Photo of the day - The vast world of proportions

Photo taken in Cornwall

 

I took this photo looking back up at the top of a ridge where this monstrous cloud had risen up, dwarfing my friends.  I love the contrast in size and the effect of the light and how the cloud has just turned everything else into insignificance.

The Alabama Chronicles Part 3 - Supermarkets, weapons and 'double-barrel-isms'

When we weren’t roaming freely around the local bookstores, my sister and I often accompanied our mother to the local Winn Dixie or Bruno’s.  For some unknown reason in a lot of America's southern states, supermarkets, drive-throughs, cafes and restaurants are called the weirdest things.  ‘Mae’s Wings and Things’ leaves much to the imagination, ‘No Way José Grill Cantina’ suggests a serious character flaw, ‘Talk of the Town Cafe’ is too arrogant for its own good, ‘Back Yard Burgers’ sounds like the owner has gone in search of road-kill a la Top Gear and ‘Fat Man’s Smokehouse’ sounds like a place you might go to for a large side order of lung cancer.  The Americans also seem to have a fetish for double barrel words, as though a lone name simply won't suffice.  Not only is this the case for supermarkets and restaurants, which have names like Piggly-Wiggly, Hobby-Lobby, Bama-Fever, Chick-Fil-A, Big B’s Bar-B-Que and Chuck-E-Cheese, but also for children; Chucky-Lee, Dorothy-Jane, Ruthie-Anne, Louisa-May, Ana-Leticia, Lila-Rose, Candy-Kay, Bobby-Joe, Bobby Ray.  

Anyway, our local supermarkets were Winn Dixie and Bruno’s (thankfully avoiding any such double-barrels).  We also frequented a tax-free precinct on the Military Base called the BX Commissary.  Down one aisle you could find rows of fresh baguettes and round the corner of the next you could buy a shotgun and many brands of pistol.  That’s what the ‘Deep South’ is like.  I’m fairly sure that two thirds of Americans living there own some sort of self-preservation weapon.  Once I asked my father whether we kept a gun in the house in case we were burgled.  He told me no, but one day he happened upon a lethal knife lying on our drive way and he stowed it away in a drawer in our Bar.  From time to time I would creep in to have a peek, scrutinizing its every inch for blood stains as it was clearly a murder weapon that had been tossed onto our driveway as the killer fled the crime scene.  Reality and a decade more of maturity tells me it was probably no more than a fishing knife that had perchance fallen out of some moving vehicle, but a sense of morbid curiosity still filled my mind at the time.  After all, I suspected that America, and particularly Alabama where we lived, was a dangerous place compared to charming little England. 

The best thing about going to the supermarket when you live in a state as hot as Alabama is the air conditioning.  Getting into the car was never a problem because we could exit the house through the garage, allowing the remnants of air-con to travel with us as we clambered into our Dodge Caravan (called Dodger).  The journey itself was also fine because you could either position the air so that it blew directly at your face, or lower the windows to entice a breeze into the clammy interior.  But during the brief crossing of the car park, you would discover that the tip of your pony-tale was suddenly dripping beads of sweat and your shorts clung to your legs in a very distasteful manner.  You panted like a dog as the heat wrapped itself around your skin like a hot wet flannel.  And then you were greeted in the doorway by the most pleasant thing imaginable; cold, fresh explosions of ventilated air.  It was like a rich, cool heaven. 

Food for thought - In an ideal world...

All roses would be red, snow would be warm, mice would never stray indoors, tires would never go flat, babies could change their own nappies, eagles would do flypasses (like the Arrows), butter would be spreadable however cold, life would be accompanied by music, cake would be doctor recommended, sickness could cure itself, work would be optional, and only ever on weekends, polar bears would be cuddly, technology would never fail us, the shy would shout from the roof tops, the loud would stop to listen, the rushed could have a coffee, strangers would be destined to meet, feeling pink would be the new feeling blue, coke wouldn't explode when you open it, Take That would never have split and Australia would be reachable in minutes.

What would YOU add to this list??

Feeling pink

My own little Hogwarts - Part 1

The Duke of Kent School, Surrey

No, I didn't really go to Hogwarts.  It's a shame, admittedly, for I believe I would have been well suited to Gryffindor and would have undoubtedly given Hermione a run for her money in Ancient Runes - 'insufferable know-it-all' that she was.    There's also no doubt that hurtling about on a broomstick does sound rather more exhilarating than the offside rules for netball.   I'd have preferred a quill to a Parker any day and a banquet instead of porridge, not to mention a magic wand (never actually referred to as a 'magic' wand - that merely goes without saying).

