Antonio helped me shift the core units of this up to our room. We only just managed to squeeze them through the choke-point, at the top of the stairs. Phew!
The day before I’d brought all the drawers up. Today I had to single-handedly lift and manhandle the top part onto the bottom section. Wow! That was hard work. I’m still sweating, now.
Before.
This whole corner of the room now needs re-working. And obviously there are other drawe units, now displaced. Where do they go? I do have a few ideas…
Post chest re-arranging carnage.
But I have a delivery shift to do first. And I’ll need some lunch n’all. So the tidying and rearranging – I’ll do a little bit now – will, for the most part, have to wait until later.
FOOTNOTE:
Gluing up a split.
The lower part of the main body of the chest of drawers needed gluing. There was a big split. In the pic below you can see the ‘fault line’, after the glue up.
Glued up.
And here’s a pic of Chester, the same day. Being totally adorable.
Whilst by appearances I’m only about one-fifth through Vol. II of Rodgers’ humungous Naval trilogy, if you discount the ‘supplementary material’ (the stuff after my index finger) I’m closer to a third of the way through now.
Arrived moments ago.
And look what just hove into port! Vol. I. And I’ve also got his Folio Edition Wooden World to read and enjoy at some point. Getting back into reading is pricing very enjoyable. Or, as I like to jest, re such maritime matter, nautical but nice.
In The Passion of St. Tibulus episode of Father Ted, Father Jack’s prodigious production of earwax discombobulates the visiting Cuban Father Hernandez a little (above).
I was reminded of this scenario today, upon having had a bath. A very hot bath. I almost always submerge my head for about three minutes, specifically to soften up any earwax. And then after the bath, I try to – without bunging them up – get some of the crud out.
Today yielded a very impressive blob of wax and ear-hairs, from deep within my right ear. A bit yukky, I s’pose? But at least it shows these ear-douches are working.
Mango and kiwi.
I had some fabulous fruit at lunch today. Mango and kiwi. Antonio’s influence. Really should eat much more such delicious and healthy stuff!
Wow! What a blast of nostalgia. And such great music. ‘There’s a quiet storm’, she sings, in The Sweetest Taboo. Quiet storm, the perfect description of the sultry soulful music she and her group make.
Opening her second album with Is It A Crime and Taboo? Phew! Hot. And cool. Just utterly brilliant. I’m not massively sold on the ‘so 80s’ gated snare sound of the drums. But within the overall mix it’s fine.
Oh, and as a listener to rain sounds when I get off to sleep, the fact Taboo starts and ends with rain is rather apt and lovely.
Even the ‘album tracks’, as they call them – i.e. the non hit singles – are mostly very good, like track three, the jazzy War of The Hearts.
Initially I was very taken with the whole package. But repeated listens have left me feeling that there is a bit of a dip in quality, as we move from the heavy airplay hits, to the rest of collection.
The wood chip floor of the green room had mostly migrated to other environs. And there were plenty of things growing in the light dusting of soil that remained. So we cleared that all away (as shown above and below).
I took a gamble that three backs of wood chips – £8 a bag from Wickes (1/3 off usual RRP!) – would be enough. And it seems to be just peachy.
Our new reclining chairs in place.
Our two new reclining garden chairs arrived a day early, yesterday. So they’re now in place, in the green room. I’m writing this in the recumbent position. Sheer bliss!
Part The Second…
Hannah, Sofi and Antonio returned, about an hour before we had to leave for my Sunday (!?) dermatology hospital appointment.
Sofi, in new t-shirt and trousers.Sofi & Hannah.Antonio & Sofi.Feed station one.
Part The Third…
We were in and out of Peterborough City Hospital quicker than a virgin at a bordello.
Once home we could finally totally chill, in our new chairs. And even read!
Feed station two.
From where I’m lying, with the new chair in horizontal mode, I can see three bird feeding stations. And, glory be, the birds are starting to learn about the feed we’re putting out for them.
Seeing and hearing these delicate little critters – I esp’ love the little birds – is sheer bliss.
Feed station three.
We have a fourth bird feeder. But it’s in need of repair. In the meantime, Teresa has arrived with dinner… pork korma with rice! Am I in Heaven?
Teresa and Chester join me.
Part the Fourth…
Ah… what joy it is to be alive!
I’m chilling to the Decimus Maximus. A fire and dinner in prospect…
Dinner.
Pork korma, with a side-salad. And banana n’ hazelnut choc-spread pooncakes for afters… joy of joys!
Fire.
I built a wee fire. And it burned just right for us, during dinner.
The view.
The view from where I’m laying, in recline mode, is fab. And the birds are learning they can eat their feed even if we’re sat here.
The green room roof, really coming along.
I asked Teresa to pinch me. Am I dreaming? Have I died and gone to Heaven? Very recently the ‘weather in my head’ (thanks, Don) had been pretty awful. Right now I’m in Nirvana!
