hazeii

Cats, adopting

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 20:15:32 GMT

Ever been adopted by a cat? (it's not for me...though I do kind of subscribe to the idea that they actually run the planet, purring with pleasure as we fall for the false leads they feed us).

These three are currently considering adopting new owners. May swap the des-res in Worthing for Brighton or surrounding area, if the incentives are right (lap to purr on, lots of stroking, fresh litter in the tray, plus your choice of scratching post or shredded sofa).

Izzy is 6, and will pretend to be scared but is actually a trained killer. Generally not noticed, she is reputed to use ninja stealth where sneaking under duvets for a cuddle is involved. Prefers to go outside, but if a tray is the only choice then so be it.

Ah, Pookie. Very laid back. Being 14 and half Burmese means she will only consider calm, peaceful, dog-free environments. Prefers ladylike trips to the litter tray to going outside. She is mum to Hugh...

Hugh. Hugh is Pookie's son, and at 12 he's one big character, majors on cuddles and meows. Will do litter, will go outside. If you want to be adopted by a shoulder cat, Hugh is the one to own you - he'll sit there as long as long as you let him.

None of these cats will be interested if you want them to raise kittens; they have no known health problems, and claim to no longer have the bits needed to make baby kitties.

Should you wish to consider putting yourself forward for adoption, please send an application notice to the usual address or drop me a note via this page and your details will be forwarded to your choosen cat for consideration.

Harvest Season (Saddlescombe farm)

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 22:09:02 GMT

I've ridden through there so many times; learning there was an open day, how could I not resist the temptation to stop?

A donkey wheel; pictures of a pony that did not nothing but walk it for 35 years (sometimes, it's not easy to walk on by).

A surprise to me: seems men walked the wheel too (whenever it was easier than hitching up the horse). Unstated there, yet history records that the women and children would have been out picking flint, for even less return.

And a lesson in a barn, on the theshing floor. Barely listening, too absorbed by the swifts darting overhead.

Still, I learnt enough to know the big door is where stuff for threshng comes in, the small door is where the grain goes out. A proper system, big door for unloading, small door for outgoing product, slats, slots and batterns to keep a low draft going.

And a sense of history, fanned by a sudden understanding of where the word 'threshold' comes from.

Some people...

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 20:07:50 GMT

...will do anything for charity.

That's rhandolph, jumping head first out of a perfectly good airplane.

The man is a nutter. Please give generously.

Poppies

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 17:49:09 GMT

Spring chilling

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 08:20:17 GMT

Breath, taken away

Sat, 10 Jan 2009 22:39:34 GMT

Frosted grass, barefoot. But such a transient discomfort, to see the beauty outside.

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 14:06:40 GMT

Dawn on the South Downs Way, 22nd July 2008. Picture by Rory Hitchens, as he waited for me to ride past.

Click to view full-size.

Progress

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 22:33:40 GMT

From a world where people care...

To a world where people care about money, and material things.

Now, that's progress (TM).

I love the world

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 20:31:17 GMT

You had to be there (in one of those rock-festival-from-hell kind of ways).

Felt like an ear had snapped off, but just turned out my hair had frozen solid.

Wet snow in the north wind, sticking and plastering ice onto us. Every slight turn on the trail a relief, a chance for one part of the face to recover while another iced over.

Gears freezing, pedals freezing; big risk of mechanical failure and I'm thankful there's only experienced riders along today.

We try and ride the bowl at Firle Beacon, some tactics and strategy are needed given the strength of the wind, the sleet to the eyeballs and the drifts. Face-planting snow gets old and cold fast, but we're still laughing.

Laughing all the way back to civilisation.

More pics from the South Downs Way, earlier today

Silver ribbons/gimme shelter

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 19:40:55 GMT

It was a pleasant dream (even though I can't remember what it was about), and I was sad to let it go.

But in the real world someone was calling insistently; I opened my eyes and looked up.

From the floor of the dining room.

Oops.

Ah well, was only out for 30 seconds.

Days earlier, the weather forecast had been looking interesting. But gales and heavy rain are more fun than being plain cold, and being head-on to the weather made things even better.

So it passed soon enough, and by Dulverton and the fringes of Exmoor I had pieces of blue sky, 2 hours to sunset and a full tank to stitch into some kind of a pattern.

The high road then. No-one around, no-one to see. Jekyll and Hyde, time to let Mr. Naughty off the leash.

Backed off for Simonsbath, and just couldn't recapture the dance after - over the highest part of the moor the wind was thumping 400 kilos of motorbike and rider with force enough to wipe the smile off my face.

