this company, Pretty Decent Beer, which has varieties with names like "I Reckon That's a Banksy" and "My Ex Was in a Band and They Had a Hit Called Sheryl Crow.")

Otherwise, it was a very quiet day, with many students already gone for Thanksgiving. While tidying shelves I saw this pattern on a window in the afternoon, shadows thrown by a scaffold outside the building.

Today we've got a meeting and some professional development in the morning, and then Dave and I are free until next Monday! The PD focuses on working with "neurodiverse" students. I'm not sure what to expect from that.

Urban Life

As I walked to work yesterday morning I passed these poor guys, having to clean graffiti off a new glazed-tile wall. This is a good example of the type of graffiti that has no value as far as I can see. I'm all for interesting street art in the appropriate place, but we could all do without bad tagging.

It reminded me of a video I stumbled across on YouTube not too long ago by a guy who seems fixated on the idea that European cities and countries are all going downhill -- a common right-wing, Trumpian narrative. In London, he and his partner wandered around filming every passing police car and homeless person, complaining about dirt, implying that anyone dressed in black on a motorbike is a phone-snatcher, and pointing out a perceived absence of proudly flying Union Jacks. Why I wound up with this video in my feed, I have no idea, but of course it's ridiculous. (He's done a similar video for Lisbon.)

I hesitate to link to his videos and give this guy any more oxygen, but I'll just say that you can walk around filming and exaggerating the ugliest aspects of any city in the world, if you choose to see cities that way. That is not what I see when I walk around London, for the most part. He says someone tried to snatch his phone, which may be true, but in 13 years of living here I've never had that happen, nor do I believe that every guy on a motorbike is a phone thief. (Most of them are food delivery drivers.)

Looking at the photo above, you could say, "Oh, how terrible to have that graffiti problem." Or you could admire the fact that it's being cleaned up.

Do cities have problems? Absolutely. But they always have, going all the way back to Jacob Riis and Jane Addams, and even earlier. Homelessness and poverty and migrants and litter are hardly new phenomena. In fact I'd wager that 100 years ago London was a heck of a lot dirtier than it is now. So yeah, London has changed -- for the better.

I will agree that London has a lot of grotty, unnecessary phone booths that need to be removed. I'm with him on that.

Speaking of litter, I found this on the sidewalk near our school -- an obviously Thanksgiving-themed napkin. It must have come from our school, because Thanksgiving is not a British holiday. I liked the autumnal color scheme!

We only have one more day of school with students, and then a half-day of work tomorrow for so-called professional development before we're off on our Thanksgiving holiday. I mentioned that Dave and I are taking Olga on a little trip -- we're going back to Bray, a village in Berkshire just outside London that we've visited several times. (It's where we stayed in Clamato Cottage. We didn't get Clamato this time, but we're staying in another similar accommodation.)

I'm wondering what it's going to be like getting Olga out there. It's not a long trip and we can take the train, but at her age, just walking to and from the station is going to be quite an outing!

Ho Ho Ho

This was one of my little projects yesterday -- to get some holiday cheer going. I know, it might seem a little early, but we don't have the barrier of Thanksgiving here in the UK, so psychologically I'm already gearing up for Christmas. Keeping in mind, of course, that putting up one strand of lights is about as geared up as I get.

You might remember that our previous lights died at the end of last year's holiday season, so I had to wander down to the DIY store on the high street and pick up a new set. They had them in 8- and 16-meter sizes, which both seemed gigantic. I certainly do not need 16 meters of Christmas lights. Finally I found a 6-meter strand and bought that, and it was more than enough for our fiddle-leaf fig, which in the absence of the avocado is now our stand-in Christmas tree.

These LED lights cost £15, which seemed a bit expensive, but hey, I'm supporting a local business.

Here's what they look like at night. I'm digging the mirror effect in the multiple windows.

When first plugged in, they strobed and pulsed like the dance floor at Studio 54. (Or what I imagine it to have looked like, anyway.) We tried to live with it at first but all the flashing was just too distracting, so I read the box and learned the lights have multiple settings. Indeed, there is a tiny button on the plug that, when pushed seven times, sets the lights to "static" mode. (The intermediate settings are various speeds and styles of strobing -- fast, slow, green/yellow followed by red/blue, etc.)