Well, my own personal Hogwarts was indeed a little castle set upon a hill and it did have four very individual and proud houses, so named after four well-known figures in history - Armstrong, Chichester, Hillary and Whittle.  There were girls' dormitories and boys' dormitories, a sick-bay, several secret passageways and of course an enormous playing field at the far end of the grounds.  Set in the Surrey countryside, our little castle was surrounded almost entirely by forests that, on entering alone, were every bit as scary as the Forbidden Forest.  Special weekend visits to the local village, Peaslake, were arranged every so often as a treat for those pupils that lived in the school, and the commencement of term saw each child arrive atop the hill with a large trunk crammed with school necessities.  Post was distributed to its eager recipients at meal times (via Matron sadly and not owls) and there was always a teacher to be avoided at all costs, who shall diplomatically remain nameless. 

Not wanting to blow my own trumpet, but I was somewhat a Hermione at school; a bit of a keen bean, a book-loving, knowledge guzzling, house-point winning little student, even going so far as to be dwarfed by a headfull of thick, wavy, Hermione hair.

My own little Hogwarts was called 'The Duke of Kent School' and was a boarding school for 3 to 13 year olds.  I was there from 8 to 13 and had the time of my life.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - there is a definite resemblance to DOK

The Alabama Chronicles - Part 2 - Books-A-Million

I always find it absorbing watching to see where people head to in a book store.  It might be a young girl hovering in the sports section and extracting a chunky volume on Olympic swimming, or a builder, straight from a hard day's labour, carefully wiping his grubby hands on his trousers before browsing through Nigella Lawson's latest cookbook.  Or perhaps it might be an elderly gentleman with his grandson, selecting travel guides at random and nudging each other every so often to share a particularly great find.  Book shops can tell you a lot about people; those keen to learn who purchase 'How To' books, those hypnotised by the glamorous celebrity universe, content to flick through picture books of Rob-Pattz and K-Stew, and those simply eager for a good read, who browse through the bestsellers, going from blurb to blurb in search of that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you stumble on a great book.

The kids section of Books-A-Million

I remember as a child asking my mother to leave me in the local bookstores while she went and did the weekly food shop.  I would identify the most direct route to the children's section at the back of 'Barnes & Nobles' and 'Books-A-Million', where there was a reading corner decked out with tiny chairs and bean bags.  From time to time I might recognize a fellow reader and wave shyly across the floor, or sometimes I'd know exactly which book I wanted to read (having steadily been ploughing my way through it for the past three weeks) and to my dismay find it in the podgy fingers of some little rascal.  I'd put on my best scowl and wonder how best to get back my prized possession.  This normally involved offering another in exchange, advertising it as a more exciting read; yet this rarely came to any avail and some serious sulking often transpired as a result.

Me with my Betsy Bunny in the Amish outfit I bought her

There was another part of the bookstore that I was drawn to, like a bear to honey, and that was the section on the Native American Indians.  After almost every holiday we embarked on during our years in the States, I would come away with a new found fascination.  I was so desperate at one point to become an Indian that I demanded to be called by an Indian name, chose my ideal tribe and instructed my mother in how to fashion me a Pocahontus style outfit for Halloween.  My hair also lent itself magically to two long dark braids so it seemed my longed after fate would perhaps come to pass after all.  Then we visited Amish Country and my loyalties to the Native Americans were tossed aside.  I ignored the relentless claims by my parents that I couldn't just become Amish and I eagerly dreamt of the 'Simple Life' with blue starched dresses, black aprons and dolls made from corn.  My favourite book of that era was 'Rosanna of the Amish', which retold the story of a young girl adopted as a child by this distinctive group of people.  It was remarkably similar to my favourite book from the previous year, 'The White Indian Boy', which recounted the tale of how a white skinned boy became adopted by a great Comanche leader...

Perhaps you can notice a theme...

Photo of the day - Saturday 12th Feb 2011

The road is long and arduous for a ladybird

Seen crawling along the bench in my garden.  What I liked most about this shot is the angle.  It appears that the little fellow is trudging along some rugged terrain with mountains in the background, but I was actually facing the camera directly down at the ground so it is the tiled floor you can see. He was moving so slowly that it seemed to take forever to make progress so I had plenty of time to snap this shot.  Why crawl when you have wings?