The Needlepoint Wall

I had so many projects going yesterday morning that by noon, it felt like I'd lived a full day. I collected some tax information online so I could sit down and do our taxes -- always my favorite activity of the year (NOT). But I didn't actually do them because Dave needs to give me his W2 and there's a long story why he couldn't do that, basically involving a forgotten password. So it looks like taxes will wait until next weekend.

I vacuumed, I did two loads of laundry, and then I took Olga to the cemetery for a walk among the daffodils and primroses. It was bright and sunny when we left the house and, no kidding, ten minutes later it was gray and raining. So Olga got a little damp but surprisingly she didn't seem to mind.

Oh, and I hung up our newly framed pictures:

Here, above King Zack, are our Egyptian geese and Vivian's watercolors of Olga, along with a framed picture of Olga (this one) that was hanging in our hallway. I moved it because I used that space for...

...our needlepoint wall! Yes, not only did I hang Dave's birth announcement, but also a needlepoint my stepmother made me when I was a kid (the bicycles) and one my maternal grandmother made back in the 1930s (far right). They look good together, don't they?

In the afternoon I polished off an issue of The New Yorker, reading about Afghanistan and (in a separate article) Wendell Berry, whose work I have never read. He sounds like an interesting guy, an advocate of a simpler, agrarian life and the family farm. Maybe I should try one of his books.

In the evening we returned to watching "The Gilded Age," It's gotten better since that first clunky pilot episode. The actors seem to have settled into the characters and I'm sure I'm getting more used to them too. I'm trying to narrow our proliferating TV subscriptions -- I cancelled Apple TV and Disney+ for the time being. Each subscription doesn't seem like much by itself, but when you're paying £5 or £10 per month per channel, it all adds up pretty quickly. Now we've just got Amazon Prime, Netflix and Now TV (which I will probably pause once we're done with "The Gilded Age").

Mottingham to Beckenham

Yesterday I tackled the eighth segment of the Green Chain walk, a 6.3-mile route from Mottingham to Beckenham Place Park. It was a sunny and relatively warm day, good for walking. In fact although I wore a jacket, I had to take it off and tie it around my waist, the temperatures were so comfortable.

Before I started, I had coffee at a Mem's Cafe in Mottingham, across the street from the derelict Porcupine pub. I don't know if I was just jonesing at that point or what, but it seemed like really good coffee.

A bunch of guys in Harley Davidson vests and jackets and patches came in as I was leaving. It's not a look I see all that often in London, and I was perplexed until I saw that there's a Harley shop around the corner.

I got walking along this narrow fenced path between some woods and sports fields, and eventually came alongside the River Quaggy, a tributary of the Ravensbourne and eventually the Thames.

I found this curious graffiti on the pavement beside the river: "Boris is related to the royals, he won't leave till they say." (Apparently the relationship is real, though it's a very distant.)

The Quaggy is channelized through this area, and blooming daffodils brightened up the scene.

I detoured to do the so-called Chinbrook Link, a spur off the main path which took me through a neatly manicured public park and then along a wooded track past some allotments and the railroad. There were several trees down or broken, probably evidence of Storm Eunice a couple of weeks ago.

When I got to the end of the Chinbrook Link I had to retrace my steps along that muddy, slippery route to rejoin the main path. I'm not sure what the point of that side trip is, to be honest.

I passed through some neighborhoods with good views of Canary Wharf in the distance, and I began to recognize where I was. That's because this part of the walk is shared by the Capital Ring, the inner loop walk around London, which I did several years ago. I retraced my steps along the Downham Woodland Walk -- the teacups are still there.

This sign was a new feature, though. So many questions.

I ended up in Beckenham Place Park, near the 18th Century Beckenham Place Mansion. I was amused when I looked back at that post from three years ago to read that I was confused by the paths in the park, because they're still confusing. I eventually found my way but the directions are not entirely clear.

One flaw I have noticed in the walk maps (which I download from the TFL site) is that they often fail to give a sense of distance between points. For example, the map will say, "...after a while, turn left down a footpath." Well, what the heck is "a while"? Is it a meter or a mile?

