Aboveski is the view from the galley window (taken a couple of evenings ago).
I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it agin – it’s not Hackney.
Praise be to Zeus.
The sun-down sky spoke of some weather (again) and weather we got. Winds fit to whip your hat off and ruffle your feathers no matter how much Brylcreem you might use.
The view in the other direction was just as moody, if a tad less dramatic.
You may notice that I (then) had ropes all over the place (ready for the winds). As with my rubber underpants, I’d rather put them on and not need them than need them and not have them on.
Messrs AhSDA arrived yesterday. On their previous visit they were three-quarters of an hour early and caught me on the hop. This time I got to the rendezvous a full hour ahead of time… whereupon they were late. Oh how we laughed. Guffaw guffaw guffaw.
Lend me your Heckler & Koch for a moment, Mother dear, I’m going to express myself.
Mild substitutions of the coffees (Brazilian for Peruvian, House Blend for Italian) and one totally duff pick that I sent back with the driver – the refund was there before I’d even dragged the trolley back to the Cardinal.
Last eve was billed as being relatively warm, too warm to bother Mr Stove, so I didn’t. Had to get up in the night to fetch an extra blanket! To knock the chill off things this morning I rubbed a couple of logs together. Coal burns slowly but logs burn like Rutger Hauer’s character Roy Batty in Blade Runner – twice as bright but only half as long.
Ideal for a fire that I didn’t want to lurk about all day.
Unfortunately, the logs that I used also smoked eleven times as much…
The logs also splattered soot all over the roof. It won’t brush off, it’ll take a few cycles of rain and wind before the Cardinal’s roof is back to nice dirty-cream white again. I can wait.
I took the ottorpunity to cough a lot, remove the extra ropes, and squeegee the solar panels, by which time the smoke stack had settled down a bit. My sincere apologies to the atmosphere, I have no idea why what was occurring was occurring. I mun have grabbed a couple of damp ones (as the actress explained to the court in re the death of the Bishop).
Squeegee maximus those panels – especially, slave, the one nearest the chimbly.
Panels which have today re-filled the batteries to “float”, run the rinky dinky washing machine for two hours, and are currently running the fridge. Splendid beasties.
In winter I don’t bother with the fridge – the world is my ice-box. If I want something kept cold (or even frozen) then I bung it down at Floor-Level-Next-The-Baseplate or chuck it on deck. In summer when the refrigeratrix is actually needed there’s (usually) enough solar power excess around to run it. Tis an elegant juxtasolution with not some little flavour of the seasonal Yin & Yang about it.
Today it’s chilling my “Florida Style Orange Juice”, my squeezed Clementine Juice (apologies, Clementine, oh my darling) and other fine comestibles of a delicate nature.
It’ll go off again overnight, when it’s not really needed and the insulation will keep the contents quite bickettytoo enough til morning.
In other world news the laundry is on the horse under the cratch cover, with a nice light breeze flapping it about. This afternoon is supposd to – and methinks will – reach some seventy of the Fahrengezundheitings. Might even get the towels and the jeans dry in one go today, who knoweth?
You watch, I’ll be moaning about being too hot soon enough.
Moan moan moan, it’s all that I ever do.
I mentioned to a matey the other day that I’ve been having another cycle of ridiculously wild, realistic and uber-numerous dreams, the sort that linger longer than most. I was reminded by them of course of the full moon…
Ding ding ding, it all makes sense.
Would seriously love to know what the effect is. Whatever it is, even when I forget about the moon, tis real.
I am easily entertained. All that I need is a giant rock satellite orbiting the Earth, whipping up tides and whipping up some really very strange dreams.
Where were we? Oh yes – Mooning.
Odd things, humans. Nothing at all over our heads except an infinity of unknown space and one chuffing great two-thousand mile wide rock not fixed to anything, and neither factor worries us much on a daily basis.
I’m with the Pierson’s Puppeteers on this matter; humans are insane.
Now, about this new Pope that my stove has chosen…
I have decided to call him Thribble.
Thribble the First, Supreme Pontiff, Bishop of Rome.*
*He still ranks well below a Cardinal.
I shall pie for tiffin, methinks. Pukka. Oh yes. Trying out some dastardly and fiendish new (to me) curry sauce a la chip-shop style. Wish me luck.
Chin-chin for the mo.,
Ian H., &Co.