Yet it was soon back, Devon's way of going quiet when you drop into a valley does that to me. Trailing down the final 1-in-4 on a closed throttle I could see the rain hadn't been so hard after all, the East Lyn river not even risen.

Checked in, walked out to grab some more of the day.

Struck off upriver but out of the valley in case sunset beat me (hard to get lost that way, even in the dark it'd be just follow the river downstream to the inn). The wild ponies seem tamer than ever.

Next morning, a particular walk. I did wonder if it was wise - the guidebooks advice ranged from "very hazardous but doable" to "don't even think about it". So I walked the ridge top first, around 1000ft above the Atlantic, and peered down. Damn steep, yet the path not even being visible from up there was the gauntlet thrown down.

But it wasn't so hard, and it's easy to take care where your foot falls crossing scree above a cliff edge. Pausing to admire the view was a mistake, vertigo scrabbled excitedly in the wings.

Cow Dow, I think it's called. A wide angle of the Atlantic clear to America, and that rock below is damn near vertical. Safe enough to look over, I'd rounded the Foreland enough the wind had dropped and I could hold a camera again.

Yes, those are sheep down there.

Same rock, same sheep, magnified by telephoto.

A few miles east, looking back. The 'path' runs around it, about half-way up.

Much later, I realised the people catcalling from the lighthouse must not have known about the path, and been unable to see it from below (since all the lighthouses were automated, the keepers houses are available for hire...seems a good place to party).

The other side of the foreland is maybe less rugged, but not for nothing does the coast there sport names like 'Desolation Point' and 'Giants Rib'.

Back in the village, the talk was of hunting and fishing and shooting, and of what they killed tasted like (the last I couldn't help but mentally compare to those who squeal when reminded what steak, or lamb, or chicken McNuggets, are).

No cell phones (no signal), no ADSL (probably - I didn't ask) and TV held no interest bar the weather. The forecasters got it right, the hail rattling against walls 2 feet thick was mostly over by morning.

What was left melted early and the following gales barely a breeze deep in the valley. So a relative stroll downstream to Watersmeet, alongside a river that was just right.

The descent from Exmoor to the sea is steep enough that the barest pause in the rivers and streams downward rush gets called a pool.

But Crook Pool does deserve the name. Clear as Devon water might be, it's still a well of inky darkness. Seems I have an inner magpie though, drawn to pebbles in the shallows.

Afterwards (and following an ill-advised scramble up Trilly Ridge) I was looking forward to dinner: Gamekeepers Pate followed by Poachers Casserole. The pate went down well, but the world wasn't feeling right; stood to leave, and that's when the light went out.

Though not for long (yet long enough to dream). Swooning like some victorian maiden is just so not me, and next morning felt like I normally do after a bike crash (later explained by a bruise pattern matching the oaken dining furniture).

So I didn't go finding any dodgy cliffs to walk along, or rivers to ford, or waves to chance, for a full day and a half (even going so far as to take my baths shallow for fear of drowning in 6" of water).

By the time I was right enough to ride again, it was time to leave.

The wind and rain were ahead of schedule, and had cleared away by the time the bike was pointing inland.

Leaving me nothing but a road fresh-washed and a heart to sing at its sight.

Fog-busting (running up that hill)

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 16:50:18 GMT

On the bike by sun-up; so cold in the fog that ice started to rime the handlebars. Dark, dull, grey, and miserable...but I'm a gambling man and the bet was the weather was better up top.

And so it was.

The thin ice of a new day

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 07:41:11 GMT

Helium Bike

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 18:14:32 GMT

Walking softly (not in my shoes)

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 21:17:57 GMT

When you've pushed the boat out too far, when your body lets you know you're going to do long term damage if you get back on a bike anytime soon, how to deal with a body screaming to be on the move?

Go for a walk, of course.

Blessed with perfect weather, and a world so sharp and clear.

Watching a buzzard circle, not looking where I'm going and oops, spooked a heron - 'cept this one is pure white? (look it up later, maybe an egret).

Hypnotised, I am, by the sun bouncing back into my eyes.

Tear myself way, look around. The trees are starting to turn, there's some gold to be seen, leaves on the ground. Mr. Swan hisses at me, I prefer that wildness to having them beg for bread.

Walked too long, and it's getting close to blister time. But, hey, I'm on a grassy riverbank, who needs shoes? No-one around, no-one to see, and I'm blessed with an hour of sole time learning to watch my step.