And to finish a perfect day: Champagne Charlie, in our cosy lounge…
We arrived at the show around 10 am, which is when it officially starts.
Tailgatin’?Aloha!
The Hula-girl above was, so it later proved, a portent of Hawaiian things to come…
This beautiful bus has a blue version of a livery, upholstery wise, that I recognise from a similar vehicle in The Titfield Thunderbolt. The one in the film was, I think, in green. Chatting with the driver of this magnificent machine, I learned that Dews do have one in green, as well. Must find and photograph that!
There were hordes of folk of all ages dressed up in period costume. Looking natty, dapper, sharp… you name it. The above selection is only a teeny-weeny sampling.
I got a great Hawaiian shirt, which drew many approving comments throughout the remainder of the day, and a whole outfit – trousers, weskit, tie and jacket, all in green – for… £30!
INTERLUDE – St. John The Baptist, Wakerley
In the afternoon we had to leave, so I could do a delivery shift. Turned out the route was in a lovely scenic part of the world.
St. John in Wakerley was worth a look. It’s a CCT Church. So presumably no longer active as a place of worship, but undergoing careful restoration? It was open, fortunately. It’s in a gorgeous setting.
Back to the 40s…
After the delivery shift, we went back to Ramsey. Turned out that we needed to buy more tickets for the evening show. When offered them at a 33% discount, we thought, why not?
We didn’t dance. Very few folk did. Which is a shame, really. I think, perhaps like us, many refrained from lack of era-specific dance move skills. But we still had a lot of fun. We wound up having a pepperoni pizza cooked on site, instead of the korma curry Teresa had planned back home.
I broke my new/latest return to tee-totalism rule. Which, whilst not disastrous, on this occasion, I must admit does deeply disappoint me.
But overall a lovely day. And a kind of tonic to the official 8th anniversary we spent with dad and co on the river, a few weeks back. That wasn’t entirely enjoyable or relaxing. Whereas this was!
Wow! What a great find this was. It was released in Europe in ‘71, but the US in ‘72. And it was, in part, this year – in which I was born – that lead me to have a look.
Bronson’s face, physique, and whole demeanour are wonderful; like the flinty granite of Jack Palance, but with crystal veins of wit and charm shot through the igneous rock.
Bronson with wife Jill Ireland, ‘71.
This Euro-collaboration is – as far as my limited knowledge goes – unique and unusual (and ahead of its time?) in not only having Frenchman Alain Delon as suavely evil bad guy, Gauche, but also Toshirō Mifune, as a ‘last of the Samurai’ type warrior.
So it’s a kind of proto-hybrid-spaghetti/noodle Western, I guess?
We have Capucine and Arsula Undress giving a bit of Yin to the Yang (or is it t’other ways about?), quite literally.
Woof!Good ol’ Tex Avery.
It’s helmed by British director Terence Young (Dr No, [?]), who does a terrific job.
Rather than synopsise the interesting and unusual plot, I’ll content myself with observing that there are lots of terrific locations, some excellent camera work, which, when added to an unique (if formulaic) story and solid (if formulaic) acting, produce a very beguiling whole.
The chemistry between Bronson and his fellow actors, esp’ Mifume, is great, allowing such hackneyed motifs as revenge, and grudging respect turning to camaraderie, to blossom afresh in the somewhat different setting.
There are even Injuns. But once again, even though they occupy a similar niche to that they habitually occupy, it’s all done – thanks massively to the long grass setting – in a refreshing way.
Maybe not a top tier movie. But a very solid compelling and surprisingly fresh take on timeworn themes. Deserving, I think, of cult status.
This is a terrible film in so many ways. A mish-mash of sub-Tarantino delight in violence and death, Baz Luhrman-esque style ‘postmodern’ spectacle, superhero cartoon, and God alone knows what else (as the credits roll the music harks back to Spaghetti Westerns!).
Oh, and I’m not a fan of Guy Ritchie (or Madonna, for that matter).*
It’s really disgusting, with its totally pornographic revelling in murder and butchery, it’s love of crass populist fluff, and, to cap it all, some ‘woke’ bullshit liberally sprayed over everything, like the topping of some mad turf trifle.
Remind you of anything?
In spite of – or because of? – all this and much more (or is it less?), I enjoyed this ludicrous big-budget soufflé of total and utter bollocks.
It claims to be based on historical reality; Operation Postmaster. But this is a Commando comics on Angeldust ‘reality’, in a world where only surfaces are truly real, all taking place in a kaleidoscopic multiverse of mirrors.
And all of it connected to yet another crazy fantasy world, that of Ian Fleming’s James Bond. So this movie can, in addition to all its other magpie thievery, hitch a ride on the coat-tails of the 007 franchise.
Who cares about history or reality, when you can submerge yourself in rivers of Nazi blood, amidst barrels filled with human hearts? Panem et circenses, indeed.
*Both are consummate producers of ‘product’ in/for the shiny ultra-commercial pop age.