Anyway it's taken me almost as long to write about these lights as it did to acquire and install them.

Otherwise, we hunkered down. It was very windy all day, particularly in the morning, as a result of Storm Bert. The worst of the storm struck far to the north and west of us, but we got some strong gusts. The Russians have some large plants on their terrace and every once in a while one of them would blow over, sending a reverberating THUD through the house, despite Mrs. Russia tying them to the railings.

I did get out and do some gardening, cutting back the persicaria and the old blackberry canes, and some other miscellaneous stuff. I filled three yard waste bags. Olga, who normally likes to join me when I'm gardening, stayed on the couch (as did Dave).

Last night, Dave made stuffed shells -- which were delicious, but my God, when he was done the kitchen was a disaster. I ran a load of dishes last night and had to do a second one this morning. I think he used every pot. Still, I cannot complain, since if it weren't for Dave I'd be eating tuna fish from a can.

Alice and Sea Bee

It's windy as heck out there this morning. I woke to find our garden waste bag all the way across the garden by the back shed -- I've never seen it travel that far! Gwynneth's phrase "blowing a hoolie" comes to mind, though with winds only between 20-30 mph, maybe it's not really a proper hoolie. It's a good thing I uncovered the avocado, or its billowy shroud would be somewhere over Windsor Castle by now.

The leaves have mostly come off the trees, as you can see above, giving the grass a colorful carpet.

I spent most of yesterday in and around the house. In addition to my normal weekend trifecta of vacuuming/laundry/garden I caught up on blogs and polished off another New Yorker. I'm still five issues behind.

Here are my pals Frank, Rich and Joe back in August 2001, when we drove up to Massachusetts to go to Tanglewood, the summer performance grounds of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We happened to drive through Stockbridge, where we encountered the restaurant made famous by Arlo Guthrie in his song "Alice's Restaurant Massacree." You may have seen the news that Alice Brock, the former proprietor of Alice's, just died, which is what inspired me to share this photo.

We didn't actually enter the restaurant, which by then was known as Theresa's (and still is, I believe). It either wasn't open or we weren't hungry at that moment, I can't remember. In fact, I'm not sure we even saw the restaurant itself, which is down a side alley off the main street in Stockbridge. We may have been content to pose at the sign.

While I'm at it, here's another photo from that same trip. That's me, in front of a mysterious upended ship stranded in the parking lot of a shopping center across from our hotel in Pittsfield, Mass. Until yesterday I never quite knew the story of this bizarre spectacle, but we thought it was weird enough to merit a photo.

Through the miracle of the Internet I have learned that this was an artwork created by a California sculptor named Dustin Schuler. As you can see on the hull, it was called Sea Bee. The owner of the shopping center installed it in 1990, and it was a subject of some local controversy before being removed in 2002, only a year after we took the photo above. Schuler took it back to his home turf and installed it in truncated form on the campus of California State University at Fullerton.

I love how someone decided that as long as there's a big boat upended in the parking lot, may as well put a trash can next to it. And someone else thought, "Hey, I'll park in the shade!"

An Ex-Friend of a Friend

Well, I am finally settling down to write this post, after getting distracted by articles about Cher's new autobiography, rising numbers of alcohol-related deaths and other cheery subjects. (Well, Cher really is cheery, and I might buy that book -- but maybe not right away, having only recently hacked my way through Barbra Streisand's memoirs.)

Blogger was giving me fits yesterday. It wouldn't allow me to answer comments on my own blog. I kept getting error messages that my comments "failed to post." This is a relatively new problem for me but it's been happening more and more, both on my blog and others. It's very annoying, and I don't know whether it's due more to firewalls at work or malfunctions on Blogger's end. Take note, Blogger developers, if you care.

Anyway, that's why all of Thursday's comments remain unanswered. I'll try to get to them later this morning.

My day was relatively sane yesterday -- busy, but manageable. And after I got home, I took the ghostly covering off the avocado so it can benefit from this weekend's expected rainfall and more sunlight.