The Double

Fri, 31 Aug 2007 19:07:08 GMT

2:30am on the 30th August 2007. Under the light of a full moon, I'm rolling around in the middle of Winchester High St, wearing a dressing gown and whimpering in pain. My choice.

24 hours earlier, I'm screaming at the guy driving, he's going the wrong way up the A31.

Enough of that tale; we lived. I recall cathedral bells striking 4, and unshipping my bike from the roofrack. No fanfare, just a handshake and a firm push into the darkness. In the wrong direction. Oops. An auspicious start to my attempt to do the entire South Downs Way from Winchester to Eastbourne and back inside 24 hours. The mistake hardly seems to matter with 200+ miles to go.

The first mile of the South Downs Way is grotty, in no way in keeping with the next 100. Motorways, bridges, A-roads, shopping trolleys, artificial lighting, fade fast behind, soon I'm rolling through fields lit by moonlight, under clouds turned silver.

There's a lot of fun in the first 5 miles. A stag jumps out, peek-a-boo, and gone. Plenty of rats (well, I'm still near a town), a few rabbits, lots of unidentified rustling in the hedgerows.

Cheesefoot Head and damn, Jim is exactly in position, on time and ready. Good thing too, the front tyre's gone soft despite pre-start checks and it's down to a gummed valve, fiddle, faff, pump and I'm rolling again.

Next place where the SDW meets a road, and the police got there first. Apparently they accepted Jim's explanation of why he was sitting by the side of the road with a car stuffed full of high-energy food and little bags of white powder at 5 in the morning, and went on their way.

20 miles in, 180 to go. The sky starts to lighten, and atop Butser Hill the sun rises. A band of cloud on the horizon plays tricks with the light and it looks like a huge red mushroom heaving itself into the sky. Instinctively, I look around to check the moon is going to set on schedule; see you in 14 hours, I'm counting on it.

Still early enough in the ride to take chances, and the descent off Butser Hill is a screamer. Dew-soaked grass licked by the tyres, spray, pray, roll out shedding speed for a support rendezvous. Jim's already got the workstand set up, bike swung up onto it, lights removed, food and drink added, chain lubed and I'm on my way out (turned out we hadn't actually forgotten the maps, I'd just put the laptop on top of them).

30 miles down, 170 to go. Noises from the rear wheel, not good. Check it out, and yes, the news is bad - lots of very loose spokes. Lucky there's a tool in the pack to tighten them, 5 miles further on and it still seems a problem. Normally that means a wheel collapse is imminent, and the rougher stuff lies ahead. A more thorough tightening of the nipples ensues, I make it to the next checkpoint. Quick discussion, and Jim heads off to collect a spare wheel and repair tools. Going to be at least 2 hours, but there's pessimism my side that the wheel is going to hang together that long.

Press on anyway. But it's not the rear wheel that causes the next problem, it's the front as the tyre blows out at speed down a flint-studded track and (help mummy!) this really really wouldn't be a good place to crash. Lady Luck plays her card, she decides to let me get away with it this time.

Fixed and rolling again. Two schools of thought are chasing each other inside my head, A is going "this is really fucking dangerous" and B is going "well, you're committed now".

Mile 60, and rocketing down the descent towards the Adur. There's someone there with a camera taking picture; it's Chris, the news is the GPS uplink is working and people are watching progress. It's a very brief conversation, he understands, I'm skittering my way down the rest of the hill in seconds.

But there's a lot of time lost to the earlier problems, so no choice but to press on hard as I can. Well past the quarter-distance mark, and being on local turf is a help. The big hills loom, and maybe there's some trying too hard up them. Whatever, it's only mile 80 and I'm feeling crap, co-ordination starting to go and for a while self-doubt has me thinking it's going to be my body that'll put me out, not the bike.

Rendezvous with Jim where the SDW crosses the A27; he pours coffee and has stuffed the car with every flavour of sandwich I could ever hope for. No idea if it's the coffee or the Wiltshire ham, but suddenly I'm feeling a hell of a lot better, the wheel is holding together and it's only 20 miles to the halfway point.

Eastbourne hoves into sight; never seen it look pretty before. Sunlight on the town and the sea alongside looking blue for once. Scream the descent into Paradise, another rendezvous and the bike's up on the workstand, laptop is downloading the GPS track data, quick lube, we both know time is of the essence and although it's against my nature I'm just dropping stuff that's no longer needed, everything from empty wrappers through tyre strips and half-eaten energy bars (a plan discussed beforehand, Jim would clean up behind me - he got all the good jobs!).

It's been 11 hours and 100 miles, now an hour behind schedule. Keeping the pedals turning, keeping in the zone, doing calculations about rendezvous times, trying to factor in the unknown, when exactly is the body going to cry enough?

