Camera Critters #124 moth

To see more Critters please click here. Thank you to Misty Dawn.

This photo is bigger than the moth itself which was less than three quarters of an inch. This is the underside as it rested on our grubby patio doors.

This is the more usual view. I haven't been able to identify it so if anyone out there knows what it is, please shout out!

Weekend Reflections

Thank you to James from newtowndailyphoto who hosts this weekly meme. To see more reflections please click here.

This is how the water looks before the dogs charge into it.

Magpie Tales 28

Magpie Tales is hosted by Willow  Click here to see more tales.

Molly breathed in the warm scented air. This was the best time of her day. Slipping her feet out of the smart, uncomfortable shoes and stripping off her clothes she felt the customary release, as though swaddling bands had been loosened. She stepped into the tub and sighed with pleasure as she sank under the water.

Molly liked the water to be deep, hot, embracing, warming her through to the core. Idly she gazed at her hands – the nail polish was still intact so she needn't renew that. She stretched and slid deeper into the bubbles. She braced her feet against the tap end and wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have the full complement of toes.

Broadmoor

Image courtesy of Daily Mail and Wikimedia Commons

Many of you will already know that Barry and I live in a village in Berkshire. Crowthorne is not an attractive, chocolate box spot with thatched roofs and roses round the door, but more of a place you travel through to reach somewhere else. Since the bypass was built about twenty years ago most people don't even have to go anywhere near it now. I say that we live in the village but that is rather misleading for although our postal address is Crowthorne, geographically we live in Wokingham Without. (Without what, you may ask.)
Crowthorne is known mainly for two institutions – Wellington College, originally a boys' independent school but now co-educational. Fees are around £30,000 per annum. At the other end of the village, on the edge of the forest, is Broadmoor Hospital, the best-known of England's three high-security psychiatric hospitals. It houses 260 men and costs about £100,000 per patient per annum. During the First World War part of the hospital was used as a prisoner of war camp for German soldiers who were mentally ill. It was known as Crowthorne War Hospital.

Image courtesy of Sun and Wikimedia Commons

In 1952 one of the inmates escaped and murdered a local five-year-old girl. Local residents called for a warning method to alert the community to escapes and a system of warning sirens was established. These are based on the air-raid sirens so familiar during the Second World War and are tested for two minutes every Monday morning at 10:00. The two-note wail is then followed by a single tone 'all clear' for another two minutes. Every school within hearing of the siren has procedures to follow if the alarm warns of an escape. Basically, the schools lock all doors and windows and children are not allowed to leave except into the care of a known adult. It only happened once when I was teaching, in 1991, and it was not a pleasant experience.
Escapes are rare - the last serious one, in 1991, was of a child rapist. Road blocks were set up and vehicles were checked. At the time, Barry was just starting out for a run with the dogs. On the track entering the forest police had strung a tape on the understanding, presumably, that no-one would think to go either side of it. They stopped Barry and showed him a photo of the escapee and said, 'If you see him, run back here and tell us'. They had no intention of going into the trees!
Barry didn't see the escapee but he was recaptured two days later.
Many years ago a patient escaped but was so frightened by the unfamiliarity of the outside world that he gave himself up very soon.
It is thought but not proven that Jack the Ripper, who murdered prostitutes in the London of the 1880s, was Thomas Cutbush. He was a main suspect in the murders, which ceased after his arrest. He was committed to Broadmoor after being declared insane and died there in 1903.
Another murderer who was in Broadmoor for a time was Robert Maudsley. He was the inspiration for Hannibal Lecter. Current patients include the Yorkshire Ripper and the Stockwell Strangler.
One of the most interesting inmates was W C Minor, a retired American army surgeon. He was not considered a danger and so was allowed to buy books from London. Through his association with booksellers he learnt of the call for entries to what would become the Oxford English Dictionary. He sent thousands of contributions to the editor, Dr James Murray, who became very interested in his prolific correspondent and subsequently visited him in Broadmoor.
The hospital provides employment for many local people. It is often said, rather unkindly, that the nurses are more frightening than the patients! | must say that the ones we've met, walking their dogs, are friendly and have a great sense of humour. That must help in a job that could be soul-destroying. It's hard to find humanity in men who have committed such heinous crimes but, as the Quakers say, we must strive to find 'that of God' in every man.

