six words, canine valentine, sprout puree

Thirty words, huh? The BBC Radio Today Programme has just drawn attention to a competition run by an on-line magazine called Smith, which invites six word memoires from readers. The idea is based on a $10 bet made by Ernest Hemingway that he could write a short story in six words. He won the bet it with: For Sale:baby shoes , never worn. From now on I shall venture the occasional six-word post. But not today.

A pegkingese sits on its owner's lap at a table outside the Ragged Trousers bar in the Pantiles. It is so pleased with itself in this elevated position that it appears to think it is a person. But this doesn't stop it making eyes at a Jack Russell terrier at a neighbouring table. After while the Jack Russell's owner stands up. Before leaving she lifts the Jack Russell and carries it to the Pekingese. "Say goodby to your friend then," she says, proffering her dog, face to face with the Pekingese. The two dogs sniff at each other's nose, not without, it seems, a certain embarrassment.

Tonight's supper: one of the stalks of sprouts from Saturday's markets provides the sprouts for a sprout purée to accompany grilled pheasant breast, the last pheasant of the season.

Long finish, hand-in-hand, violets

Wine tasters talk about a wine having a long finish, when the flavours endure long after the wine has been spat out or swallowed. The nibble of goat cheese, which I was offered from a stall at the farmers market has a long finish too. I can still taste it on my way down Mount Pleasant and, come to think of it, a day later it is still "finishing" in my mind.

An old couple, he in a green jacket, she in a blue, walk hand in hand through the Grove. They stop and point things out to each other as though they are in the Garden of Eden.

In a wild, neglected front garden, a mass of sweet violets, glimmer among weeds and stones.

new word, voices, hooter

The pleasure of finding a new word for something you didn't know had a word to describe it is a bit like that of being given a name for an as yet unidentified flower or bird, which you see differently as a result. In a French dictionary, I come across apocope, which describes the shortening of words by dropping the last syllables, as in as in labo for laboratoire, expo for exposition, and bachot for baccalauréat. It is quite common in idiomatic French, and I think at first that it is exclusively a French word for a French phenomenon, but when I look I find that it exists in English too, which indeed it should, as in tele for television, psycho for psychotic, and the more settled curio for curiosity. It is spelt in the same way, though pronounced differently.

In the Grove, the rising voices of birds and children say it's warm enough for Spring, and it is.

As we climb Mount Sion on our way home we hear behind us an old fashioned motor car hooter. It sounds like a duck quacking. We turn round to see a man with a hooter -the device has a rubber bulb to squeeze at one end, and a horn at the other. In his other hand is a pint tankard, half full of beer. "Let's all have some fun," he says. "We've got to enjoy life, or what's it for!" And he offers us the hooter to squeeze, which we do, taking it in turns.

big sauce, photo, necessity

Sitting outside Ragged Trousers in the Pantiles for a tipple and a snack, we are brought a giant bottle of Lee & Perrins Worcester Sauce to go with some toasted cheese. Worcester Sauce, in its familiar bottle, is one of those things that's been around since my childhood and long before, and, in my travelling days, I've spotted it in bars and restaurants all over the world bars, but never have I seen a bottle this size, twice the normal size. "It's specially for bars," says our friend at the Trousers. I look on the label and note that the bottle contains 568 ml.


An elderly gentleman with two cameras, one in a case over his shoulder and one hanging in front of him, takes a photograph of the 18th century music gallery above a jewellers shop in the Pantiles. But he doesn't move on. Instead he waits looking round him as though hoping that something will happen. After a while, he homes in on a couple, about his age, walking past. It becomes clear that he wants to photograph the man, so that he can take another shot of the plaque, which reads "Musick Gallery...1789", with his model in the foreground. He takes great care in posing him with his hand to his ear, looking up at the plaque and the empty gallery.

In the chemist, an old woman with a credit card gets ready to pay for her purchases."That will be £39.72", says the assistant. And adds: "Is that OK?"" It will have to be," says the old woman, swaying a little.

switch grass, valentine, holly

In a vase in the hall are some stems of panicum or switch grass. The minute flowers shine like little, white fairy lights.

Almost without exception just now, shop windows, not just florists, jewellers, confectioners and the like, have some reference to Valentine's day. My Oxford Dictionary of Saints says that there is no clear connection, in the lives of either of the two St Valetines, to lovers or courting couples. Both saints were probably martyred on February 14 though in different places and in different years. There were indeed two St Valentines and they lived in third century Rome. The day is, instead, linked to the belief, going back at least as far as Chaucer, that it is when birds are supposed to pair. Meanwhile if either of the two saints is in need of a group to patronise, he could, it occurs to me, choose people engaged in sales promotion.

In the groin of a beach tree bowl in the Grove springs a holly seedling.

crocodile bubbles,parrots, murmurs

Salt water crocodiles, in David Atenborough's new tv series on reptiles, last night, blow bubbles at each other as part of the mating ritual.

The outer petals of red parrot tulips are streaked with green.

In a French dictionary the word roucoulement is defined with the help of the phrase- le roucoulement de tourterelles. This reminds me of the example of onomatopeoia which we were given at school in Tennyson's phrase, "the moan of doves in immemorial elms". But roucoulement isn't exactly "moan", more "coo", less melancholy and not nearly so poignant. Le gémissement de colombes en ormes immémorials, might do. But Tennyson and English has it, just. Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to translate!

nosh,walkies, gulls

In a half coconut hanging from a tree branch, someone has provided pumpkin seeds for visiting birds.

From the window, I watch, in the distance, a woman walking a dog. The dog, on its leash, walks slowly and lags behind. I guess that the dog is old and wishing it were at home on a rug in a warm corner. If the dog had been younger it would have been ahead pulling in the direction of the park.

Look up. We are miles from the sea, but sea gulls are attracted by the rubbish tip on the outskirts of the town. Now, two or three take time off from foraging, and glide overhead in lazy circles. You know they are gulls because the sun catches the white of their wings. High above the gulls, from different angles and at different heights, two planes, the sun touching them with silver, fly in a westerly direction on their way to Gatwick.

Laughter, trails, wind

Loud, violent laughter seems to take posession of a pub, which I am passing. I get the impression that it lives there and could erupt again at any moment.

In the blue sky, two vapour trails intersect and become a cross, like a christian cross. The wind up there is blowing hard and the cross changes to one where all four sections are equidistant. A few second later, the cross becomes a T and then an L.

Today the wind is biting and people walk with their hands in their pockets, their shoulders hunched forward, and look as though they are trying to shrink into themselves.

dream, cheerful tale, real fly,

Though I seldom remember dreams, I recall waking last night in a worried state of mind. I had been dreaming about a gangster who had a hold over me, and wanted me to belong to his gang, which did all sorts of bad things. What was worrying me was that these things were so bad that I could see no way out, other than to shoot the gangster. My first problem was how to get hold of a gun and having acquired one and shot the gangster, how I was to dispose of the body. Little details concerned me, like how to learn to use the gun efficently. On waking I was still trying to answer these questions, and it was some time before I was able to relax and enjoy the feeling that I needed no gun and had to shoot no one.

The son of someone I know has drink problem which has resulted in the break up of his marriage. This morning, my friend tells me a story with a cheerful outcome. Last night her son , J, had dinner with his wife and children and instead of going off to a pub afterwards to drown his sorrows, he took the underground back to where he was staying with a friend. On the platform of the station a young couple were having a row. The young man went away and left the girl on her own, whereupon she sat down on the edge of the platform, with her legs dangling over the edge. J went over to persuade to get up and stand out of danger. Just in time because a minute later a non-stop train swept past. A step on the way to sobriety.

The morning sun casts a reflection of the window, filled with light, on to the white wall opposite. On the reflection, crawls, unreflected, a real fly.

stalking trolley, pockets, first throw

In the twitten, near our house, someone has left a supermarket trolley. It rests on some uneven ground so that one of its wheels is raised, while the other three are level with the path. The posture is that of a cat, which freezes when stalking a bird or mouse, while at the same time, readying itself to pounce.

I like jackets with plenty of pockets. If they have zips so much the better. I want somewhere to keep a note book, pencil, money and other valuables, a camera, spectacles, whatever I happen to be reading, and anything else which may come in useful. Those fishing jackets which are more pocket than jacket are ideal for me, though I am not a fisherman. Barbour waterproof jackets have big, inside pockets known as "gamekeepers pockets". I like those too, even if I do not use them everyday to stow the carcasses of pheasants. I have, for a long time, had the fantasy of having a garment made with pockets in which I could pack the few clothes I would need to walk round the world, making rucksacks and the like, unneccessary and leaving my hands free to scale mountains and other obstacles.

A small but potent pleasure is throwing something at a wastpaper basket and getting it in first time.

great tit, ball, wind and rain

This morning and on recent mornings I am woken at around 6.30 by a great tit outside our window. It has a two-note ditty, which I confirm this afternoon with the help of some bird recordings on CD introduced by Geoff Sample. As I play the CD, the house is full of bird song for a few minutes.

What is this rolling over the crest of the road in Little Mount Sion? A blue plastic ball about the size of a tennis ball. It seems to have no owner but rolls along, up on the pavement and back on to the tarmac as though it has a life of its own but little or no purpose.

There is no one about in the Grove. The rain is slanting down and the wind is roaring in the branches of the trees. In different corners Mr and Mrs Crow, unpeturbed, are pecking interesting things out of the soft earth. Raindrops rest for a moment and slide off the feathers of their folded wings.

chicken tale, walking stick, "how not to"

A roast chicken goes a long way between two people. This week, we share one breast and both wings for the first meal. The legs, served with some left over gravy from meal one, flavoured with chili and lemon, were accompanied by spiced spinach and tomato. On day three (today), the menu is cold chicken with green bean and pine kernel salad. The carcass will make a good stock for a simple mushroom risotto, tomorrow.

Heidi, almost recovered from her hip operation, now requires a walking stick only to boost her confidence when she goes out. Today, with her on one arm, I take possession of the stick - I have secretly rather envied it as an accessory - which confuses the neighbours.