Here's what the back door looks like -- our makeshift greenhouse, with all the tender plants clustered around it. You can see the plectranthus on the left with the variegated leaves, a couple of geraniums below that, and another geranium behind the Christmas (Thanksgiving?) cacti. The citrus tree is on the right. Everything else lives inside all the time. I may put a few of the outdoor plants back on the patio now that things have warmed up a bit.

What do we think about Pam Bondi? Her appointment interests me mainly because my reporter friend Sue, who lives in Tampa and who I know from college, used to be close friends with Pam. I never met her myself but I heard a lot of stories about their activities together. Certainly neither Sue nor I ever imagined Bondi might become Attorney General of the United States. Sue has since told me that she no longer recognizes the Pam she knew in the uber-conservative woman who is now in the public eye. It appears Bondi went through some life changes over the years that led her to where she is now, and whether these changes were made for the sake of ambition or personal or religious evolution, only Bondi could say.

Anyway, I've been telling people I'm two degrees removed from Pam Bondi. It's good for a joke.

(Top photo: The Alexandra & Ainsworth Estate, on my walk home from work last night.)

Wake Up, Charles Bukowski!

Every once in a while, as a library assistant, I come across some fun random information. Like yesterday, for example.

While proofreading a slide presentation for the head librarian, I found an infographic about the sleep habits of famous writers. It correlated the hour they habitually woke up, based on interviews and biographies, with their literary output and the awards they won. Honoré de Balzac apparently awoke at an insane 1 a.m. (when did he go to bed?), followed by Haruki Murakami and Sylvia Plath at 4 a.m. An hour later Toni Morrison, Oliver Sacks, Benjamin Franklin, Margaret Mead and Immanuel Kant all began their days.

At the other end of the spectrum, Charles Bukowski didn't roll out of bed until noon, with F. Scott Fitzgerald only slightly earlier at 11 a.m. William S. Burroughs professed to wake up at 9:30 a.m., but I'd be surprised.

The early birds do seem to have more major awards, but there doesn't seem to be a huge impact on productivity, from what I can tell. The most productive writers in terms of quantity -- Isaac Asimov (6 a.m.), Stephen King (8 a.m.) and Ray Bradbury (9 a.m.) were all more in the middle of the pack.

Anyway the infographic is here, if you're interested. I found it intriguing. Everyone assumes that early risers get more done, and I definitely value my early-morning writing time, when the house is more or less quiet and I can concentrate before I begin the day. But everyone has a different system. Whatever works, right?

I met with my British tax advisor last night, and I now more or less understand the whys and wherefores of my tax bill. I still have to figure out how best to pay it, but the good news is that, as I expected, this year will be an outlier in terms of how much I pay because of the settling of my mom's estate. Next year ought to cost me less (but it will still cost me). As I always say, taxes are the price we pay to live in a civilized society, so I can't complain too much.

I did indulge in a glass of wine during that conversation, though. If I was going to give up an hour of my evening staring at columns of figures, then by golly I was going to enjoy it.

The temperatures this morning are  slightly warmer than yesterday -- 34º F (or 1.1º C) when I woke up, so not quite freezing. There may be more rain or wet snow ("wintry mix," as they say in New York) this morning, but after that nighttime temperatures are back in the 40s F, so I think I'll uncover the avocado this evening.

Dave thinks it's insane to keep covering and uncovering plants, or to keep bringing them in and putting them out again, but to me it's perfectly normal during the winter. For example, he thinks we should keep the avocado covered all winter, but that seems crazy to me. I might keep the geraniums inside and maybe the citrus, but I think the shroud has to come off the avocado until the next freeze.

(Photos: Autumnal garden scenes -- a maple leaf on hydrangea, a rhododendron bud and dry teasels.)

A November Mood

As I write it's 30º F outside, just below freezing, and has been for several hours. There's no wind at all and the sky is clear, the stars twinkling. I vaguely remember from my years in Florida that having wind is a bad thing for produce growers during a freeze, because they turn the sprinklers on their crops to give them a coating of ice, which paradoxically protects the fruit from even colder air temperatures. But I'm glad there's no wind because we're not doing anything with fruit or sprinklers and wind would blow the billowy cover off the avocado. This is our coldest night for the foreseeable future.

That (above) was the scene as I walked to work yesterday morning. It was nice to have some sunshine for a change. We've had such a gloomy autumn.