Texts and texting

I don't consider myself a Luddite – I'm blogging, aren't I? I have a mobile (cell) phone but am not soldered to it. I use take it with me when I go out shopping – a rare event in itself since I prefer to shop through the internet am bone idle and don't go out unless I cannot avoid it. It also comes along with me (on its little legs, trotting by my side – no, that's silly!) when I take the dogs out on my own.
How can I be on my own when the dogs are with me? Well, what I mean is that I'm the only human when we go out. (My neighbours would be interested in that and possibly quite offended.) I have always been a muddled thinker and even more puzzling speaker, which made teaching interesting and probably incomprehensible to my pupils. I mean, I use more words than necessary, unless it's first thing in the morning when I am either mute or aggressively monosyllabic.
What I really mean is that Barry is not with me. Well, he is, but he doesn't always go walking with me. Now, I could have expressed that much more succinctly I'm sure and it's not that I like the sound of my own voice, you appreciate – actually, my voice doesn't sound as though it belongs to me when I hear a recording of it. The voice in my head – just one, if you're wondering – sounds quite pleasant, normal, friendly, not the clipped, precise, horsey one that everyone else apparently hears. Add the pedantic element and you'll understand why I am such an appalling conversationalist and have learned to cover this by becoming an excellent listener, whom no-one ever remembers (sob, sob) because I only ask questions and nod to encourage others to continue speaking so that I don't have to. I can kill jokes, effect awkward silences, change the tenor of a conversation from light-hearted and gay (I do wish we could still use that adjective with its original meaning) to sombre, serious or embarrassed with one comment.
I also have a tendency to go off at a tangent. Oh, you hadn't noticed that trait? Anyway, I take my mobile phone with me when I go anywhere without Barry. Actually, it's Barry's old, old phone – it's simple and works in his car so that we can be 'hands free'. I don't want one that gives me the latest Stock Market figures, or tells me the time in the Arctic, or brings me up to date on the latest celebrity news. I don't need to know the football scores – EVER – or the weather in the Atlantic or the nearest supermarket/hotel/petrol station. Emails can wait until I can access them on my laptop and I'm perfectly happy with the photographs my camera takes. In short, (at last, you sigh!) all I require is a device with which I can make and receive calls and occasionally create a text message.
I don't send text messages very often so I don't use intuitive text, nor do I use abbreviated text, though I can. To wit:- 2 Ys U R, 2 Ys U B, I C U R 2 Ys 4 me. I can't see an occasion when I would ever text something like, 'C U l8r m8', mainly because I haven't any m8s. There are some acronyms that I use – AWOL, ASAP, LOL and of course, OK. I have just – today – discovered a site called 'Text speak made easy'. Some of the contractions are familiar – IMHO, BTW, BRB, AFAIK – but others were quite unknown – DIKU, KISS, OOTO.
Coventry University published research in 2006 that suggested that text messaging might improve young children's spelling skills. I can't see how, but I didn't carry out the study. Following that the Scottish Qualifications Authority said that text speech answers would be acceptable in English papers so long as it was clear that the students showed understanding of the subject. How long will it be before Shakespeare's work is published in text message form?
'2b or nt 2b, tht is t ?'
Critics suggested that examiners might not be au fait with street slang. I think it's highly probable that they wouldn't be! I don't know the current situation concerning examinations.
To my increasing annoyance, texting is creeping into everyday communications between service providers and the public. Thus, when one of the domestic machines (not me, one of the electrical goods) went wrong we were told that a text message would be sent to inform of the estimated arrival of the mechanic. That's no good to me – I can hardly remember where I left the wretched thing and certainly am not in the habit of checking it every few minutes. It does bleep when a message arrives but if I'm not in the same room as it then I don't hear it. Last week I attempted to carry out some online banking. The account is an e.account and can only be accessed online. The bank was bought by another bank a few years ago and the final adjustments were being made. To this end I received a new bank card and went online to transfer remaining funds and close the account. I was informed that a text message would be sent to 'welcome' me and that any transactions would be authorised by text. Grrrr! I dialled the number I had been texted – a deafening silence greeted me. I must try again this week when I'm feeling calmer. There are no alternatives. If I go into a branch of the bank no-one there will be able to help, because it's an e.account.

Battle of Britain

Mo from 'Fresh Eyes on London' posted a photograph today of a replica Spitfire.
It reminded Barry of the time he was working at RAF Bentley Priory. This non-flying RAF station was the headquarters of Fighter Command during WWII. A wartime Hurricane and Spitfire in the grounds were lasting reminders of Bentley's importance during the Battle of Britain which raged throughout the summer and autumn of 1940.