This afternoon, in John Richardson's biograpahy of Picasso, I come across an anecdote, which, because I have always thought bad art as interesting as good art, especially appeals. In 1917 the artist was working on the ballet Parade in cooperation with Diaghilev, the dancer Leonid Massine and Jean Cocteau. While at a party in Massine's apartment in Rome, Diaghilev noticed that Picasso was intrigued by an 18th century portrait above the fire place. "Why are you so fascinated by that picture?" Diaghelev asked. "I'm studying it carefully," Picasso replied, "in order to learn how not to paint".

sliding doors, cooking, wild strawberry

I had not thought much about them, but prompted by the book I am reading L'Elégance du Hérisson, a quirky, new novel by Muriel Barbery, I declare myself a supporter of the principle. As one of the characters puts it, conventional doors "..transform rooms most untidily. We bump into them when they are open and introduce clumsy gaps with poor proportions. When you think about it, there is nothing uglier than an open door. The sliding door creates no obstacle. When it is open, two rooms communicate with out offence. And when it is closed it restores its integrity to each of them."

To have sliding doors, of course, you need, I suppose, to build a new house, a bit of a dampener where I am concerned.

Outside the Compasses, where I am enjoying a pint and, Heidi a Pinot Grigio, a man of our generation joins us for a smoke. The conversation turns to cooking. "I'd rather spend an hour cooking a meal, " he says, " than buying that ready made ....", he pauses, "shit," says Heidi. "I was going to use that word says our friend, " but it seemed ungentlemanly." "Never mind, " says Heidi, " I'm a foreigner and I can get away with it."

One or two wild strawberry plants have always grown in a sloping bed next to our front door. Today, January 29, I notice that one them is bearing an almost ripe fruit.

bowls, trimmed, "just me"

Someone I know, who enjoys turning wood and has all the appropriate equipment, in response to a question about the progress of his hobby, says he's not doing so much of it at the moment because: "I've run out of friends, to whom I can give bowls".

My crayon drawing of a chicken is finished. I wasn't entirely happy with the composition when I realized that a few centimeters trimmed off one side and off the bottom of the picture would make a difference. It has. It is as if the bird has moved forward and is ready to step out of the page on which it is drawn.

From an account in our local paper of the selection of the new Conservative parliamentary candidate for Maidstone and Weald.
"She explained why she had the edge over other candidates: "I'm just me at the end of the day..."

unseasonal, watching ham, Dr Karg

Marja-lina's reaction to daffodils on the warm and sheltered slopes of Calverley Park here in Tunbridge Wells, is not surprising. Daffodils used not flower here until April, or March at the earliest. Today I note crocuses and primula in flower, and, in some of my pots in the open, chervil and chives, not to mention thyme and oregano, where normally they would be dormant. The fuchsia, which I have always had with me since I have in this house, used to die down in the winter, and now towers to nearly three meters if allowed to go unchecked. Sometimes I long for ice and snow, and, in particular, those cold, crisp winter days when trees and hedgerows were covered in rime, and ice formed on puddles and ponds, and muddy fields were hard as concrete.

In Waitrose, at the delicatessen counter, I watch an old couple watching with close attention as thick slices of cooked ham are sliced to their requirement.

I may already have mentioned Dr Karg's crispbread. It seems now to be a regular feature of supermarket shelves and has the unusual virtue of being nutritious, containing nothing that is bad for you, while it is delicious on its own or with cheese and the like. It is made, says the label, with premium wheat, and is rich in fibre. There are no added fats or oils, no preservatives and no additives. There are various styles.My favourite incorporates Emmenthal cheese, pumpkin seed, linseed, and sesame seeds.

warmth, repetition, bad weather

On the south facing slopes of Calverley Park, daffodils are already in flower, and, through the cold wind, I can just feel the winter sun.

"She keeps telling me the same thing," Heidi says of a friend. "That's what we do, " I say, "tell each other the same things. " Yes, says Heidi, but we know we do."

Speaking of recessions - "moments of truth, which human nature needs after the lies that always go with a boom," Charles Moore writes in the Spectator: "The best way to deal with bad weather is to go out in it."

two hands, raffia, blue and yellow

In a basement window, all that you can see is a pair of hands at work on a laptop screen and keyboard.

Like a head of flaxen hair, a large bunch of raffia tied at the top and spreading out below, hangs above the counter in the flowershop. Assistants use it to tie bunches and bouquets, pulling out strands as they need them.

The sparse flowers of winter jasmine and periwinkle, the one yellow, the other a heart stopping blue, enliven a bleak mid-winter shrubbery.

word on the mind, striding, beans

Sometime I wake with a word on my mind. Why it is there or how it gets there I seldom know. Today it is saugrenu, a French word meaning preposterous or ludicrous. Petit Larousse informs me that it is derived from the Latin words for salt and grain.

My shadow in the bright afternoon sunshine strides beside me on the wall of a terrace of houses, Suddenly it vanishes as though it has gone indoors.

I have been visiting the website of David Bonta, a poet and photographer. http://www.vianegativa.us/ I read: "...The end justifies the beans and everyone drinks until they see two of everyone..." and laugh with pleasure.He is co-editor of the web magazine http://www.qaurrtsiluni.com/ which publishes poems, prose and photographs

swearwords, chicken, eyes

Swearwords, particularly those invoking the deity, directly or euphemistically, go quickly out of fashion. This thought is provoked when I come across the strange and delightful French word saperlipopette, now out of date and used only humorously. It is apparently related to sacristi, sapristi and saprelotto, all of which mean, as does saperlipopette, "for God's sake", "good grief" or "good heavens". My dictionary suggests "gadzooks" or "gad" for saperlipopette, which, I suppose, emphasises its antiquity as well as its reluctance to invoke the name of the lord in vain.

A visitor has asked me to make a new version of a crayon drawing of a chicken, which I did some years ago. "Only smaller, " she said. Reluctant to make a boring copy, I take care not to look at the original. The result is that, in the new picture, now taking shape, the chicken has adopted a different position, its beak closer to the ground, its tail higher in the air.

Looking for things to post in the focus of a blog like this one, I find, requires a special kind of attention. Marcel Proust puts his finger on it: "The real magic lies not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."

killed, Rolls Royce,out of place

In Waterstone's bookshop, a manager or sales rep is summarising to an assistant the contents of books which are about to be delivered. The synopses come with the rapidity of a machine gun: "It's a biography. She was living in Florence", I hear "...She was killed by her husband.... It's got a nice cover."

"A Rolls Royce of a Burger," announces a poster outside a restaurant.


In the queue to buy a paper, I see a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. I am about to greet her but can't remember who she is. It is only when I stop for a cup of tea at my favourite cafe that I notice an absentee, the proprietor. It is she whom I have just failed to put a name to in the newsagent.

doodle, Blue Monday, hat

Into the middle of a small doodle on the pad on my desk, I stick a grape stalk. A little of the flesh from the grape adheres to the paper so that the stalk sticks up in the air. The doodle becomes three dimensional. I trace with a pencil the shadow cast by the stalk. The tracing and the shadow form a single line. I move the pad and the shadow moves away from its original position, but the tracing remains in the same place. The doodle becomes four dimensional.

Today, I read, is Blue Monday. Psychologists have apparently calculated that it is the day of the year when depression reaches a peak among the population. So far, I have, myself, managed to feel chipper enough.

A hat called a Tilley is given to me as a present. It is known as the Great Canadian Winter Hat. It is soft and warm yet shaped a bit like a trilby. It has ear flaps that you can pull down in the event of a polar wind, a "tuck-away forehead warmer", a secret pocket (which I haven't yet found), is guaranteed not to wear out and it comes insured agains loss.

as you would hope, snowdrops, trojans

A packet of carrots in the supermarket is labelled: "Carrots. Crunchy and Juicy".

Clumps of snow drops which we bought from the WI Market last Spring and planted, leaves and all, are already in flower in a shady flower bed - a far more successful venture than previous attempts to plant the bulbs in the Autumn.

The computer doctor reminded me last week about insidious Trojans that get inside your computer and do all sorts of mischief. The use of the word strikes me as a sensible metaphor. But today, in the gents, in the Compasses pub, I find it less easy to understand why the condoms on sale in a slot machine are also called Trojans.

food, balloon, pink

Some visitors describe a meal at the restaurant called the Fat Duck in Bray. They had spent five hours consuming the tasting menu, which included such, now famous dishes, as snail porridge, eggs-and-bacon ice cream, and a sea food dish, where you are given ear phones, so that you can listen to the sounds of the sea while you consume it. I ask if they found that the food overwhelmed the conversation overthe meal? Did they talk about other things? Around 50%, they said, was devoted to talking about the food and 50% to the other subjects.



Two grandparents with a red balloon fuss over a small child in the High Street. The child whines and whinges. "You're having a balloon tied to you Henry", says the grandfather in a wheedling voice.



Outside a store at the top of Mount Pleasant, a new cycle shop has, this morning, hired someone to help draw attention to its folding bikes. A man wearing a pink trilby, a fake fur coat over a shiny pink suite, and white leather shoes is doing his best to help, but most passers-by seem more interested in his flamboyant outfit than in the bikes.

raindrops, helmet, lichen

Crystal raindrops line up under the arms and back rests of park benches, under the bars of gates, and the branches of shrubs and trees; each is a temporary hemisphere reflecting the world, or half of it. I think about raindrops as I walk across the Grove without coming to any conclusion, and they hang there in my thoughts waiting for gravity to call them down.

Outside a restaurant on table, like a piece of sculpture, is a motorcyclist's helmet. No sign of the owner. I pause for a second to contemplate it. Then I spot the owner tending his machine a little further on, on the pavement. "Hullo, mate," he says.