Similarly, in Beckenham Place Park, the map said to cross the River Ravensbourne by a footbridge and "turn sharp left to take the path leading over the railway line." Well, there's an immediate left after the bridge and I almost took that, but something told me it wasn't correct, and I eventually realized that the intended path was actually a couple hundred yards farther along. You'd think they could SAY that.

Anyway, I figured it out, and then caught a train from the Beckenham Hill stop going back toward London. A good day out in the sun and fresh air!

The Thielverse

I finally finished that Peter Thiel biography, "The Contrarian," yesterday. It gave me some insight into the origins of his right-wing beliefs and the reasons he would do some of the things he's done, like back Donald Trump for president -- but I just fundamentally do not understand people who feel their only allegiance is to themselves. Who feel no obligation to support society. These go-it-alone types believe their own mythology, that they are "builders" who have done it all on their own, somehow ignoring the fact that they drive the same roads, call the same police, benefit from the same clean air and enjoy the same civil order that we all do. And that all comes from paying taxes and supporting society.

It's interesting that he thinks of himself at least nominally as a Christian and grew up in a Christian household, because I can't think of anything more fundamentally un-Christian than hoarding and sheltering wealth. Than building a retreat in New Zealand so you can ultimately escape the world that you have tried to push into chaos. And as a gay man, how does he not recognize some debt to progressives for backing the legal changes that have enabled him to, for example, marry his husband?

I just don't get people who put money first. It seems a very empty way to live.

But anyway, in my opinion, there's a lot of weirdness there -- and more than a bit of self-loathing -- and the end result seems like a complex, intelligent, selfish man who just doesn't seem very happy in his own skin.

And that's probably more than you ever wanted to hear about Peter Thiel today.

I was hoping to get out and walk another section of the Green Chain, because it's been more than a month since I walked the last segment -- but we'll see if that actually happens. It's sunny out and I think it's going to rain tomorrow, so it's kind of now-or-never, but I bet the paths are muddy as heck from all our recent precipitation. I may tackle it anyway.

All my e-mailing did succeed in retrieving some overdue books, so I was happy about that, but there are still quite a few outstanding. I hope those kids are tearing their rooms apart looking for them over the weekend so I don't have to keep nagging next week!

(Photo: The always-scenic Finchley Road, a few weeks ago. Yes, that is sarcasm.)

Who's Driving the Bus?

Dave ordered groceries online last week, and when they arrived we found some very peculiar purchases. I'd asked him to get some green olives, and for some reason he bought three 170-gram containers -- a little more than half a kilo. That's a lot of martinis! And on the flip side, although he bought two bags of potato chips, they're small enough to fit into the palm of my hand.

The problem, Dave says, is that everything is listed on the web site by weight, and he's not always good at figuring out how big a package will be.

Looks like he'll be snacking on green olives after work.

I found this sticker in the library yesterday afternoon. I couldn't figure out why, but my boss said it was for International Women's Day, which was Tuesday. Apparently some kids were distributing them. I stuck it over my desk. I can get behind smashing the patriarchy.

I was writing e-mails to the parents of kids with overdue library books yesterday, and I was swept by a feeling of absurdity -- there's A WAR GOING ON, and I'm writing e-mails about library books. Granted, it's not our war -- not officially, not yet -- but still, I had the sense that what I was doing was silly if not offensive.

I had a very weird dream just before I woke up this morning. I dreamed I was coming home from work but I had to take a school bus -- one of the big, old-fashioned yellow buses with the green seats that we all took growing up. (And which, incidentally, the school where I currently work does not use.) The students were very amused that I was on their bus. I suddenly feared that I was on the wrong bus, or maybe I had missed my stop, so I went to ask the driver, and for some reason I told him I wanted to go to our old address in New Jersey. I thought he'd object to talking to me while he drove, but on the contrary, he was quite happy to turn around in his seat and let the bus drive itself -- which apparently it could do.

If that's not a dream about feeling out of control, I don't know what is.

(Top photo: A shopfront in Holborn, a couple of weeks ago.)

Forgetting, Mishandling and Fortifying

Yesterday was interesting because I accidentally forgot my reading glasses when I went to work. I can still see, sort of, without them -- I could work on the computer and basically squint and get through the day. But reading was out of the question. I carried my book to work and it was as useful to me as a doorstop.