Hurricane image courtesy of Adrian Pingstone and Wikimedia Commons

The Ministry of Defence, wishing to gain some revenue, decided to sell the aircraft and replace them with full-size replicas. When the Airfix kits arrived all the top brass on the site were alive to the delivery. Excitedly they swarmed out of the building, eager to begin the task of construction. The pieces were laid out on the lawn and assembly began.

Spitfire image courtesy of Kogo and Wikimedia Commons

Disaster! The delivery contained Hurricane and Spitfire bodies but no Spitfire wings and two sets of Hurricane wings. Much annoyance and discussion ensued. Eventually the problem was resolved but, while the RAF were victorious in the Battle of Britain, Airfix trounced them on this occasion!

ABC Wednesday E is for England!

Thanks as Ever to the Effervescent Denise and the Energetic Efforts of her Entire team. Click here to Enjoy more Es and perhaps be Encouraged to Engage in the Exercise which can be Educational as well as Entertaining.


A bit of nonsense this week. Here are the words to the chorus so that you may all join in, no matter what your nationality.

 "The English, the English, the English are best,

I wouldn't give tuppence for all of the rest" 

Michael Flanders and Donald Swann  - usually referred to simply as Flanders and Swann - wrote and performed comic songs between 1956 and 1967. Michael Flanders was an actor and singer and Donald Swann was a composer, pianist and linguist. This performance pokes fun at everyone, but particularly the sort of Englishman who is a dyed-in-the-wool jingoist.

Midweek Blues

Thank you Rebecca at 'The Dusty Cellar' for organising and hosting this lovely meme. Click here to see more blues.

Looking through Lightroom for something blue I stumbled across the following photographs. My eldest and youngest daughters will kill me! 'Oh, Mum . . . '

Bethan at Christmas, 1984. My mother made the dress and smock and the matching doll.

Bethan's birthday is four days after Christmas Day and here she is on her third birthday. The hobby horse was a favourite toy for many years, long after she was 'too big' for it.

Here's Gillian on her friend's moped with Bethan wearing a huge blue crash helmet!

Cheats never prosper

The old adage should read 'Cheats can prosper' following Mark Hurd's departure from Hewlett-Packard this month. Mr Hurd, the formerly successful CEO of HP, has been forced to resign his job after not adhering to the company's code of ethics.

His problems started in June when a marketing contractor to the business accused him of sexual harassment. An inquiry into the claim revealed that there had been no sexual impropriety but found that many inappropriate payments had been made to the woman by the company. Hurd had falsely claimed around $20,000 in expenses on behalf of his accuser.

General Counsel Michael Holston stated that Hurd had "demonstrated a profound lack of judgement that seriously undermined his credibility and damaged his effectiveness in leading HP". Share prices fell by nearly $10 billion following the announcement of his resignation. Hurd repaid the $20,000 to HP and the woman received an undisclosed pay-off from him the day before he resigned.

It appears that the company was unable to dismiss him directly because of a legal loophole in his contract. Therefore he was able to leave with a handsome severance package and retain his stock options. Estimates vary between $28 and $40 million. That is an obscene amount.

My husband worked for HP for several years. Had he been involved in this sort of scandal he would have been dismissed forthwith with no severance pay, no stock options and the possibility of a criminal case being brought against him.

Mark Hurd has walked away, head bowed in apparent contrition, but with more money than most could ever dream of. I hope it keeps him warm in bed. I doubt his wife will.

 

My World Tuesday Bedtime

To see more My World  posts please click here.Thanks to the My World team who host this meme.

Bedtime in our house follows a particular routine. First comes the rallying call - 'All-ee, all-ee out' - which awakens the dogs from their slumbers so that they can tumble into the garden for a final 'comfort break'. Then we all make our way upstairs. 

Our dogs always sleep in our bedroom. Thus, if any of them is ill in the night, we can deal with them immediately. This is particularly important for our Dalmatians. Of the four Dallies we've had, three have had gastric torsion and in two of them the stomachs twisted. This is a life-threatening condition that occurs in deep-chested dogs. Immediate action must be taken to prevent a painful, swift death. Additionally, Frodo has idiopathic epilepsy and while he doesn't have frequent seizures, there is an ever-present danger that he might go into status epilepticus, when fits either don't cease or occur so rapidly one after the other that the brain is damaged and death follows soon after unless veterinary treatment is given to halt the fits.