Jevington, Alfriston, Lewes; those climbs seem less hard going the other way, like a good halfway bounce and a decent backswing. There's a short section of Iford Hill that riding would burn the candle too bright so it gets walked. Firle, Ditchling Beacon, Saddlescombe, Devils Dyke and then screaming down Truleigh Hill at 30+. GPS tracker must still doing its thing, as Chris L and camera are pointing my way again; for his pains he gets the briefest of nods as the Adur is beckoning below, sun getting low, and Jim's down there with the lights, ready for the second night in the saddle.

140 miles done and past the local playground of Chanctonbury Ring. I can almost see home from up here, but there's no call to be there. It's a resolve test, think of a hot bath and a warm bed but no, quite a surprise, not even a flicker of desire to change my course.

The descent towards Washington is thick with bats, black wings whirring against the white chalk of the trail. Soon dark enough it's back to running with lights on, and the bone-shaking descent off Rackham Banks into Amberley and across the Arun River. Starting to feel some unusual pains in the legs, and somewhere a mistake at the bottom of a descent means my calf hits the rear disk. Puff of smoke like branding cattle and now there's a neat semi-circular burn on the back of my leg to add to the damage total - turns out that's going to come in useful later though.

Back up and over Bignor Hill, now it's time to count down and watch the clock. Calculate this, calculate that; looks like I'm going to complete in well under 24 hours but it all depends how long my body can carry on. Jim's a star; it's getting late and everywhere the SDW crosses a main road he's there, ready and waiting, even if I just do a flyby.

165 miles down, 35 to go and body in trouble. Those leg pains are getting serious, and the GPS crashes big time on the descent into Cocking. Again, Jim is there and we get the GPS sorted but I can hardly walk - still, why walk when you can ride? So it's off into the darkness...

It's the second night on the go, and a clear one. The whole run was planned for the full moon, and for a while it's time to ride without lights, taking ever more chances, loving the night and the countryside. Mind and body, spirit and mechanics are now well separated - surprisingly the head is still alert, but the body's a machine that's getting hard to control. Every gate becomes a stiff-legged exercise of damage limitation and pain, just getting the feet back on the pedals is a challenge.

20 hours in the saddle, the plan called for a change of shorts long ago but every other pain has become tiny compared to my legs so I haven't bothered. And I can't now anyway, body too fucked. Mind games, discover that by focusing on one pain, the others are diminished. So play games with the non-structural pain of the burn blister, it helps blank the more serious pains around the knees. And when the blister decides to stop hurting, play with the pain in my hands and bum instead - anything but the legs, look guys, just listen to the instructions to keep turning while I ignore your reports of "they cannae take it any more, Captain!".

180 miles, 20 to go. Haven't been able to eat for 50 miles, even drinking is hard work. Manage to finish the coffee at the last major rendezvous but I ask Jim to wait and watch because here's the showstopper that's been eating me for the past couple of hours - I've got to get back over Butser Hill and it's a biggie. If I can't ride it, I certainly won't be able to walk it and that'll be game over. DNF after 180 miles. What a loser. I am so not going there. Mind games again, think of the bullshit I've spouted about doing the double, about the people watching my progress via the GPS tracker, about anything that's going to help me make this.

The Butser Hill climb rears up getting steeper and steeper before slowly levelling off. Inching up at 3mph, I make it halfway but then, at the steepest bit, there's some tussocky, bumpy grass and I just can't make it, topple over. Fuck. Double fuck. Fuckety-fuck-fuck. What now? Crawl? Yeah, that seems to work. Drag the bike. Zigzag side to side, gain a little height. Ground smoother now, remount? Push bike sideways to the hill, pull myself up. Brace for the inevitable pain hit and just GO. Wobble wobble but I make it, everything's relative and it makes the rest of the hill easy in comparison.

The next bit of the SDW is on-road; suddenly like running on silk. Lovely to coast, killer to pedal but pedal it has to be because the pain of getting the legs moving again after a coast, is, well, interesting. So pedal. Only a couple of hard bits left, and I start clock-watching again; GPS says 4 miles at 01:52, can it be I'm going to be back by 02:30? Fuck, I could take the record! Downside is that means no shortcuts, I'm going to have to go the long way around the field in front. Just about everything is broken now, can't stand up in the saddle over the bumpy bits, can't coast 'cos starting pedalling again is too painful. Short rutted section up to the final road crossing and every 100 yards there's a tumble, handy wire fence to drag the body back onto the saddle though.