On the shining black trunk of a tree in the persistent drizzle, the strange flower-like shapes of lichen spread like circular green stains.

ham, song, small matters

A childish inability to leave a pun by the roadside, produces some odd midnight thoughts. The French for a sandwich man (one of those who walk the streets with wooden panels displaying advertisments to the front and back) is, I discover, un homme sandwich, which to an English ear sounds like what the French call a sandwich au jambon.

Birdsong trills and prickles in my ears as I walk through the Grove this afternoon in a wind which scatters loose raindrops.

Satisfaction comes from the smallest events. While in the High Street, I find an unposted letter in my pocket. Must remember to post it on my way home, I tell myself; and then discover that I am standing next to a letter box.

reflections, ballet, corny,

Reflection in puddles, move and change, as I walk past, become different pictures.

A hand holding a squeegee performs a ballet on the inside of a shop window, dragging soapy water over the glass in broad sweeps and swirls.

In the chemist, one of the two assistants, in greeting me after a day of solid rain, says: " How are you? Or, I suppose I should ask, are you keeping your head above water." "That's corny," says her companion, "that's corny!"

will do, contractility, umbrellas

"Ye'er, will do, says a girl into her mobile. The emphasis is on "do". There is no compliance in her voice to reflect the nature of the words, only aggression. I still haven't go used to people talking on mobiles in the street, and to the decibel-level required.

I thought that "contractility" might raise an eyebrow. It is in the Oxford Dictionary. The quote comes from a poem by the American, Marianne Moore, which I tend to remember when thinking about style, and in this case about the 30-word observation:

To a snail
If "compression is the first grace of style",
you have it. Contractility is a virtue
as modesty is a virtue.
It is not the acquisition of any one thing
That is able to adorn,
or the incidental quality that occurs
as a concomitant of something well said,
that we value in style,
but the principle that is hid:
in the absence of feet, "a method of conclusions";
"a knowledge of principles",
in the curious phenomenon of your occipital horn.


Proper rain today: no pussy-foooting showers, heavy rain and wind. Witness to the violence of the weather, in two successive litter bins there are the sad remains of collapsed umbrellas. In one, the umbrella is blue and green, in the second, a brilliant red. In both bins, broken ribs stick up, askew like the legs of butterflies, the nylon coverings crushed and folded over, once proud hemispheres, now useless and bound for landfill.

something else, potential, 30 words

A big, white dog seems to be standing up on the rear seat of a parked car, which faces towards the sun. It's another case of seeing something which turns out to be something else altogether - a sort of living metaphor. The dog, as I get closer, turns out to be the reflection of a fluffy cloud in the car's windscreen.

The display area of a shop formerly devoted to the sale of carpets, is now given over to running and peddling machines, and the like, stacks of them. I grow dizzy at the thought of all the potential energy concentrated in their future use.

Clare (http://www.threebeautifulthings.blogspot.com/) started it, and Lucy http://www.box-elder.blogspot/.com has taken up the 30-word description.. It is harder, I believe, than writing 300 words. But "contractility is a virtue as modesty is a virtue".

doctor's visit, coated fish, puffed up

When I was a child, and even when my children were children, the doctor used to visit on his rounds for relatively minor ailments. He would apply his stethoscope, listen to your chest and back, look down your throat ( say "say ah") and into your ears and scribble a prescription to be taken to the chemist. Doctors don't seem to visit you at home anymore, not at least in this parish, but computer experts do. My computer was not too well over the last couple of days, hence the absence of posts and the strange feeling of helplessness that came over me because I had as it were lost my voice. So it was a relief when the geek arrives with his silver box and mysterious vocabulary and an even greater relief now that things seem to have got back to normal.

In the supermarket, a notice indicates "Coated Fish".

A motorcycle at the entrance to the Grove is covered by some kind of plastic cloak to keep it dry. As I pass it, it comes to life inflated by gusts of wind, as though someone under the wrap is driving it, bent low of the handlebars, and swaying witht he machine as it takes imaginary bends at imaginary speess.

twilight, gold, Jane Austen

The iridescent yellow jackets worn by traffic wardens and the like are features of the urban streetscape.

Across the road from the cafe where I am sitting one of the windows of the jewellers is festooned wilth gold chains which stand out from a purple back cloth.

I think to myself that I admire the novels of Jane Austen first for their style and the wit with which she feeds it, second for the unsentimental moral backgound of the novels, third for the sharpness and irony of her dialogue, and last for the plots of the novels. Now that tv adaptations and films of the novels everywhere reduce them to banal melodramas, I think that I shall take great pleasure in reading at least one again soon, let us say Emma.

orange, wobbly sheep, fluttering

Lucy's thoughts on the colour orange yesterday prompted me to misquote Andrew Marvell's poem Bermudas. For some reason the correct lines came into my head in the middle of the night. They are:
"He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night".
When I checked the text I re-encountered the couplet which follows:
"And does in the Pomgranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus show's."
Pomegranates again! And then this morning on Radio 4 I hear Sarah McGuire (I hope I have spelt the surname correctly) read her poem The Pomegranates of Kandahar.

In the high wind that greets me this morning I notice in the back of a parked car one of those animals with wobbly heads. This one is a black sheep with a woolly cap. Its head is moving and I realize that the movement must be caused by the force of the wind alone, which is shaking the car.

In the high wind that greets me this morning, I notice on the rear shelf of a parked car one of those animals with wobbly heads. This one is a black sheep with a woolly cap. Its head is moving, and I realize that the movement must be caused by the force of the wind, which is shaking the car.

Outside a frosted window, I see what looks like a winged insect fluttering against the glass. It is a dead leaf caught up in s spider's web.

cold, commission, bash the pomegranate

There is nothing much you can do about a cold other than say "go away!"

Someone comes to the house and takes a liking to a blue and red picture of a chicken which I made with crayons and watercolours some years ago. She commissions me to do a similar one for her.


I read somewhere that a you can ease the task of peeling a pomegranate by bashing it all over. This loosens the seeds and makes them easier to remove when you cut the fruit open.

tangerine, who or what? spinnach

Tangerines ,(at least mandarines, satsumas and clementines), are plentiful in the shops, and on a fine morning like yesterday, the sky, just after sunrise, glows with a tangerine colour.

What is that ahead? A tent or a push chair, or something erected by workmen to keep people from falling into a hole. As I get nearer I see that it is a young man sitting on a bench. He has a rucksack on his back, which he as not removed and which forces him to sit forward at a sharp angle. He wears a hooded jacket and the hood is up. The jacket has a pale blue background and is decorated with diamond shapes and dollar signs. He wears blue trainers, which match the jacket.

Spinnach cooked with tomatoes and a delicate and carefully prescribed blend of Indian spices - cummin seeds, chilli powder, corriander powder, guram masala and turmeric - accompany grilled chicken breasts, which have been marinated in olive oil and lemon juice and coated with sesame seeds.

seeds only, helmet, upside down

A recipe involving two pomegranates in the Independent this weekend specifies "seeds only".

A lot of thought and care goes into the packaging of commercial products. A shame to let it go to waste. I am often tempted to put it aside for another purpose. And sometimes I do and forget about it. For instance, photographs, taken at Christmas, show me wearing a strange piece of head gear. I had forgotten that I had wanted to find a use for the silver, outer packaging of the Christmas pudding. I had smoothed it out and shaped it to my skull, with flaps over my ears, a better titfer than paper-crowns out of crackers.

An upside down enameled bath outside a house in Belview strikes me as interesting in the same way as Rachel Whitread's reversed-out, moulded sculptures, which show objects from an unusual point of view. The bath has two diamond shaped holes for the taps; and the overflow - a caterpillar-like metal tube - connects an aperture, beneath these, to the protruding stump of the escape pipe beneath the plug hole.

frost, winter smells, trees gather

Frost on the rear window of Peter's car lies close to the glass like layers of silver leaves. It seems an affront to scrape them away.

After this morning's frost and brightness, which lasted until lunchtime, a cold drizzle sets in. The air smells good, the thin mist is seasoned with wood smoke.

In the Grove, there is a spot where people have taken to dumping their discarded Christmas trees. It used to be an unofficial dump for garden waste, but the Council put a stop to that last year. The Christmas tree-dumpers have persisted however. A congregation of different shapes and sizes has now gathered, one,upright in its plastic pot still fit for an angel and baubles, a sad silver ribbon remaining, others lying higgledy-piggledy on their sides. One small tree has survived from a previous year, where it took root after someone had planted it.

scent, the Grove, childhood

One of the entrances to the Grove is a short brick path fronted by five houses on either side. As you go through it, at this time of year, you are struck by an astonishing perfume. It reaches you long before you identify its source, an evergreen shrub with small white flowers and dark blue or black berries. The Botanical Garden by Roger Phillips and Martin Rix, tells me that it is found in woods and forests in the Himalayas from Afganistan to Central China. It is called Sarcoccoa and belongs to the same family as the English box, but as the scent proclaims it is by origin a truly exotic plant.

Clare Grant, whose Three Beautiful Things blog, prompted numerous immitators (this site is but one of them) has had another good idea. She has launched a new blog http://www.oncearoundthepark.blogspot.com/ in which she describes, in 30 words, an aspect of a daily walk. As it happens, the walk is in the vicinity of the Grove, the little park which I refer to quite often here. As we are neighbours, our walks cross each other like routes on a chart. It has a special appeal to me: in particular I like the discipline of limiting descriptions to just 30 words. Caption writers often have a similar requirement, and it is not too far removed from the restriction in which, people who write 17-syllable haiku, find a special kind of inspiration. Congratulations Clare. The necessary tightness of your descriptions creates a poetry of its own. "To see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower."