Once the dogs have been counted back into the house we switch off the lights and make our way to bed. Going upstairs is not a problem for the younger dogs – three bounds for Frodo, four or five for the Labradors. Buddy usually manages to climb the stairs but a combination of very poor sight and elderly stiff limbs means that occasionally he requires assistance.

Having reached the bedroom Buddy goes to his comfortable bed on the floor, Frodo to his basket and the Labradors position themselves variously on the floor, in baskets, or, favoured site, our bed. Often there's no pretence at going to their own beds - they simply stretch out on our duvet and fall sound asleep.

Winston may or may not grace us with his presence. Periodically he likes to be the cat that walks (or sleeps) on his own. Last night we were honoured that he decided to join us.

Wherever the Labradors start the night, invariably they are on our bed by morning. Currently, this means four solid dogs spread across the available space, which becomes ever more available as they push with their paws and shove with their bodies. They snore, they dream, they twitch and whimper but the slightest unusual sound alerts them to a chorus of barking.

Now and again I leave Barry to herd the dogs and dash upstairs to get ready for bed and claim my bedspace. Sometimes he goes up before me and then it's a case of threading myself into bed between blissfully snoozing canines.

This was the scene on Sunday night.

Buddy settled quickly on his duvet.

Foxy went obediently to a basket and squintily to sleep. 

Tia is not allowed on beds or furniture in her own home but enjoys her holidays with us when she is able to take full advantage of all the soft furnishings in our house. 

Jenna also went to bed and was soon joined by Frodo, who clambered in on top of her.

 Gus believes his rightful place is our bed. From his earliest days with us his ambition was to climb onto the bed. He will sleep in a dog bed too, but prefers close contact with his humans.

Winston possessed me, lying across my arm and licking and nudging me from time to time as I attempted to read.

No wonder I stagger forth each morning, stiff and bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived from the awkward positions I've been forced to assume and the cacophony of seven animals - well, eight, including Barry. It's a great life, if you don't weaken!

Macro Monday

Thank  you to Lisa from 'Lisa's Chaos'who organises and hosts this meme. Why not visit her to see more macros?

The Eighth Blog of Augustus Lazarus Cooke - grumbling

Hello everyone!
My friends have come to stay for a few weeks. I'm always glad to see them but Tia's ever so strict. If I play too noisily near her she tells me off. I don't like that very much but she is my elder and better so I have to put up with it. Jenna grumbles too, but she doesn't really mean it. I know that's true 'cos as soon as she's finished scolding she starts playing with me again.

Foxy, Gus and Jenna

Foxy never moans – I like Foxy. Buddy grouses at all of us dogs but that's because he can't see. He's very old so we should respect him.
When we're out walking Frodo shouts at every dog and human he sees, even the ones he's seen for years, but at home he's usually very quiet. Sometimes he complains if I'm clambering over him to reach my toy box, specially if I take a long time choosing something to play with but he never snaps. I even took his bone away from him the other day (lamb ribs – yummy!) and he didn't do anything - just looked to see if Jenna had finished hers. I'd never be able to take her bone; she would snarl at me. Sisters! I really like Frodo – he's awesome. I know I've said before that I'd like to be as big as him one day and I truly, truly think I might be! My head's broader than his and I weigh nearly as much as him. I just need to grow a bit taller.
Tia and Buddy have got quite a bit in common at the moment. They both look as though they've had their coats trimmed the way some horses do – I think Mrs H called it the Hunter Clip.

Anyway, they've been shaved and are showing a lot of skin. Tia had a big lump taken out of her and I know her Humans are worried about her. Buddy's stomach had twisted and Ben-the-Vet and Mark-the-Vet worked on him to turn it back. Their coats are growing now and Tia looks really well again. She's put on weight which is good 'cos she was very thin. She's about the same age as Frodo. She's already nine and Frodo's birthday's in December. Talking of birthdays, I shall be one year old on September 6^th. I shan't be a puppy any longer.

I'm quite a grown-up chap now.

