That bread, just out of the oven, looks so good, says Heidi, that you ought to photograph it. So I do.
The other day I realize that a hurried comment that I had made on the blog of my friend Barrett Bonden, had turned out to be gobbledygook. As there seems to be no other means of correcting it, self respect persuades me to ask him to delete it. I am still kicking myself for my clumsiness, when I receive a similar request from him, after what he considers to have been an inadvertent solecism - undetected by me - this time, in a comment from him on this blog. It can be reassuring to know that others have feet of clay even when you don't notice them.
Passing one of the tall house in Berkeley Road, I often hear someone at a set of drums. This afternoon, drums and cymbals are going at full whack. I look up at a lit, attic window. The back of a boy's head, nods in time with the beat, and on either side of his head, drumsticks wave.
In my case make that head of clay. And now I find I've misspelled Brittany on Lucy's blog three words away from where I spelt it correctly. Someone who emailed me yesterday used the phrase "going to hell in a handcart". I'd always thought the conveyance was "in a hack" but the nuances don't matter, rather the destination. And that's where I think I'm going. I'd use the Yeats quote if it weren't so over-quoted.
I have a problem with Britanny, but then, unlike you, I cannot spell, as we used to say "for toffee nuts".
I still bugger up 'Brittany' sometimes, despite living there. There must be somethign about it...
Joyce and I thought they looked and must have tasted magnificent (The loaves!)
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