Small landmarks and simple games play a big part in the life of children. One little girl in the Grove says to another as they push their scooters down the main drag: "Shall we go to that tree because the boy isn't there any more". Off the they go. The tree is one that grows at an acute angle, so that its trunk is almost parallel with the ground. The next time I look, the boy seems to have returned, but to hell with it they are there first this time.

flying, refrain, Chinese tea

In a recent poem posted on her site http://www.smokeandash.blogspot.com/ , Tall Girl wrote of having dreamed that she had "flown majestically downstairs". When he was very young, my bother Michael, claimed to have flown downstairs. We were living at the time in a house called Windwhistle in Sidmouth, Devon and he must have been four at the time. Grownups said that he had been dreaming, but he believed that he had achieved this feat. I have never dreamt of flying downstairs, but I did share Michael's belief that I could fly, vertically and standing to attention. Hence this poem, which I wrote two or three years ago:

The art of flying
is not to know how
To do it, or when or whether to or why.
Ascent is calm, vertical, slow,
Feet are together, arms to the side,
Mind empty, cool, ready
For all or nothing,For sunlight or cloud
Or silver lines of rain,
Careless of where you float,
As up you go, tidy as a chess piece,
Dignity intact, demeanour modest.
Flapping is out
Of the question, buzzing is too.
There'll be no business for you to do.
No bottom line, no plan or bold design or swoops or plunges.
Steady it is.
Discretion is the guide.
And should some person catch your eye
As you float past a chandelier
Or steeple, try
To ignore his stare,
As though for him to stand,
Feet on the ground, eyes strained upwards,
Neck at forty-five degrees,
Is what is truly odd.
Let him suppose you
An angel on the way to God
Or a raptor, which hovers above
To spot, its prey in the long grass.
Do not, then, enlighten him.
If you have flown, you should forget
That you have flown.
It is enough that you
Should be the better for it,
Having seen further than most
And felt the wind under your feet.

This Christmas we had a present of Chinese teas in long, sealed, brown paper packets. The names are intriguing - Narcissus Gold Oolong, Flowering Green, Gunpowder Pearls and Gold Tip Pueth. So far we have embarked on the Pueth. You feel you have to compose yourself for the experience and empty your mind in order to appreciate the gentle aroma and faintly bitter taste. It is far removed from your average English cup of tea. Is it my cup of tea.? It think it may grow to be.

I had to buy a new printer because the ink cartridges for the old one had come to cost more than a new machine of equivalent specifications.The new one makes a noise, which I interpret as Rambo, rambo... Rambo...Rambo... as it operates. Or in a more intellectual mode Rimbaud...Rimbaud...Rimbaud..."

scarce snow, hiding, how many?

Snow used to be expected every winter when I was young. It would settle and remain on the ground, rooftops and tree branches for days, sometimes weeks. Not any longer. Now it is a luxury. One wonders at its prettiness as it it falls and begins to cover the ground. Sad to say this morning's snow has already melted.

A woman with a fur cape over her head stands with her back to the trunk of a tree. Is she just watching the snow flakes drifting down? Apart from ourselves, there seems to be no one else in the Grove at the moment. Then a small figure appears and runs across the grass. The woman is playing hide and seek with her son.

There are a lot of blackbirds about this year. Today I count six in a space no bigger that one half of a tennis court.

late breakfast, light, burglars

On New Year's day, I spot a group of five young people round a table outside a restaurant in the Pantiles. They are tucking into enormous plates of eggs, bacon, tomato, baked beans, sausage, the lot - a full English, they call it. It is a mild, damp afternoon. The time is 3.30pm.

A patch of gorse illuminates scrub and brambles on a slope of the Common.

At the top of the slip road leading to the Tunbridge bypass, a mysterious police notice announces "Burglary Initiative. Burglars Beware."

wet leaves, pied wagtails, remote

The smell of wet leaves on the Common like that of truffles and mushrooms, though neither truffles nor mushrooms are in evidence.

We see the new year in with Champagne and neigbours, one of whom brings Heidi a piece of coal. We switch on the television just to see the fireworks over the Thames, with Big Ben in the foreground, the display focussed on the London Wheel. We then fall to talking about pied wagtails - why I cannot remember - and how they roost in large numbers at this time of year in the trees in the Calverley shopping precinct. They are my favourite birds. I love their swooping flight.

The joy of power: the satisfied look on the face of a driver who, with the help of a remote control on his key-ring, unlocks the door of his car, while still several meters away from it.

fresh, porridge, unseasonable

"Will you be seeing in the New Year? I say to a neighbour. "I''ll be in bed by 9 0'clock," he says," so that I can be fresh for New Year's Day."



I like the sound of porridge bubbling as it simmers. It sounds as if it is talking to itself.



A yellow primula is, unseasonably, in flower.

potatoes, buds, 400th birthday

Peru, I read to day, has suggested that 2008 should be the year of the potato. Who rules on these matters? Why not the year of the pomegranate?

Daffodils, crocuses and snowdrops are pushing their shoots up through the grass. Meanwhile I note the tight buds of magnolia.

John Milton was born almost 400 years ago in 1608.

what day? resistable, sales

Amid this cluster of bank holidays, it is difficult to be sure of the day of the week.

In Hall's bookshop a hefty volume on car parks entitled The Architecture of Parking. Resistable.

The word "sales" is in almost every shop window, and in many, the bold words "50% off" surmounted in much smaller print by the shifty words "up to".

not recylcable, olive oil biscuits, rubber bands

On the label attached to a pack of onions (yes, the now mythologically renowned Roscoff onions, referred to here the other day) which I found in Sainsbury's, are the words: "sorry not yet recyclable", not once but twice. In the first instance, they apply to the bag, and in the second, to the label itself. The onions meanwhile have been recycled.

It is not often that a full address serves as a marketing device. The wrapper of each of the "hand-made, sweet, olive oil biscuits" which we eat today with our afternoon tea is an exception. The slightly transparent greaseproof paper, which wraps each biscuit (diameter about 12 cm) is printed in striking, bold characters with the words "Las legitimas y acreditos tortas de aceite de Ines Rosales, Calle Real 102, Castilleja de la Cuesta, ". They are, crisp, only slightly sweet and have a delicate anis flavour. Their journey from Seville to Tunbridge Wells, where I bought the biscuits, seems on this damp afternoon, to be a little miracle.

The streets round here are notable for a scattering of elastic bands. The explanation is that postmen divide their letters into packs according to street and delivery order. Each pack is held together by a pair of elastic band. As the bands are removed and the letters delivered, the bands are discarded on the pavement.

fate, changing loads, age

On the pavement this morning, I see some playing-cards scattered on the pavement, some of them face up - a jack of diamonds, a nine of spades, a five of clubs. I think to myself that someone inclined towards fortune-telling and the like, would take the opportunity to seek here for signs of what the future has in store for him. Not I.

In the days before Christmas, you saw people in in the street with colourful, carefully wrapped packages on their way to friends. On Boxing Day, there were people with bags full of used Christmas wrapping paper on their way to discard it in bins: the digestive process of the consumer society. Today, people are carrying pristine bags with fashion shop labels on their way home from the sales. Indigestion.

From Wrinklies Wit and Wisdom, a book of quotes about age, which someone gave me for Christmas: "I've got things in my refrigerator that are older than you." The golfer, Lee Travino to the golfer, Tiger Woods.

Christmas dinners, building, well fed

It is usually, and has been for some time, my job to cook Christmas dinner. I have always enjoyed it - the logistics, the timing, the feeling that I am doing something useful rather than hanging round. As I bring this one to a successful conclusion, I realize , though I can't be precise, that I must have myself been responsible for about 4o Christmas dinners. It has been goose, but it is usually turkey. Though I get the best of both world by roasting mine wrapped in muslin which has been thoroughly smeared with goose fat. What can you do with the remains of the bird? Soup, risotto, sandwiches( sharpened with a little lemon juice and mollified with chestnut stuffing), rissoles, and cold with a fresh and invigorating salad.

I see a squirrel it mouth full of leaves race up a tree to refurbish its drey. As it reaches its destination high in the tree, a single leaf flutters to the ground.

Do I imagine it, but are the pigeons, which waddle across the grass and the paths in the Grove fatter and more relaxed than usual, this spring-like, sunny Boxing Day?

family likenesses, baby boss, origins

Watching strangers in a queue, it is rewarding to spot family likenesses and to guess at relationships. A father (forty plus) and son (fourteen plus) in the bank queue this morning, have the same nose, the same eyes, the same expression round the mouth.

In the pub restaurant, a very small baby sits at the head of the table in a high chair, while a party of eight have lunch and exchange presents. Every now and then the child, aged perhaps 8 months, throws a parcel to the floor to assert his responsibilities as chairman.

Poem for Christmas and the New Year

Origins
The more you know, the less you understand,
Too close to recognise what you embrace
Or the paths that spread from your open hand
Like roots in search of nourishment and space.
The closer you look, the less you see
Of features that were there from the start.
Impossible to shake off even now -
Uncertainty for certain, the future free
Up to the edge of singularity.
You may be in two places at the same time,
And not know, in either, how to behave,
Particulate, blind anarchic, random,
As stories told of you and me and her and him
Merge in the crash of a breaking wave,
Ride up the shore, slap rocks, grind shingle,
Caress the wind-smoothed flanks of shifting sand
Where foamy fingers soak away, and gulls call
Victory over the salt-spiked wind.
You must keep going, though you won't know where,
Where you begin, or where, if ever, you will end,
Enthralled by the rhythm of this big affair,
Too long, too bright, too fast to grasp.
Moment after moment keep the first moments live,
Billions of fragments in your expanding mind
Fuel the questions which keep coming up.
And from the pupa, complete, past common
Sense or reason, you climb, immense, four wings
Intact, six legs, eyes, thorax, abdomen;
And antennae poised to unwind like springs.

shadow, winding-up, glow

"In all literary matters, to delete in error is better than to include in error". From the Book of Shadows by Don Paterson.

In the supermarket even early in the day the aisles are blocked with people on the whole cheerfully stocking up. I hear only one woman showing signs of strain, as she says to her husband, "you're winding me up, you're winding me up,to which he replies, "I won't say another word."

There is no sun this afternoon, but the sky has a diaphanous glow and the trees look like shadows. There is a white light in which the starlings (just a few this year) flute and whistle.

snapshots, bus, Christmas notes

From the train, we catch sight of sheep, snow-coloured in the mist, a fox loping across an otherwise empty field and a heron flapping lazily against the pale sky.