There's a puppy next door. She's not there all the time 'cos she's a grand-puppy but she's ever so noisy. I haven't seen her but I know she's a little dog – a West Highland White Terrier. She's got a funny name for a white dog, though – she's called Rosie and I think she should be pink. I don't suppose many dogs are pink, only when they're coloured by their owners. She goes out in her garden and yaps and then Foxy starts grumping and Tia joins in and after a while we're all barking and all the dogs in the houses around are woofing – what a racket! Then we all settle down again but soon we hear 'Yap, yap, yap, yappity-yap' and clapping! Why do they clap her? She'll only do it more. What? Oh, Jenna's just told me that it's called 'destruction technique'. What? Oh, 'distraction technique'.
That's all for today! It's time to play with my friend Foxy.

Hwyl fawr am nawr! (That's Welsh for 'Goodbye for now!')

Midweek Blues, ABC Wednesday D is for Damselfly

Fancying myself a Time and Motion expert I'm using my time efficiently this week and combining two memes. (Believe it if you like ;-}) So my humble thanks go in two directions - to Rebecca at 'The Dusty Cellar' and to Denise and her Diligent Devotees for ABC Wednesday.

Our garden pond attracts a lot of wildlife. Birds drink from it and bathe in it, frogs and newts procreate in it, water boatmen (backswimmers) and pond skaters skim the water, dragonflies and damselflies hawk around it catching small insects and then lay their eggs on the water plants.

This year we have seen very few Common Blue Damselflies (Enallagma cyathigerum) so were pleased to have captured this one earlier in the summer.

Damselflies are generally smaller than dragonflies and have a weaker flight. When resting the wings of most damselflies are held parallel to the body. Dragonflies rest with wings outstretched.

The male Common blue damselfly is always blue but the female may be blue or dull green. It is common throughout Europe though noticeably absent from Iceland. It is so graceful and swift in the air and lands to mate and lay eggs. In common with dragonflies it cannot walk.

Next year we plan to add a small raised pond which will drain into the large pond but not have fish in it. This way we hope to increase the potential for wildlife.

Microfiction Monday #43

Susan from 'Stony River' organises and hosts this weekly meme. Thank you Susan J She provides a picture and the challenge is to create a story in 140 characters or less – including punctuation! Click here to read more marvels of microfiction – and perhaps join in. It's fun!
Here is this week's picture and my offering.

They hadn't realised New York would have its name writ large like Hollywood. And surely the laser beams would disrupt air traffic?
(131 characters)

Macro Monday

Thank you to Lisa at 'Lisa's Chaos' who organises and hosts this meme. Click here for more participants.

Little frog - spawned this year - on aquilegia leaf

Same little frog next to blade of grass

A nightingale sang in . . .

If you completed the title with 'Berkeley Square' as I would have done, you might have been surprised to find that it was in a forest in Cologne. It doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?

Photograph taken in Berlin

Image courtesy of J. Dietrich and Wikimedia Commons

Barry sent me this url - http://www.freesound.org/samplesViewSingle.php?id=17185

 Apparently, in Thasos, a Greek island in the north Aegean Sea,  the nightingales sing both day and night - how wonderful that must be!

Make the punishment fit the crime!

The ringleader of a gang that raped, drugged and forced a 14-year-old girl into prostitution was sentenced to 9 years in jail. On appeal, the sentence was reduced to 7 years. The rest of the accused men received sentences ranging from 8 months to 4 years.
Meanwhile, an antiques dealer who acquired a stolen copy of Shakespeare's first folio and allegedly hoped to sell it for around £1m was jailed for 8 years.
Ian Huntley who murdered two 10-year-old girls in 2002 and was subsequently jailed for life has been advised that he should not pursue his intention to sue the Prison Service for failing in their duty of care after his throat was slashed by another inmate. If the case were to proceed it could cost tax payers more than £1m in legal aid fees. If successful he might be awarded as much as £95,000. It is being strenuously stated that no compensation will be forthcoming but the prisoner is within his rights to proceed – that's if his fellow inmates, said to be enraged by his intention, don't despatch him first.
So, the interested bystander from another planet might assume that in the UK, at least, an old book is worth more than the life of a young girl and that a convicted murderer can sue his jailers because they haven't protected him from harm. Where is the common sense in this Alice in Wonderland series of events?