And this was the scene on our street as I walked Olga yesterday morning.

I must admit I am struggling with my mood. Between hearing about Trump's cabinet picks, dealing with my substantial British taxes (I'm supposed to talk to my tax preparer tonight so I can better understand them) and getting back to normal after my medical procedure earlier this week, I am feeling depleted. Fortunately next week Dave, Olga and I are taking a little overnight trip for Thanksgiving, so I have that to look forward to.

And Suddenly, It's Winter

Yesterday we had a surprising morning weather-wise. It started with rain, but when Dave and I got off the tube to walk toward school, we stepped into a snowstorm! It was wet, clumpy snow that didn't stick around long, but all the kids were exclaiming about it. Some of them whipped out their iPhones to take pictures or videos.

I was mostly worried about our plants -- I'd only taken in a single geranium, and hadn't done anything to protect the others. I did not expect snow! But the temperature was in the 40's (F) and because the snow wasn't lingering I hoped they'd be OK.

By the time I left school around lunchtime to take the capsule endoscopy recording unit and belt back to the hospital, it was merely cold and wet outside. I walked past the war memorial in Upper Grosvenor Gardens, decorated with poppy wreaths for Remembrance Day, and snapped a picture just as two dedicated joggers passed, huffing and puffing like blonde locomotives. (I'm sure they would not appreciate that simile.)

I was glad to be rid of that recorder, but it felt a little weird to drop it off and get nothing in return. "Do I need a receipt?" I asked the receptionist, who assured me I did not. I hope he's right and nobody calls me in a week saying, "Hey, where is that recorder?"

When Dave and I got home last night, we went on a plant protection campaign. We covered the avocado with one of the protective sheets I bought for that purpose, and now it's standing on the patio like a giant ghost. Covering a plant that big turned into a complex affair involving a ladder, a rake and lots of clothespins, but we managed.

I also brought in more stuff: our other three geraniums, the plectranthus and the African daisy. I left the citrus out because it's big and I hadn't yet made room for it in the house, but I'll get it inside this morning. It's supposed to get even colder over the next few nights -- down to 30º F (-1º C). I hope the ol' avocado is up to it.

I was glad to see that one sheet covers the avocado, because we have a second sheet and if the weather gets really cold or snowy, we can give it two layers.

Dave got our first King Charles £20 note the other day. This is the first paper money I've seen bearing his visage -- most of it still features the Queen. But slowly the change is happening.

Speaking of high-profile deaths, I was thinking yesterday about the post I did almost four years ago called "Who's Still Alive?" I mentioned 17 celebrities of a venerable age. Today, of that group, only Gene Hackman (94), Eva Marie Saint (100), June Lockhart (99), Dick van Dyke (98), Mel Brooks (98) and Tina Louise (90) are still with us. The other day I mentioned Tippi Hedren in conversation and I could add her to the list -- she's 94 -- and fellow Hitchcock muse Kim Novak is 91. Tina Louise was even on television a few months ago, doing a promo for a memoir she's written.

Let's hear it for good genes, fitness and modern medicine! I wonder if any of them ever had a capsule endoscopy?

Art and Medicine

This is one of two so-called "shell huts" in Lower Grosvenor Gardens, a park near Victoria Station that I walked through on my way to the hospital yesterday morning. They are quirky little buildings decorated with shells from France and Britain, and a site called "The Londonphile" has an article about their unusual history. I thought they were perhaps Victorian, because the Victorians loved their shells (remember the shell grotto in Margate?) but they were actually built in 1952 when the gardens were re-landscaped after World War II.

One of them is used to store garden tools, and I saw a gardener working from it, but apparently the one above is kept locked.

I also walked through Upper Grosvenor Gardens, an adjacent park that features this sculpture, "Lioness and Lesser Kudu" by Jonathan Kenworthy. It's a relatively recent installation, from June 2000.

The hospital where I went for my capsule endoscopy was right behind Buckingham Palace on Grosvenor Place. I couldn't see the palace -- only the well-fortified walls topped with barbed wire encircling its trees and gardens. I was there at 8:30 a.m., ready to get this thing over with.