In Sevenoaks, where the wait for the bus, expected at hourly intervals, its arrival unpredictable, can be painful, we say, "let's try for the bus" And when we turn the corner, there it is standing by the stop.

Two observations on Christmas cards from old friends received this morning reflect the ageing process. The first:
" As my house is in the centre of the medieval grid, and within a few minutes, I have access to the cinema, doctor, chemist, theatre, market, cathedral, brewery and funeral director, all my needs are catered for."
The second:
"As people age, they get a bit reptilian, may be with fewer reflexes, the beady eye, the single quest for a sandy gulch or a sunny rock."

frost, surprise, out of season

It is still daylight, when I leave the house. But patches of frost have already begun to appear, where last night's had melted during the day. In the fast gathering twilight, by the time I am on my way home, the window of a car, covered in hard rime, is glistening in the lamplight. I pass my hand over the window's rough surface.

A packet of dried chestnuts has the mystifying warning: "May contain traces of peanuts".

Under the moon with a halo, a black bird sings for a moment forgetful of the cold and the season.

wallnut oil, rime, never

Getting home yesterday after a visit to the dentist, I find that my friend, Tristan the blogger has made a brief visit and left a wonderful litre bottle of French wallnut oil, outstanding with warmed goat cheese and, as Tristan reminded me last time he presented us with such a bottle, with toasted wallnuts.



Looking closely at the rime on top of a wall, I see that it is composed of thousands of tiny spikelets piercing the cold air like mountain peaks.



"Never, never, never, never," says a young man to his girl friend, as they pass me in the street, "ever, ever!"

balloon man, 30 years on, guess who

Opposite the entrance to Victoria Place, a tall, beefy balloon-man, hangs on to a crowd of gas-filled balloons. The balloons are printed with images of Father Christmas, elves and fairies. They bob and swing in the wind. Will they carry the balloon-man off to fairy land? He is too big and too much a man of this world. He produces a cigarette and lights up. I look back to see if he and the balloons have gone up in flames, but hope and presume that the gas is not inflammable.

I walk past a house that I lived in 30 years ago. In the front garden are some shrubs, which I can remember planting there, almost certainly the last trace of my presence in the house.


A female figure approaches. A hat covers the top of her head, a scarf, against the cold, her mouth and nose. We greet each other, though all I have to identify her are her eyes.

the end,crisp, name

In, I am afraid, a childish way, I have always been drawn to ambiguous notices. I like especially those, which have an unintended finality when taken out of context.. In a draper's shop called Roseby's in Mount Pleasant, a large, solitary notice announces: "Everything must go."

In the Oxfam charity shop, a jovial man in charge says to a customer who hands him a £10 note: "Nice and crisp! Did you just run it off?"

I stop for a coffee at a new coffee shop in the town called Ishmael. There is a long counter and quite a fuss is made about the different sorts of coffee and tea. There is coffee roaster in the window. No one else is at the counter when I ask for a coffee. "Give me your name," says the girl behind the counter, "and I'll call you when it's ready." A curious routine. "Dick", I say, "Moby Dick".

revision, better and better, treats,

My friend, the journalist who shelters behind the nom de plume of the fictional mariner, Barret Bonden, is right (see my post two days ago): "The reflex of a star" is much more powerful than the "image of a star". This was one of the real improvements ,which Wordsworth made in his revision of The Prelude. But are all revisions better than the original in work of art? Sometimes you lose freshness and simplicity. Here's an instance where Wordsworth did just that in The Prelude. His final version of the lines, which describe how, with his sister, he lay on the battlements of Brougham Castle

... Catching from tufts of grass and hare bell flowers
Their faintest whisper from the passing breeze,
Given out while mid day heat oppressed the plain.."

seems tired and unduly complex beside the original

...lay listening to the wild flowers and the grass
As they gave out their whispers to the wind.


It's not often that you hear the name of the French psychologist and best selling author (from the 1920s), Emil Coué nowadays. In my childhood, I remember my father regularly quoting the slogan behind Coué's system of optimistic auto suggesion: "Every day, in every way I get better and better." That was what you were supposed to tell yourself to speed your recovery from an illness or a spell of bad luck, or simply to keep on top of things. During Heidi's recovery from her hip operation, I find myself repeating the words to her. But it is a surprise when a neighbour, having enquired after the hip, and heard me say, she gets better every day, says "... every day, in every way." And adds "Coué!" I express surprise. "My housemaster made us repeat it when we were recovering from flu. We had to sit up in bed and beat our chests and say, 'every day, in everyway I get better and better'. He was a fanatic, a real fanatic!"



A woman walks briskly along the pavement holding a brightly wrapped present in her hand. She approaches a front door and knocks loudly. Her face is set in a grim rictus, one hopes because of the icy wind rather than because she feels she is performing a burdensome duty.

live and dead, euphemism, matching

As I watch the Matthew Collings art programme, This is Civilisation on Channel 4,last night, it occurs to me that the birds that settle on outdoor sculptures add a special truth of their own to what the artists intended. You don't take the statues of Lord Nelson, Mark Quinn's Alison LapperPregnant, or the equestrian generals on surrounding plinths in Trafalgar Square, quite as seriously as you were intended to, when pigeons are sitting or crapping on their heads.

Is there really a need for a euphemism here? In Sainsbury's this morning, I am intrigued to see that what used to be called a staff restaurant is now a colleague restaurant.

Some lillies are brought to the house. They are of an unusual colour - yellow, with a hint of salmon, a touch of tangerine, streaks of orange. They are arranged in a vase in the hall next to Heidi's much admired painting of a woman smoking. With pleasure we note, that the colour of the flowers and of the woman's hair are a pefect match. The flowers were not, but might have been chosen (or even bred) to match.

Alright? cold, reflections

It seems to be quite common now, this form of greeting, simply: "Alright?" This afternoon in the newsagent: "Alright?"

At last cold, crisp weather, the sort we used to know at this time of year. I catch my breath condensing.

The windows of houses at the edge of the Grove are lit by the setting sun. And I recall that passage in Wordsworth's Prelude, where he remembers, how as a boy, he skated on the lake as night was falling
"...And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set and visible for many a mile
The cottage windows through the twilight blaz'd.."
And then, as it got darker,
"Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Inot a silent bay, or sportivley
Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultous throng,
To cut across the image of a star
That gleamed upon the ice...."

cream, kitsch, get him

Apologising for the increase in price of the pomegranates in his shop, the green grocer says: "They're the crème de la crème. From California !"

As daylight fades and the lights come on in the Grove and in the surrounding houses the whole scene takes on a gemütlich, almost a kitsch appearance like a Christmas card, or pantomime scenery.

Mr Crow is strutting about in the Grove. Along come a couple with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier puppy. The dog looks towards the bird. Its owners encourage it. "Get him!" they say and it rushes off. But Mr Crows only rises lazily in the air and flops down a few feet further on, and the terrier veers away as though scared of the imperturbable, black monster.

steam, ivy feet, benches

The steam iron sighs in the room next door.

Ivy leaves fine, brown foot prints where its rootlets have been dragged off a stuccoed wall.

Two park benches are perched on top of the container used as a lock-up for the little JCB digger at work in the Grove. Have workmen put the benches there to keep them from vandals? Or are partying vandals themselves responsible for this surreal sight?

gifts, nail pairing, tripping

In the Oxfam bookshop I come across a book on Essential Oils, which will make a good present for someone I know who likes using such things. As it is nearly Christmas, I look up two oils, which have a seasonal ring. Frankincense, I learn, is "a tonifying oil with anti-inflammatory and astringent qualities.... It imparts a calming and uplifting effect, while at the same time increasing energy". Myrrh is "strengthening and highly antiseptic... It is an excellent expectorant." The three wise men would have been wise enough to refrain from explaining the virtues of their gifts in the stable.

Above the station clock, and later, as I walk home, over the Grove, the new moon hangs like a nail-pairing in the translucent sky.

A notice in the station warns: "Please be aware of tripping hazards."

just, anticipation, waiving

With a half-hour wait on a cold platform as an alternative, catching a train, just.

I usually bake bread every week. Too often, I use a "sponge" made with a liberal quantity of fresh yeast, and the bread ferments and then, formed into loaves, proves in a matter of three or four hours. The bread is good, but not nearly as good, as when, leavened by a mature "starter", the dough ferments more slowly. It can take 12 or more hours to ferment and the same amount of time again for the loaves to prove. The result is sour dough bread, so flavoursome that, when it is fresh, you want nothing with it. This morning, having left the loaves to prove overnight, I come down to the kitchen full of pleasurable anticipation to see how well it has risen. I bake the bread after breakfast and the house fills with the smell.

A beaming woman waives vigorously in my direction. I have no idea who she is and I admit to a sense of relief when I realize that the object of her attention is walking behind me, and I do not have to summon a name from my failing memory.

exhilaration, unfallen, relativity

Twice recently, this morning included, I have seen a car drive past with a dog sticking its head out of the front passenger window, its fur and ears flowing back, its eyes narrowed in the slip stream. I share the exhilaration which it must feel.

One bright red apple remains on a tree in the front garden of a neighbouring house. It is not attached to a branch but rests on the fork of two branches where it has fallen. Even the recent strong winds have not dislodged it.

When you watch a train move forward alongside the train on which you are sitting, and you think your train is moving, but it is not.

onions, new word, Christmas jazz

Earlier this year I wrote about the special onions from Roscoff in Britanny, which I had bought in Sainsbury's. I was wondering whether they would turn up again, and sure enough there they were this morning. I was pleased because, as the label says, they are sweet, pink and juicy. My reference also, I believe I am right in saying, led Lucy Kempton, who lives near the place where the onions originate, and who happened to be researching the variety, to visit this site. That in turn led to the Compasses site where Lucy has illustrated my Handbook for Explorer poems with her photographs. Testimony to the power of blogging and to the power of the onion.