Soaking

Centuries Years ago, when first I was wed – my, that should be the first line of a song (sings softly to self, see * below, with notes) I started as I intended to continue. My Our life together would be ordered and comfortable and this was quite easy to start with because we didn't have many possessions and lived in Army quarters where all the basics were provided. The inventory was written in an odd, back-to-front way, thus:
Table, dining, oak, polished, officer's, one
Spoon, dessert, silver, six
Cup, tea, china, white, six
Knife, bread, one
Chair, dining, oak, polished, officer's, six
The descriptions may not be are not accurate now, I'm sure, but you might understand the general thrust. I wonder if The inventory must have changed according to rank, so officers' inventories differed from warrant officers' inventories which would be slightly different to other ranks'. What always struck me as very odd was the way the accommodation differed in size according to rank. For example, a general, whose children, if he had any, would be both older and undoubtedly attending boarding school, could have a ten-bedroomed house on a generous plot while a corporal, whose small children would be living with him, would be allocated a two or three-bedroomed house in a terrace with a small garden. Larger families might have the use of two adjoining houses which of course had two of everything – two kitchens, two sitting rooms, two fireplaces, two boilers, two bathrooms (- at a time when British people were still thankful for indoor sanitation and central heating was a thing to be dreamed of. For a short while we lived in a house like this while we waited for an 'appropriate' quarter. After a while we discovered that we were paying for electricity and gas used by our neighbours. Two houses had been opened into one, by unlocking an internal door, then separated again, but someone had forgotten to adjust the metering!)
I digress! One day I decided to 'tidy'. I came across a box full of scraps of paper. There were envelopes, old receipts, pages torn from notebooks, an outdated diary, elderly programmes of events long forgotten. They were all covered with Barry's distinctive handwriting – names, numbers, some addresses. I sorted them, keeping the bits that looked important and deciding that things written on paper napkins or blotting paper (remember blotting paper?) or the backs of ancient receipts could be disposed of. I was pleased with my efforts. A little later came the first utterance of a phrase I would come to dread, 'Have you seen . . . ?' It transpired that the box of oddments constituted Barry's sailing file and of course all those scraps were important, how could I not realise that? Why hadn't I asked? (He wasn't there!) Fortunately the 'rubbish' which was more precious than gold, judging by his reaction, had not yet been consigned to the dustbin so the task of going through it was less messy than it might otherwise have been.
This farce has been re-enacted in various guises in the ensuing forty-odd years. You'd think I'd have learnt by now but there is always a subtle difference in the replay. Now we live in a sea of paper and because the relevant piece can never rarely be found duplicates are sent for, reprinted, redownloaded (is that a plausible word?) to join an ever-growing impenetrable forest. The contagion has spread - to hats, gloves, keys, spanners, screwdrivers, glues, batteries, telephones, remote controls, instruction booklets, camera lenses, DVDs, seed packets, trowels – in fact, anything which is not nailed down is likely to be lost, mislaid, misplaced and frequently replaced. Duplicates, triplicates, quadruplicates abound, never to be found, always to be sought. I used to think we had a poltergeist but no longer. Now I believe that inanimate objects grow legs and run away to hide and giggle at the chaos and confusion that proliferates.
DailyFrequentlySometimes Occasionally I rant and ravestamp my feet lose patience and decide not to clear up, not to pick up and put away. It worked in my favour once. I had allowed a stack of magazines to grow in our en suite (reading in the bathroom is a habit I deplore). For two years I steadfastly refused to move the pile until one day Barry said, 'Have you seen . . . ?' and I was able to locate whatever it was in the dusty heap. Mostly though, because I want to walk on the floor and not on a slippery path six inches above it, I do tidy up. The floors are swept or vacuumed every day even though they never reflect the effort, baths and sinks and loos are kept clean, and our clothes and the dogs' bedding are washed daily, which brings me to the title of this piece.
Sometime clothes need to be soaked to loosen particularly resistant stains, like grass, or grease. That's easily accomplished though not as readily as soaking dishes prior to washing in the dishwasher. I remember the first dishwasher we had. I was rinsing the plates and cups from a meal when Barry said, 'You don't need to do that – the dishwasher will do it.' I didn't agree but didn't argue, either. His sister-in-law, Margaret, had exactly the same response as him and when both our dishwashers needed attention because they weren't working efficiently in different parts of the country, the service engineer in both cases advised that dishes should be sluiced before being placed in the machine. It was obvious to me – after all, when washing up by hand items should be rinsed before going into the washing-up bowl. I notice now, several years on, that the dishwasher manuals recommend rinsing before washing so Barry and Margaret were obviously not alone in their innocent understanding that the dishwasher really would 'do the lot'.
My mother always soaked dishes and pans before washing up and I suppose I absorbed her habit. It is as natural to me to run water into a cup or bowl as to breathe (slight exaggeration there, maybe!) I stand alone in this. His mother never soaked anything and so Barry hasn't – until recently. Now and then I have seen him 'putting things to soak'. So if, after forty-odd years, he has learnt to do that, can I dare to hope that 'tidying up' and 'putting away' might follow? He once told me, rather defensively, that he always tidied his desk before leaving work, no matter how late it might be. Later he confessed, rather sheepishly, that 'tidying' to him meant sweeping everything into the desk drawers and locking them. The look's the thing!
Though I may appear to complain, I really would not have things any other way, for that would mean he would not be the man he is, infuriating though he sometimes can be. For example, about four and a half hours ago he disappeared into the loft to work on his model train layout 'for an hour', after which he would mow the lawn, take some exercise in the gym and walk the dogs with me. He has just reappeared. Yesterday he was backing up the computer chips from the engines – I had visions of tiny discs ½" in diameter being stacked on small thread reels! Today he is completing continuing the computerisation of the far from simple design. After that has been finished we he will design the background. When the project has been accomplished to his satisfaction it will be photographed for posterity.
*When first I was wed (GGEDC)
I lived in a shed (EFDCB)
Or that's the way it seemed then (DECCDED)

