Tuesday, March 28, 2017

suitable for an early start

Photo taken at 5.30 a.m., 5,000 miles away, in bad early morning kitchen light - so out of focus, and subsequently doctored ... but this is my father's Quaker Oats bowl, from when he was a small boy.  Next time I'm back, I'll try for a proper image, but this certainly has a patina of age and distance, which can stand in for a long day ...

Monday, March 27, 2017

monday washday (with magnolia)

It's Monday, so chez my parents, that means that it's washday.  Note the Huntington tea-towel on the left ... It was great drying weather today.  The magnolia appears in the background, its buds no longer furled up tight.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

eating an address

... in East Cambridge: a very tasty way of labelling one's house.  Note, too, the springtime daffodils ...

Saturday, March 25, 2017

my father - the handyman (and some English Spring)

I should be very glad that my 93 year old father is happy to climb up ladders, scrape paint, administer wood filler, and re-paint, although I find the whole process a little nerve-wracking.  Here he is, waving me off as I went out for a sunny walk.  He declined my offer to hold the ladder steady, saying it was made with an exceptionally wide footprint - as he climbed past my window (I was doing final, final checking of textual references against plate numbering ...), he certainly seemed unshaky enough ...

The garden itself is just past its most spectacular part of spring display, perhaps, but it's still looking pretty good.

Friday, March 24, 2017

windowsill flowers

I'm always so very happy to find fresh flowers from the garden in my bedroom - here looking dramatic against a dark night ... (and providing a subject, tonight: my photographic eye went to sleep today.  It's curious - it happens now and again; it's as though my eyes take a rest from looking and observing.  Let's hope they revive ...).

Thursday, March 23, 2017


... or, found art, or at least, a found composition, on the window sill in my parents' kitchen.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

arriving in London

There's something very tranquil about arriving in England in the late afternoon light - with familiar smells (of what, quite, I don't know - plane and train and elevator fluids?) and rhythms of speech, and skylines, and blossom, blossom everywhere.

Except today, as soon as the plane touched down about 3.20 p.m., phones started pinging with the news of the terrorist attack in Westminster, and the news has been dominated by this.  But ... much though I may hate Theresa May's policies, it's such a relief to have a calm public voice speaking out for the government, and not tweeting, or leaping headlong into hysterical new measures.  Indeed, the overall tenor has been one of - we've prepared for something like this to happen - we are, after all, living in an age of international terror attacks; we've foiled attacks in the past; we're very well prepared; we'll carry on, at least until we have more details of this specific attacker, doing our surveillance, following our leads, being alert - business as usual.  The contrast with Trumperica couldn't be more intense.

(and yes, I know I'm probably idealizing, in various ways - but my point echoes that made elsewhere and in a different context today: Trump will almost certainly take domestic terrorism, when it happens, as an opportunity, not as tragedy).