Twice in the last two day I have been puzzled by the word miniseries, which I pronounced in my mind with emphasis on the the second syllable. I had no idea what it meant except that it was something that you looked at. It was only to day that I realized that what the newspaper meant was mini-series, as in a sequence of television programmes.

In the Pantiles, a jazz band, its members dressed in Father Christmas outfits, plays Jingle Bells in the watery light. A giant on stilts staggers around in huge boots. He has the word "loony" on the back of his tee shirt.

splash, wet feet, bore

An afternoon walk in the rain, amid splashing drops from the trees, gurgling drains and flowing gutters, awakens the senses.

A young man, whose otherwise bare feet are plunged into a pair of soggy trainers, crosses the road in the rain and gets into his van, which proclaims his profession as chimney sweep.

If I were going to be a bore I would want to be a hellebore. In particular I would choose to be hellborus niger or the Christmas rose with its dark leaves and fragile white blooms. As its name suggests, it flowers very early (or late, if your take it litterally) in the year. Why niger? Because of its black roots. These have been known for centuries as a cure for "mania, insanity and melancholy" The seventeenth century herbalist Gerard believed that a purgation of hellbore is "good for mad and furious men".

well, lifesize, understatement

At this time of year we receive Christmas cards from people whom we don't see very often with the added words: "Hope you are both well". It strikes me, as the years go by, that what they often mean to say is: "Hope your are still alive."

There is a junk shop in Crescent Road where two life size plastic gorillas stand among the furniture displayed. They may be life size, but do not seem to me to be life-like. Both animals have fierce snarls on their faces, their jaws wide open, their teeth bared. Gorillas, such as I have seen, generally have rather sad faces and are not given to ferocious expressions or behaviour.

I was sorry to see that the computer manufacturer, Evesham Electronics, has gone into liquidation. I still pass the empty shop, where its rather smart computers used to be on show. Bankrupt they may have become, but an obvious talent for understatement has to impress. "I'm sorry," says a notice in the window,"but due to an electrical problem this showroom will be closed."

goden apples, sleepwalker, sadness

In the lamplight, some apples fallen under a tree which overhangs an alley, become golden apples. I have passed them often by daylight, green and not very interesting. But this afternoon I recall W. B. Yeats:
"...And pluck till times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."

A small book of watercolours by the German artist Emil Nolde turns up in the Oxfam bookshop. Among the treasures inside is a picture called Nachtwandler. A man with long hair, moustaches, a blue nightshirt, bare feet, and one arm outstretched is profiled again a billowing fog-like brownish background; a streak of orange lights up the top right hand corner. It is one of those odd pictures which stay in your mind like a familiar tune.

I keep returning to a book called The Book of Shadows by the contemporary Scottish poet, Don Paterson. This is a book, not of poems but of epigrams and observations - pithy, rude sometimes sad and often funny. Opening it at random I come upon:
" The sadness of old shoes. Putting them on again, I suddenly remember all the old friends I haven't seen for ages; and why." Things are often sad in themselves. Who was it who spoke of "the sadness of things"?

walkies, powder, freedom

A man is taking his dog for a walk on the grass in the Grove.He gets ready to clear up in its track. "Don't tread in it," he shouts. "You big lummox! You great nit!"

It is raining. The sun is shining. The sky is pale blue and elsewhere is covered in purple cloud. As I look down Mount Pleasant, I note a golden, powdery light over trees and rooftops.

Michael, a neighbour, whom I meet at the bus stop, declares that when the free national bus pass comes in next April, he will challenge other oldies to a see who can get first from Tunbridge Wells to Edinburgh travelling only by bus.

cycle racks, chime, doves

Two new minimalist, bicycle shaped cycle racks have appeared in the centre of the town near the Opera House. They stand alone as elegant pieces of sculpture when not in use. They are inscribed with the words; "To celebrate the passage of the Tour de France through the Borough of Tunbridge Wells on 8 July 2007. The racks are identical with those presented, a couple of years ago, to the town by its German twin German town, Baden. They reside outside the town hall.

Once again the station clock is keeping the right time on all four faces. And it chimes on the hour, a quality which few knew the clock possessed.

The gentlest and softest grey is the grey of collared doves. There is a pair nearly always to be seen in the same corner of the Grove. They are smaller and more beautiful than most other members of the pigeon family. Until 50 years ago, apparently, this charming bird, which originates in south eastern Europe, was not seen in Britain. It is now widespread and should be welcomed wherever it goes.

tails, uniform, traffic

Two men at the counter of the cafe have items protruding form the back pocket of their jeans. One sports a blue cloth that looks a bit like a tail, the other has a folded sheet of paper that could be an instruction sheet.

In the Grove, a bounding dalmation barks at young community police woman. "It's the uniform", she says and removes her hat to reveal some pretty blond hair. Impressed, the dog decides to be friendly and wags its tail as she strokes its head.

In Calverley Park, I hear a car where there should be no cars. It is a brisk gust of wind raking the branches of a couple of tall larch trees planted close together near where I am walking.

dank, Newfoundland, ship

"...Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day ...?"
It's that sort of day and not necessarily the worse for it.

In the Grove, I meet Giles and his Newfoundland puppy. The animal, which I mentioned earlier when it was a newcomer, is, appropriately, called Seal because of her glossy back coat. It is now a very big puppy, (about the size of a small elephant) and playful.

With the wind behind me, my padded jacket seems to inflate, and I beat along like a sailing ship.

music overheard, football, drinking in the rain

The far off tinkling of a piano greets me as I step out of the front door this morning. I reflect that distant music overheard is sometimes preferable to direct confrontation. As I walk down Mount Sion, the wind brings the sound of a saxaphone. It comes and goes, and because of the hillside and the buildings, it is difficult to determine the source of these sounds. Eventually I find it in the Pantiles where a trio is performing jazz to enliven the first of two Christmas markets which takes place to day.

In the Grove, I notice a collie lying flat, its nose to the ground - the sort of pose you see when collies are managing sheep. This afternoon, it is not sheep, but a football, which the collie is managing. A small boy kicks the ball and the dog pounces on it, caressing and holding it with his paw. The boy tries to kick it away while the dog hangs on to it. The boy eventually kicks it free and the dog pounces again. When the boy becomes tired of the game, the collie lies in front of the ball, its nose twitching.

The jolly grey haired lady whom I often see with her wine and cigarette outside the Grove Tavern is there again. There is a shower of rain, but she is not put off. Someone from the pub dries the seat so that even though it is raining she may sit on a dry place. Somehow I am reminded of a surreal Buster Keaton film called the Navigator, where Buster, in a diving suit goes down to repair the hull of a ship. While under the water, he opens a bag of tools, erects a "danger men at work" sign and begins the job. When he has finished, he fills a bucket, washes his hands, dries them on a cloth from a tool bag, wrings it out and prepares to return to the surface. It must be 50 years since I saw the film, so I may have not have all the details quite right. But Buster Keaton and my new friend are good companions in my mind.

looking up, different, landing

It's always worth while looking up, provided there isn't a hole in front of you. Looking up, I see the network of telephone wires, surrounding a telephone pole, like the start of a spiders web, the lines leading out from the centre to people's houses.

In Barclay's bank there is a television set to keep people occupied while they queue. It is silent but subtitles written at talking speed, help to keep you informed. As I watch a politician talking about the latest political donations scandal, the subtitles read: "It's a different ball dish, a different ball dish."The subtitles correct themselves: "It's a differentball game", but the variation on the cliche strikes me as more appealing.

I like the way magpies land with a bounce and a little run.

marching, decorations, pipe

Recently, I have heard weather forecasters, dramatically, speak of bands of rain "marching across the country".

On shrubs this morning, the early sun lights up lines of raindrops so that they look like Christmas decorations - the minimalist ones of one colour only.

A man in a flat cap and rain jacket walks towards me. He is smoking a pipe, rare nowadays. As he puffs past, I catch the sweet, almost forgotten scent of pipe tobacco.

Enid, ears, coins

"Enid is on my side," effusive laughter, "Enid is on my side..." a middle aged woman, is enjoying the drama of a telephone conversation and sharing it with the test of the carriage. "We're going through a deep tunnel," she continues, " I mean a deep tunnel... Can you hear me? Can you hear me?" When we emerge from the tunnel, we are robbed of the story of Enid. The mobile remains dormant.

The orange handles, fixed to the grey, upholstered gangway seats in the train look like stylised ears.

In the Grove, I talk to one of the men working on the paths. "We've found lots of coins," he says, " a six pence, and a Greek coin dated 1811".

Amaryllis, fitting, reduced

Three amaryllis of a deep burgundy colour arrive in the house to advance Heidi's recovery. The flowers are still in tight bud, like the beaks of birds, the outside petals marked with faint green veins. It will be a pleasure to watch them open. I think of Milton's Lycidas
..."Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade
Or sport with the tangles of Neaera's hair?"
I used to think that Amaryllis and Neaera must have been mythical women. Only now a little research suggests that they were just ordinary country girls, the names used as such by Latin and Greek poets and chosen by Milton for the same reason and for their undoubted euphony. He wouldn't have envisaged these big flowers otherwise known as belladona lilies.

I find in the cupboard reserved for them a used box, which makes a perfect package for the Bendick's bitter mints, (in my opinion the best chocolates in the world) which Heidi is sending to friends in Germany.

Fragments of a sky blue, burst balloon on the wet pavement. Not a beautiful thing but a melancholy one, poignant I guess.

saws, repeat performance, rugby ball

My neighbour, Pammie, comes up with an old saw:
A whistling woman and a crowing hen,
Neither good to God nor men.
Politically a bit off, we suppose. But not as as bad, we agree, as:
A woman, a dog and a walnut tree,
The more you beat them, the better they be.

"Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?" says the lady at the building society, as she hands me back my paying-in book. I remember that, at this time last year, she asked the same question. There is something oddly reassuring about repetition and regularity. Did she ask it two or even three years ago? And does she ask it to all those who come to the counter? I say: "I've done some of it, " and, feeling that it is rude not to show a reciprocal interest in her shopping, ask: "Have you?" "Some of it," she says.