I was taken for a preliminary CT scan, to make sure the test capsule was no longer in my system (it wasn't, and I told them that, but whatever) and then given the real thing by a nurse. It really is a little miracle of science, a half-clear capsule with blinking lights inside. I was surprised by the lights, but of course it would need some kind of light source. After all, it's dark in there. So while I went about my day, that capsule was strobing away and my innards were partying like it was 1999!

I had to wear a padded belt and shoulder harness for the unit receiving the transmitted images from the capsule. It was comfortable enough at first, and the image recorder was no larger than a Walk-Man (if you remember those). After swallowing the capsule I had to walk up and down a hallway for a while, to get my gut moving and set the capsule traveling on its way.

The hallway was decorated with these bright artworks by Leon Polk Smith from 1968 and 1973. I'd never heard of him but I guess he was known for these sorts of hard-edged, colorful graphic images.

They're very '60s, and therefore I like them.

I know you're all wondering whether I was able to watch the progress of the capsule. I saw some initial images, because the recorder had a display screen and the nurse activated it to make sure the capsule was moving along. I could see inside my stomach and the beginning of my small intestine, but honestly it didn't look like much -- just a pink-beige tunnel. The screen didn't stay on, and I was scared to try to push any buttons to activate it later, so that was the only time I saw any pictures.

I was sent home around 11 a.m. My jacket covered the recording unit, so I wore it home on the tube with no problem. The rest of the day I spent lounging around the house, because I wasn't supposed to do a lot of bending or stooping. I couldn't eat until just after 2 p.m., and even then only a tuna sandwich thoughtfully provided by the hospital. (Hospital food at home -- yum! Yes, that was sarcasm.)

In the afternoon I watched "Fortune and Men's Eyes," a 1971 movie about prison life with gay themes. I'd read about it somewhere and it sounded interesting as a sort of cultural time-capsule, which it was.

But by this time I was feeling pretty terrible. The thing about capsule endoscopy is that it disrupts life for about 72 hours -- my diet the preceding two days had been bland and then liquid, and even after my tuna fish "snack" at 2 p.m. I felt like hell. (I wasn't able to have any coffee yesterday, probably my chief complaint.) It's much less invasive than a colonoscopy, and capable of seeing more, but man, including prep time it takes forever to complete.

Finally, around 6 p.m., I could eat normally. Hallelujah! And at 9 p.m. I could take off that infernal belt, which I had slowly come to despise.

Today I have to take the recording unit back to the hospital and then, assuming this all shows no abnormalities -- which I won't know immediately -- I will be glad to get on with my life!

You may be wondering about my friend the spider from the previous post. Last night when we went to bed it was tucked up next to a wooden molding by the window. I looked up a couple of times during the night and it was still there, which enabled me to sleep soundly, but this morning it was gone. It's a harmless house spider (Tegenaria) but I'd still rather not touch it and I hope it has disappeared for good into some dark hidey-hole.

Apostrophe and Comma

I looked out yesterday morning and saw these rose-ringed parakeets on our bird feeder. I was surprised they were so brave, as Mr. Russia was up on the terrace banging around again. They must have been hungry.

They reminded me of two parentheses -- or of that line in Sandra Cisneros's book "The House on Mango Street," about the man whose little dogs were always jumping in mid-air, looking like an apostrophe and a comma.

Or maybe a pair of synchronized divers?

Yesterday was dreary, food-wise: An egg and a white roll in the morning, some cheese toast for lunch, and then nothing else. Plus the whole cleansing thing in the evening. This morning I can't have coffee (the worst bit of all this so far) and shortly I'll be off to the hospital to receive the sacrament of the capsule. Why do I believe it will be glowing when they hand it to me, the light shining upward into all our faces, as angels sing?

At lunchtime I'm supposed to be able to eat a light meal, and by dinner I'll be back to my normal dietary habits. And none too soon.

(Trigger alert: Stop reading now if you are an arachnophobe!)

When I got up this morning, I went to open the back door to let Olga out. Then I went to get my glasses, which were on my bedside table, so I could blog. And I saw this:

I had pretty much the same expression as that owl.