As it turned out, I spent a lot of time on hold on the phone, and it would have been nice to be able to read. We've been trying to order a book ("Drug Information for Teens, 5th Ed.") and the publisher doesn't allow international orders to be placed online. Instead their web site directs overseas customers to a special phone number which NOBODY ANSWERS! It's like a cruel joke. I sat listening to the tinny synthesizers of hold music for an hour and a half before I finally hung up and sent them an annoyed e-mail. We'll see if they respond. We can get a used copy through Abebooks and I'm tempted to do that.

Meanwhile, I was unable to do any re-shelving because I was tied to the telephone -- which is probably just as well since I didn't have my glasses and God only knows where those books would have ended up.

On Tuesday I came home and Dave reported the squirrels had been into my foxgloves. Indeed, not only had they dug out the planter, but they'd flipped several large rocks and pieces of pottery (meant to discourage squirrels!) ONTO the plants. As you can see above, two of them are now a bit slumped over. I repositioned all the crockery and also put down wire mesh, basically turning the planter into Fort Knox. I've had to do this around the foxgloves in the garden, too.

Finally, since my theme today appears to be my struggle with everyday items, let me tell you about my jacket. I have a navy blue ultra-light puffy jacket that I pulled out of the library Lost & Found at the end of the last school year. It was like new, had been unclaimed for months and it fit me, so I kept it and comfortably wore it for much of this winter. About three weeks ago, though, the zipper -- which had always been a little sticky and might be the reason its owner abandoned it -- broke.

Not wanting to discard the jacket for such a minor reason, I took it to the woman at our dry cleaners who does alterations. She put a new zipper tab on, and it worked great. I was proud of myself for extending the life of the jacket with a simple £15 repair.

Then I decided to wash it. Big mistake! Because I didn't buy this jacket I had no idea what it was made from -- I just assumed it was polyester and fine for the washing machine. (I guess I could have read the tags, but these tags are like "War and Peace" and the print is tiny.) Instead, apparently it contains down feathers. So when I pulled it out of the wash it was disconcertingly flat -- its puffiness was severely diminished and it was clumpy.

I was sure I'd ruined it, but a few days of wearing it appears to have somewhat restored its puffiness. So maybe it's just a matter of time.

Stuff drama!

(Top photo: A gray evening at the local tennis club. You can see, in the background, the crane.)

Redwing

When I was walking Olga in Golders Hill Park over the weekend, I saw a group of birds all feeding in a field, pulling worms out of the ground. I wasn't fast enough with the camera to catch one with a worm, but I did get this unusual picture of a bird looking at me head-on.

Here's the same bird from the side. I believe it's a redwing, the UK's smallest thrush, which winters here but otherwise lives in Scandinavia.

Framed

Remember the glittery hyacinth bulbs we got for Christmas in 2020? Well, some of them are still surviving, although a few were dug up and carried away by squirrels. I planted four or five between some snapdragons in a planter on our front porch. I thought we'd enjoy the snapdragons over the summer, and then they'd die back and reveal the hyacinths the following spring -- but our winter has been so mild that the snapdragons are still thick as thieves and the hyacinths barely visible.

That's a tiny snail on that blossom above, in case you're wondering.

I learned something new from my commenters on yesterday's post. I had no idea that woodpeckers pound on loud surfaces to attract a mate. Thanks for that little bit of info! About a week ago I heard one pecking on a metal TV aerial down the street and wondered why on earth it would do such a thing. (There's no way even a bird with a tiny brain would mistake a TV aerial for a tree.) In fact it might have been the same bird.

Over the weekend I went to the frame shop and picked up our finished items. I'll show you how they turned out.

This is a painting on papyrus that we bought in Cairo a couple of years ago, largely out of a sense of obligation. It's been rolled up in a closet ever since and I figured, why not display it? Now that it's framed I think it looks pretty good.

This is the sampler made by Dave's grandmother when he was born. Apparently his sisters and cousins all got one too. Dave was not as enthusiastic about my reframing of this item as I'd hoped he would be. His response was, "You framed that?" But still -- we're going to hang it up somewhere because I spent money on it, goshdarnit.

And finally, here are Vivian's portraits of Olga.

I think everything came out really well. We haven't hung them yet because we're still trying to figure out what to put where.