At the entrance to Calverley Park, I see a rugby ball soar majestically into the sky above a shrubbery. It rotates in the air. Its oval shape glints in the sunlight as it turns. It seems to stay up for a long time. It transpires, as you would have guessed, that some lads are kicking the ball to one another. One of the lads has an unfailing, mighty kick, which explains the height and length of its trajectory.

sprouts, divided, smile

In the farmers' market, they sell Brussels sprouts on the stalk. This is quite common now, and it is a good idea; it keeps them fresh and looks interesting. And it is better to let customers remove the sprouts from the stalks than pay workers to do the job.

Looking out from the window of Hall's bookshop, I see passers-by in Chapel Place, divided horizontally into three by bookshelves, with gaps between them, ranged against the window. I glimpse unattached legs, torsos and heads moving, it seems, independently of each other.

There is a very thin woman with a walking stick, who walks rapidly about the town. Her face is normally set in an expression of grim concentration. But today, as we pass her on the pavement - Heidi, (recovering from her hip operation), one hand on her own stick, her other hand on my arm - she smiles at us, a shy, confederate smile.

it works, Zola, round head

After a sticky 24 hours the land line telephone, which replaces, an earlier new and faulty telephone, its batteries now fully charged, seems to be working as it should. I still approach it with caution, though, as you might, someone, whom you feel you may, inadvertently, have offended.

I have started on my seventh Zola novel in the Rougon Macquart series. Why do I so much enjoy these books? There are 20 novels altogether. Although they all touch on members of Rougon and Macquart families, this is no family saga. Each novel stands on its own and I have found that there is no need to read them in sequence. The series describes life in France across the whole spectrum of social class and weaves stories into every aspect of society -from coal mining to the development of a huge department store, from the theatre to the railways, from alcholism to political intrigue. At first I feared boredom, a too serious social purpose. But page-turning stories have kept me entertained, and observations based on Zola intensive research help me to understand the French people and French history. It constantly surprises me that so much of the content seems relevant today. I cannot quite relax until I have at least two more in the series lined up for when I have finished the volume I am reading.

A cat sits on the indside window sill of the front room of a house which I pass. The window is open and it pops its head out to enjoy the fresh air, while keeping warm indoors. It is the cat with a round head, which I have often seen in the summer sitting on the bonnet of a car or in patch of sun light on the pavement.

psychic, ambiguity, working

"And the Evening Standard for you," says the girl in the newsagent. It is only the second time I have been there recently. "I'm psychic," she adds.

On the rear door of a security van are the words Police follow this van. Richly ambiguous, it makes me think of the music hall song "My old man said follow the van, and don't dilly dally on the way".

The new telephone is working, after it apparent mental breakdown, night before last, while its batteries were charging. The demented female voice is relegated to its proper function. At least I hope so.

tulip tree, help! gauze

A few leaves remain at the top of the tulip tree. This morning, outlined against buttermilk clouds and blue sky, they wave to me, stirred by the breeze, as I drink my morning tea.

Last night, I am watching one of our favourite sit coms - One Foot in the Grave. Victor Meldrew pursued by one disaster after another, is succumbing to his (and our) favourite expression of disgust: I don't belie.. eve it". Just then I hear a woman's voice in our house. It is not Heidi's voice. In the study, is a new land-line telephone. It is a replacement for a telephone, which I bought a few days ago, and which had gone wrong. I had, that day, been up to the top of the town to take the old phone back to the shop and pick up the new one. Just now, the new phone is supposed to be charging its batteries and is not connected to the phone line. I go to investigate. The voice is saying over and over again in a smug , don't -I- speak-beautifully-voice. "You have no new messages. You have no new messages." This must be part of One Foot in the Grave, being broadcast in the next room. I can't separate myth from reality. Have I become Victor Meldrew? I say: "I don't belie ..eve it." And find it difficult not to laugh.

A plane flies behind a small tangerine coloured cloud in the late afternoon sky. For a moment, it becomes a shadow behind gauze and then emerges intact again.

stretched, miniatures, detox

A pink stretch limo drives past me in Mount Sion. As these strange vehicles ususally do, it stretches the imagination.

In the Grove, they are remaking the minor paths. The first job is to dig a narrow trench on either side of each of the paths. This is to house pairs of bricks placed side by side to form a shallow gutter. To dig the trench, there is a neat little JCB , and to remove the turf, which the digger has lifted, a tiny tipper truck. The little park seems suddenly to belong to toy town.

In the health food shop, where I am buying porridge, the counter is covered with tins of something called "green barley leaf powder". "And what does that do for you"? I ask. Says the assistant: " Detox. It's got enzymes." I should have guessed. I like the language of health food, though not the food itself. Porridge is enough for me.

few words, two books, lights

A few words can go a long way. Here is Jane Austen writing to her sister Casandra, as it happened on 20 November 1800, about a ball which she had attended:
"Mrs Blount was the only one much admired. She appeared exactly as she did in September, with the same broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband and fat neck."

One of my favourite and one my least favourite Victorian novels are being broadcast by the BBC. They are Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens, on the radio; and Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell on the tv. A couple of years ago I ploughed through Dombey detesting more and more its tendentious plot, sentimentality and cardboard characters. I read Cranford 50 years ago and was delighted then, as I am now, seeing it on tv, by its humorous, accurate picture of small town life.

Coming home in the rain, I walk over the reflection of street lights which shine mournfully on the black road and red brick pavements.

squirrel, daft, expression

A squirrel runs down the steps of the fire escape opposite. It is as though the steps were constructed for its use.

People must think I am daft as I pick the plane leaves from the pavement of Mount Pleasant and make them into a small bouquet. Why am I doing it? Ah!

"I'm going to peel a pomegranate," I say to Heidi. Then I think it sounds like one of those expression that form like crystals in the language. To phrases like "run the gauntlet", "pop the question", "jump the gun", perhaps one day will be added "peel the pomegranate". What would "peel the pomegranate" mean? Getting down to the nitty-gritty, reducing something to its basic elements, I suppose.

swearing,window display, wet and dry

The BBC, I see, has been censured for a serious breach of guidelines. Apparently the word "fuck" was broadcast three times between 14.50 pm and the end of the Live Earth Show. Someone must have been listening and counting carefully.

In the window of a shop, which has been vacant for a few months, two women delicately paint the window frames and sills, as though they are performing an intricate mime.

From the dry, I watch the rain falling outside, and the drops collecting on the window.

jolly lady, ironing, pruned

There is a jolly, grey haired lady who sits most afternoons outside the Grove Tavern with a large glass of red wine and a cigarette. She is seldom, if ever, alone and is clearly popular, with other drinkers. She has taken to waving to me as I pass, which I take as a compliment. Today I respond to her wave with a cheery, hullo, as I pass. It is good to see life being enjoyed.

Ironing is my favourite chore. Heidi likes it too, but, while her hip is gaining strength, I have the privilege of the domestic iron. I love the smell and feel of a stack of freshly ironed clothes.

They were sawing away at a tall oak in the Grove the other day, pruning it, presumably of damaged or infected branches. Now it looks more like a piece of sculpture than a tree. One branch bends up and forward to look like a giant sea horse. The trimming of the end of the branch even looks like the frills at the front of the sea horse's "nose".

coteries, plane, valour

For years I thought how good it would be to belong to, or at least to be close to, a coterie. This morning it occurred to me that in a way there is one all around us. If you are a blogger and people visit your site and you visit other sites regularly, a group begins to build, as comments are exchanged, common lines of thought and interests developed. It may not be Bloomsbury or the Algonquin Hotel, Montmartre, or Chelsea in the time of the Pre-Raphaelites. But in the age of the global village, it is almost something better, more open, freer. So Clare, Lucy, Tristan, Tall Girl, Marja Leena, Dave, Lucas, Rashmi and many others ( and all the links stretching out from your blogs), think: the world is weaving round those observations and photographs, something is taking shape, to which one day a name may be given.

The plane leaves on the pavement of Mount Pleasant are enormous. They lie separately on the pavement like green and gold stars. Today, I see a child in a push chair holding one by its long stem as though it were a toy. But it is something better.

As I walk in Calverley Park, I hear from a neighbouring church, this bright and crisp afternoon, the just discernable words of John Bunyan's hymn:
He who would valiant be,
'Gainst all disaster...
...We know we at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away!
I'll fear not what men say
I'll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim.

home, animal eyes, design kindness

A walk with Heidi, this crisp afternoon, the sun low in the sky, the shadows of trees reaching elegantly across the leaf strewn grass. This is her first day home after her hip replacement operation. She becomes more agile every day.

In Kathleen Raine's collected poems, I note the lines:
" ...Shapes I had seen with animal eyes
Crowded the dark with mysteries."
I have been thinking a lot about animals recently. I believe, along with the philosopher John Gray, that we are part of their kingdom, that human beings differ from other animals only in having an over developed brain. Your brain's too big. That's our problem. We're a bit like the dinosaurs who became too clumsy for comfort, or the shells of their eggs too thin, for the young to survive. To see "with animal eyes" is, perhaps, how we should see if we are to understand the past and even the present.

The kindness of designers: we are running out of the paper dust bags for the Miele vacuum cleaner, which we have had for many years. In order to be sure that I buy the right replacements , I go, as I have done in the past, to the box, in which they are supplied, armed with scissors to cut out the label indicating the model number. I find that the frame, which surrounds the numbers was, in the last box purchased, perforated for easy removal. I slot it neatly into my wallet. This little piece of thoughfulness gives me disproportionate pleasure.

overheard, hands, chilly

I overhear a woman's voice in the train. It is like a stream bubbling over pebbles. She seldom stops talking and seems proud of her carefully modulated voice, and of the little irruptions of gentle laughter, which underline the irony of an anecdote. She is sitting behind me and talking to a woman friend. I hear only snatches of her monologue... "I was waiting at London Bridge and a train came every two minutes but it wasn't mine ....I said .... and she said... and I said... It takes weeks to grow the damn things ...of course the computer went wrong..."

