Nightjar

Listen. There’s the rustle of the freeway traffic. An occasional nightjar squeaks resentment or alarm, and the gentle tap-tap of another inhabitant trying to find somebody--or something--on IM. The fridge hums and the nightflights to London have come and gone. The mongrel Labrador next door was rowdy; the neighbours let her obsess at the dark and imagined foes until about 11, then they lock her up. In her absense the night hugs still closer to the brown drydrab earth. Someone has birds in a cage and they too complain through the night. Perhaps something like a gunshot will bounce over the valley, or the yelp of rubber on tarmac as the ever-vigilant vultures await a cowboy or a teenager or a shredded businessman taking his guilt home from the beautiful lover to the pyja-mad wife, his mortgage and the BMW his bank will own until just before it starts blowing blue smoke.

Taste. Four cigarettes left. Perhaps they will last until the unease congeals into a thought. No one approves of smoking; not her, not the Surgeon Gerneral. Hemmed in on every side it seems. No breezes disturb the pall. Smell the carcinogens hanging sullen below the ceiling, idle and indolent.

Sight. It’s always a brittle sky in this winter of discontent. The stars coruscate more; how can that be? Touch. They’re no hotter; they’re still as far away. Almost as far as the green-eyed girl, who sits alone at work on a Friday night, tired and frustrated with numbers that don’t add up, puzzling over promises she needs to believe about being connected. She wonders why it's so hard to earn the simplicities of life most seem to take for granted.

Venus hangs there serene as she does most nights, cold and mocking, waiting for them all to see an answer hanging in front of them as easily as she does.

Close up

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Jasmine bush

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JT

Dammit, but the boy can sing.
Breaks your heart, it does.

Talia....

..is slacking. Harry Potter does not count.
Shout at her.

In Loco Parentis

I freely admit, I made a huge mistake with my parents.
They didn't have enough money.
I swear I was swapped at birth. Thank you SO much Luton Maternity Hospital.
See, I have expensive tastes.

Take this travelling business. By some bizarre quirk of airline economics, which I for one fail dismally to understand, flying business class to Lilongwe was cheaper (or is that less expensive?) than coach/economy/cattle.

I am not the biggest person, devastatingly average in most respects, but South African Airways--who should know better--cram the pax in like sardines in a can, at least in, er, economy. The Underground/Metro/ L-Train is palatial, trust me.

Anyway. Business. Infinitely better food, bags more space, blah, blah. And the attendants!
So here's Blue, doing the executive impression, papers and files an' stuff spread over three seats, (count them) laptop busy purring away.

Up comes the lady attendant. 'Would sir like another tonic water?'
Blue: 'That would be wonderful, thank you.'
Lady attendant: 'Didn't sir's teacher tell him NOT to do his homework on the bus?' (smiles)
Blue: *Splutter*.

Pity she and her colleagues went on strike the day after, and I'm STUCK here on Friday night.
But she deserves a raise just for that little quip, don't you think?

21st July 2005

So, here at Jo'burg airport again. Malawi now then Europe on Saturday.
The jasmine--a harbinger of spring--is already out in my garden. I'll attempt a photo on Saturday. (Just for Badger, of course.)
So what?
It's too early. Way too early, at least a month. No doubt we'll get another cold snap. I have very distinct memories of this time a year ago, when I spent quite sometime out-of-doors, and froze my ass off, at least until I got on another plane and made for warmer climes, chiefly (but by no means exclusively) meterologically-speaking.
You'll know the smell of jasmine. Sometimes it's the smell of rebirth, optimism and a second chance.
Sometimes it's just jasmine.

BlueGirl turns 21

It's BlueGirl's 21st birthday on Sunday.Here she is at 19.

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...and here--less than a year old

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War of the Worlds?

Yeah, well. *rocks head* Nah. Too much Spielberg. Sort of ET on speed.

But 'Lifehouse'?
Yes, please.
"You and Me" is by far and away the best love song I've heard in ages.
But then I'm an incurable romantic. Geg...?

Restoratives

A thousand apologies for the pause in transmission.
This has been the most miserable week. However, today was vastly improved. The restoration process was aided to some extent by a fabulous lunch--we, the Musketeers, eschewed soup in favour of oysters (six of the little blighters each, although 'somebody', unable to delay gratification, purloined at least one of mine) and chateaubriand, plus a bottle of an assertive little red; a funky pinotage. We ordered fresh oysters, but the nitwits brought frozen. What IS the world coming to? I was appalled. Shocked and appalled.
We decided that it simply doesn't do to enumerate the number of times one' s consumed oysters, or caviar--it's so gauche--but better to try something like, "Oh yes, these are rather similar to those we had in Addis."(or Milan, La Paz etc.)
And no, I didn't pay. Moi? Chateaubriand? (Thanks to my favourite Antipodean.) Lunch, a mere two-hour repast, was in theory, a private little farewell. Which as it happened became entirely redundant. More good news.
And since you were wondering, the rumours about oysters are in the same league as carrots and darkness. Twaddle.

Toujours, la triste

Yet another one of those--'where were you when...' moments.
Where were you when...9/11, when Diana died, Kennedy was shot, Neil Armstrong landed, Saigon fell, and one that hit our family hard; the Aberfan coal tip disaster.
And now London.
I was about to leave our office to the conclusion of a conference on child rights advocacy. David my boss told me. By the time we got there, the delegates were thoroughly concerned. Everyone was well attuned to the news beforehand, since the outcomes of the G8 are important to our work, and we had a significant presence at the summit. Someone had a wireless laptop set up to send any news through.
I was touched by the reaction of the folk. Very few are Brits, but our HQ is in Woking and the UK office on the outskirts of London itself; so everyone knows someone--my point being that whilst not an attack on the homeland, London is the focal point of our universe.

London

All my family, friends and work colleagues are ok. Spare a thought for those who aren't so fortunate.

Hey!

Already the 4th here....
Now, to all you dear folk;

Have an terrific Independence Day!
May your God go with you; may he shine his face upon you,
And give you peace.

With great love and the very best of wishes...
Blue

Blue Apologises

Bugger. What was I thinking? Carpenters?
What with sleep deprivation, a leaking pool, too much Cabernet Sauvignon, people coming and going and listening to 'Brown Eyed Girl' excessively, my judgement must have been impaired.
John Denver ROCKED!

Not a Magazine

Let all those who have ears, let them hear.
This is not a magazine. It is a web log.
Whoever wants to tamper, let them be royally screwed.