Where that gigantic thing came from and what it's doing on my bedside lamp I'll never know. I imagine I disturbed it with all my cleaning on Saturday. I just left it alone. Maybe it will go back where it came from. The question is, will I ever be able to sleep soundly in my bed again?

An Autumn Video

I'm getting a late start this morning. The dog woke me up at 5:30 a.m. to go out, and I let her out and just assumed we were up. But then, when she came back in, she went straight back to the warm bed -- so I did too. I only woke up about 20 minutes ago.

In lieu of a photo I'm giving you a short video of the back garden, showing the colors and leaves and sounds of autumn. I worked Olga into the clip, and I especially love the line of pigeons sitting atop the white apartment building behind our flat, spaced so evenly they could be gargoyles.

I managed to avoid filming Mr. Russia, who was working on the terrace above our living room spreading some volatile compound. He's been talking about the need to re-seal it so I'm sure that's what it was. Every time I open the back door, Dave says, "Close the door! That stuff stinks!" And it does.

I had to swallow this yesterday. This is not THE capsule, the one with the camera. It's just a dummy, a sort of test capsule to make sure my gut is capable of passing the camera later. I don't swallow the camera until tomorrow morning, at the hospital. If it's the same size as the dummy, known for some reason as a "patency" capsule, it should be a cinch. The dummy was no worse than a vitamin pill.

But I am on a low-fiber diet, which is pretty dismal. Yesterday for breakfast: white toast and an egg. Lunch: white toast with leftover ground beef and cheese. Dinner: skinless chicken and white dinner rolls. This is not the way I usually eat and I am dying for some broccoli. Dave bought carrot cake as a dessert treat, forgetting that carrots and nuts are off-limits for me at the moment. Oh well -- Monday night!

I walked Olga on the high street yesterday and did lots of housekeeping -- two loads of laundry, thorough vacuuming (including under the bed), plant-watering, windowsill-cleaning and other odds and ends. I don't know how there's always so much to do around this place when there are only two of us and a dog. How do people with children do it?

I'm trying to catch up on my New Yorkers, or at least make a dent in them. I was nine issues behind, having been diverted by "Bleak House." I've since dispatched two, and I'll take care of a few more today. Fortunately I'm off work tomorrow, but I doubt I'll clear the coffee table entirely!

A Note for Blind J

Since I don't have a whole lot to say today, how about another post of random photos? I haven't done one of those in a while. Here are some images that have stacked up over the past several weeks.

First, a lost cap not far from school. It's gone now so hopefully whoever lost it found it again.

Here's some graffiti that appeared on a utility box in my neighborhood, by the writer who goes by the name Tramp. I've photographed some of his/her messages before, which usually focus on race and class.

This one says:

For this country to get back on track, we need to be allowed to be proud of it. I love this city, especially this bit of this city. I love that you can hear four different languages on the tube. I love that after Brexit, now any human has the same chance to come here and call this home no matter what color or creed or background. So to show how proud I am I picked up my flag and waved it. But I was then called a racist and my new neighbors feared me, so I put it down. Later I saw one of my new neighbors waving their flag. I went over to ask them to stop being racist and put their flag down and was told to stop being racist.

Satire or sincerity? You be the judge.

Kind of a weird photo -- I was experimenting with the reflection in our kitchen window of a Scottish shot-putter on an oatmeal box. Here's a whole article about the history of this image on the box of Scott's oats. Apparently there was controversy when he was updated a few years ago and critics called the new Scott's oats guy a "soyboy."

Someone tracked this ginkgo leaf into the library. I love how yellow ginkgos get at this time of year.

When I went for my doctor's appointment last week I passed this car near Regent's Park. Wonder what the story is there? From the haphazard parking to the filmy layer of grime and collection of fallen leaves, it looks like this vehicle hasn't been moved in a while.

A curious message, apparently for "Blind J," from someone who has gone to Tesco for "bitch training," whatever that is. At least they helpfully left a phone number. There's also a note for passers-by: "Please don't be a c--- and move the sign."

Of course, if "Blind J" is really blind, you gotta wonder how helpful a sign will be.

Someone scattered yellow rose petals around the base of a tree at the top of our street. I'm not sure if this means anything or they were just trying to beautify the cigarette butts.

Spotted on my walk home last night. Ever the optimist!