Early this morning from the back of a taxi, I catch sight of two pairs of hands arranging rings, watchs and other adornments in the window of jewelers. A daily spreading of the peacock's tail.

Outside a pub called TN4 is a notice announcing among other attractions: "chilled atmosphere".

milk, boat, alright?

The sun over the fields is like a splash of milk soaking through grey sky.

Across a large puddle a curled leaf sails blown by the wind like a toy boat.

A woman's voice behind me: "Hullo. Are you alright?" I think so. But I ask myself who is asking? I should have know. Everywhere, everyone has a mobile phone. And everyone is asking everyone else, are you alright?

smart cat, fuschia, silver sheep

A cat, its chest white like a white apron, sits in the sun looking smart. And smug, as cats sometimes do.

An unusual pale pink fuchsia in a front garden, a few yards on, another fuchsia, this time the more usual, red and purple variety. Both, uncharacteristically for November, are in full bloom.

From a car I catch sight of a field of sheep. The sun, low in the sky behind them gives the edges of their fleece, a silvery halo.

pitter patter, austins, knitting accents

Lucy Kempton has now illustrated the last five poems in the Handbook for Explorers sequence of poems. The complete series of photographs and poems may now be seen together for the first time on www.compasses-lucyandjoe.blogspot.com

Standing outside my neighbours front door this morning I enjoy the sound of rain falling on the shrubs. It falls straight down, in large, nicely spaced drops, nothing excessive, a measured English rain.

In the supermarket carpark, a group of vintage Austin 7s are parked, their owners, of a like vintage, gatherered in front of them. I count the cars. There happen to be seven of them. Seven Austin 7s. I recall a faded photograph of my mother leaning out of the window of hers and looking very proud of her new car.

Heidi and a neighbour talk about knitting. It seems that Germans knit in quite a different way from the English, though with the same results. It's as though there is in an accent in knitting as in speaking.

wagtail, screen, olive oil

In the Grove I see a pied wagtail. Its swooping flight is delightful to watch like a dance. And when it settles, it really does wag its tail, up and down though, and not, like a dog, from side to side.

From the street, I see into a room, where a television screen is reflecting yet another room.

A bottle of olive oil attracts my attention in the wine merchant this morning. "It's made by one of our wine suppliers," says the owner. I recall visiting an olive producer in Andalucia some years ago and tell him of a family meal in a low ceilinged cellar next to the stone press. "There was a dish", I say, "of orange-slices dressed with olive oil, unusual and unforgettable. The oranges as well as the oil came from the farm." He says: "I can taste that." And in my memory, suddenly come alive, so could I.

too familiar, moue, sky watching

It should be called the Nessun dorma syndrome. If you heard Pavorotti sing it for the first time you might be impressed. If only you could! Van Gough's sunflowers would likewise would be strike you as fresh and original if you hadn't seen them before. And then there's Wordworth's Daffodils! I confess to liking such over established works of art and literature, despite their familiarity, even if they are sentimental, like Louis Armstrong's It's a wonderful world, which I heard this morning on Deseret Island Disks.

I notice the face of a girl sitting by the window of a restaurant. She is pretty, I think, but there is something about the set of her mouth, which is worrying. Then I know what it is. The French word moue comes to mind. It signifes nothing as simple as a "pout", which is a common English translation. Rather moue suggests a look of disdain, of rejection, of superiority. It is above all a word which is utterly French, both in the way it sounds and in the behaviour it describes. When you read: elle fait une moue de dégoût, you can see the lips and hear the sound.



What is he watching? A clear, ice-blue sky with small clouds and vapour trails touched by pink light from the setting sun.

more leaves, pasta taster, for the masses

Because they have stayed so long on the trees and the weather has, at the same time, been so dry, the leaves have been extraordinary this year. Yesterday they lay scattered on the slopes of Calverley Park shining in the sun, not just copper, but burnished copper. Today, they whisper noisily - dry, paper thin and curled at the edges - as the wind drives them along the road.

Competing for the title of the most unnecessary kitchen utensil ever, is the pasta-taster - a small cup, pierced with a single hole, at the end of a handle - which I see in the window of a shop.

Ambiguous notices often give pleasure. If I hadn't know that there was a Catholic church in the vicinity, I might have enjoyed speculating on the meaning of "mass parking only".

toe, polishing, wind watching

The windows of Hooper's department store are draped with red theatre curtains. The inspiration of a forthcoming window display is announced across the curtains in gold letters as: "Sleeping Beauty. English National Ballet". In one window, creeping beneath the curtain is, intriguingly, the naked toe of a mannequin.

Against the war memorial opposite the public library is a ladder. The memorial consists of a life size bronze statue of a fully equipped soldier on top of a marble plinth. This morning, on top of the ladder is a man polishing the statue with a cloth , making it ready, presumably, for the Rememberance Sunday parade.

You can see the wind as it chases the leaves over the grass and across the paths in Calverley Park.

stealing time, nests, beans

A few days ago Lucy Kempton commented on this web log that, generally speaking, clocks only began to tell the same time as a result of the introduction of the railways. The use of chronometers in the eighteenth as an aid to navigation may be an exception. But the railway connection throws an interesting light on Victorian England. Another curiousity, which I encountered, when I inherited a nineteenth century bracket clock a few years ago, is the lock on the glass window covering the dial. Why lock up your time I asked a clock repairer? The answer is apparently that servants were in the habit of putting their employers' clocks forward so that they could work less time. The lock was to prevent this curious form of theft.

When leaves fall from the trees, you have the consolation of seeing the nests, which have been hidden all through the summer.

Yesterday evening, I shelled and boiled the last of the mature borlotti beans which I picked a few weeks ago. Tonight I shall sauté them with finely chopped shallots and a little garlic. They will go well with a grilled slice of fresh tuna.

holding on, excuse, risotto

An oak leaf hangs from a spider's web attached to a branch. It swings to and fro in the breeze, while other leaves float by.

Reading the papers is nearly always a chore. The only pleasure is finding an excuse to stop reading an article early on, because you come across something, which suggests that going on will not worth while. Today, for example, I read, in the first paragraph of an article about an impresario, that "he managed to bestride the global film industry like a Colossus". Bye bye.

If cooking is therapy, cooking a risotto is the best therapy. You feed the rice at intervals with ladles of hot broth, let the rice absorb the broth, stir and watch the rice swell, until it is al dente. As you stand over the pan, there is an immediate pleasure in the evolving dish, the smell and texture of it, and the anticipation of a meal to be shared.

naturally, hair, woodpecker

On the fishmonger's slab in the supermarket, certain fish are labelled "natural fish". It takes me a moment to realize that these must be wild, as distinct from farmed fish. But you have to be on top of these things nowadays. Who would want an unnatural fish? Or a supernatural fish?

As I pass, in the corner of my eye, I see in the window of a hairdresser's shop, a seated girl with long, fair hair down to her waist, her back to the window. With calm, long strokes, a hairdresser is brushing it over her shoulders and straight down her back. A mermaid glimpsed through the glass!

On the grass outside Heidi's ground floor room at the hospital where she is recovering, is a green woodpecker, pecking away in search of ants and the like. That was yesterday. This afternoon, I look for it again. But strutting in its place is a fine cock pheasant.

surprise reader, sniffing, poppy

The vastness of the internet and the opportunity of chance encounters always surprises me. It is a surprise and a pleasure to learn the other day that a neighbour who had no reason to look it up and who had certainly not heard of it through me, has come across Now's the time, by chance. You launch a balloon with a message and never know where it will land, far or near.

In the Pantiles farmers' market a fine, black haired retriever sniffs at cryovac wrapped beef and lamb joints on a butcher's stall with penetrating intelligence.

I visit a neighbour, a military man, who has been seriously ill for some months, and who yesterday celebrated his 80th birthday surrounded by his family. As he greets me, I notice that a poppy is pinned to the collar of his pyjamas in anticiption of Rememberance Sunday. A few years ago, a tabloid newspaper sent a reporter down from London to inverview him. The object was to profile an archetypal "Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells", and I recall his pleasure with the double page spread which resulted. Disgusted or not, he is a man who knows who he is.

clock trouble, toboggans, real squirrels

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a station clock should be accurate. And a source of amusement (to me, at least, whose mode of life no longer requires intensive travel and tight schedules), that the four faces of the clock in the tower above Tunbridge Wells railway station are never right. For two years the clock was not working at all. Then, earlier this year, they appeared to do a refurbishment job. The clock is working again. But you soon realize that the different faces show different times, none of them coinciding with the actual time. The one you can see from the entrance to the station is two minutes slow - the worst degree of inaccuracy for someone hurrying for a train. Better be half an hour out. The trouble is that the trains are, nowadays, for the most part on time. Pity that the clocks are not. I make an observation to this effect to an official on the platform. "Shame," I say after all the work they've done to clean up the clock." He doesn't seem concerned: "It's the works," he says. "Victorian!" Sometimes, it is a beautiful thing to be able to conform to the old catch phrase: "Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells."

A warm, almost balmy afternoon. As I pass Hooper's department store, I note that, in the Christmas window, now being prepared, there are two stacks of toboggans. and a gilded sleigh.

Shadows of branches spread ahead of me over a path in the Grove. Across the shadow-branches scamper real squirrels.

retake, wine dark, pumpkin

I keep finding myself wanting to retake a photograph I have taken before or one that someone else has taken. I have to stop myself photographing the yellow leaf of a plane tree pressed onto the pavement like a print. The same goes for the one of a squirrel with its paws together holding a nut, and managing to look like Jonny Wilkinson on the point of taking a penalty.

A grape vine which I pass regularly has not shed its leaves. Instead the leaves have turned dark red, the colour of mature burgundy.

A carved out pumpkin grins at me through a window.