Revolving doors

Before I embarked on this piece of completely superfluous writing I thought I had better investigate to discover whether 'revolving door' had an official nomenclature in the way that a moving staircase is correctly called an escalator and a lift is properly an elevator. I discovered that it hasn't. Wikipedia informs 'H. Bockhacker of Berlin was granted German patent DE18349 on December 22, 1881 for "Tür ohne Luftzug" or "Door without draft of air"' and that 'Theophilus Van Kannel, of Philadelphia, was granted US patent 387,571 on August 7, 1888 for a "Storm-Door Structure".'
Thereafter it was commonly known as a revolving door.
Whether they revolve clockwise or anti-clockwise (widdershins, like witches!) depends on which side of the road vehicles are driven. Now I wouldn't have thought that vehicles would need to enter buildings at all, let alone through revolving doors, and I was right! In fact, I am at a loss to understand why the direction in which they turn would make any difference. I drive on the left-hand side of the road in a right-hand drive car. I gather that revolving doors in this country turn counter-clockwise allowing my fellow Brits and I to enter and exit buildings only on the right side of the door. Citizens of countries who drive their left-hand drive cars on the right-hand side of the road should expect their revolving doors to turn clockwise, meaning they enter and exit constructions only on the left side of the door. Apparently this is not always the case. Counter-revolutionary designers and builders at work there, perhaps!
I have thought for a long time that revolving doors might be useful in our house. There are quite lengthy periods when Barry, the dogs, the cat and I are the main inhabitants (I don't class spiders, silverfish and assorted other invertebrates as residents) but there are many occasions when so many people and dogs are seeking access to the indoors, or the outdoors if they're already in, that revolving doors would make sense. Actually, it's the dogs that would benefit most from such an installation in the sitting room as they seem to prefer solitude when they're going into the garden. This means that my time is taken up with opening and closing the patio door as they exit and enter in turn. I half expect them to queue at the door, next in line for the great outdoors. Sometimes I simply leave the door open but this can be rather uncomfortable in winter when the rain is lashing and howling winds cause shivers.
The front door arranged as a circulating entrance and exit would be useful for family. Five arrive, three leave, another one appears and then they all go. It's rather like the ebb and flow of the tide. Numbers can rise from two humans and five animals to seven people and seven animals (there's a pleasing symmetry to that!) then another two humans appear, sometimes with a cat, then another two, and one more and finally the last five arrive. We play musical beds, too, though not quite Cox and Box as people stay at different times for different periods. The house is very quiet when the last visitor/s leave and feels rather empty, notwithstanding four dogs and a cat, but I am always thankful that I don't have to run a Bed and Breakfast establishment. Catering for my family is a labour of love and though I generally like my fellow humans I don't particularly want to share bed and board with them.
I don't think revolving doors would look quite right in our house after all so we'll stick with the conventional accesses.

Macro Monday and Mellow Yellow Monday

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Marigold in shade in the front garden

Nasturtium - the flowers and leaves add colour and interest to a salad. They're quite peppery, particularly the leaves.

Cucumber flower with visiting black beetles.