Although my last mutter to Jim was "See you in Winchester", he's parked up beside the final road crossing. But once I'm through the gate we know that's it, the game is damn near over. Rack my mind, fearful there's a forgotten hill between me and the statue of King Alfred. Then finally, just a mile to go and I hit something; been dodging deer, fox, badgers, bunnies, all kinds of furry things small and large for 2 nights and a day, it's a damn bird that does it. Some kind of owl maybe, hard to tell, both of us more surprised than hurt.

Chilcomb. Past the firing range notice, and it's all downhill. 02:21. Could care less about the final bramble rips to the arms, I'm on a mission, the raceface is stone-set at 11. Flick on all the lights, screw the battery drain, and seems like moments later there's the roundabout in view, I know what's around the corner. Statue of King Alfred, Jim's there with a camera, think of doing the arms-in-the-air thing but I'm way too fucked for that, would crash before the finish line. So I roll it instead, with a final time of 22h 20m 25s (just enough to take the record for the SDW double, by 5 minutes).

Winchester town centre is dead quiet this time of night. The car park down the middle of the street deserted except for Jim. Slowly circling the car, explaining he's going to have to catch my fall. Soon enough I'm lying on the tarmac, got the shakes, legs locked straight as rulers but hey...I made it.

And faster than any other boy has gone before.

Spin Demand

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 19:02:03 GMT

Earth, sky, earth, sky, over and over and over again...

Done it before, no doubt I'll do it again.

On this occasion, departure from my bike started at the very top of a hill - Devil's Dyke to be precise - and for once the reason I'm bouncing down a hillside more than 10 feet in the air is because I sort-of planned it that way.

Ok, it wasn't so much of a plan as an impetuous "Since we've pulled out a good 5 minute lead on the rest of the bunch, how about we kill some time by throwing ourselves off the South Downs?"

So we did.

Inside one of those big plastic human-sized hamster balls.

The first few revolutions down the hill weren't that intense - I'd only rate them somewhere around the "oh f*** we're gonna die!" level. But then the speed got up to a sensible level and the world outside began to rotate at an exceedingly satisfactory rate.

Yes, thundering down a hill strapped inside a 10-foot diameter plastic sphere with no brakes and no steering could easily be described as "extreme" by marketing droids. Nothing that couldn't be handled by a bit of girly screaming though.

Then we hit the launch ramp.

The floating through the air part wasn't so bad - sort of like being inside the spinning bomb during that slow, lazy arc you see the bombs doing in the Dambusters movie. As with the bombs though, the landing was fairly intense.

As was the next one...and the next one...and the one after that...(and so on, especially when things went sideways)...

The one I remember most was when the laws of chance, rapid rotation and gravity conspired to create a bounce that led to the sort of head-down-hello-planet-earth kind of moment that makes you think, well, looks like that the final lights-out-forever event is just a fraction of a second away. As it turned out (one time-stretched moment of terror later), it was merely hard enough to pop a harness strap open (me bad, skipped the safety briefing) but, well, a death grip is a death grip and all I think my "This is not good!" scream did was wake fellow-passenger Tony up.

Hundreds of feet down the hillside, the sky blue/earth green high-speed mix finally resolved back into distinct entities; I crawled out first and looked up (f***, that's actually quite a big hill we've just paid to be thrown off).

So we got a lift back to the top, collected our bikes and went down the pub.

Zorb video (YouTube)

Calshot Velodrome, in pictures

Mon, 20 Nov 2006 17:58:37 GMT

King Rollo (by Mrs Rollo)

Hostess Charlotte going for a spin (by zipperhead)

Fast (by Andygates)

Faster (by Andygates)

Vicky buzzing - some novice, she went way high and not by accident either; grin says it all (by rogerzilla)

Andy Gates: cyberpunk or rivethead? They wouldn't let him ride like that though (by zipperhead)

The South Bank Show (by Mrs Rollo)

FB living on the edge (by Zipperhead)

FB-shaped hole in Charlotte's wheel; she rode it out, he didn't (by Charlotte)

Sunderland Flying Boats

Sun, 19 Nov 2006 22:08:56 GMT

Back before there was airports and runways but sometime after there were airships, that was the time for flying boats - monster planes with 4 engines or more, luxury travel that made Concorde tickets look cheap, the way to travel once upon a time (I'm not going to go off at a tangent here, but I easily could - so easily, for the rest of my life).

But then runways were built, and the slow-but-airborne boats to New York fell out of time.

People witter on about elegance, the lost romance (but look at what they actually do; they go for the cheapest fix, every time).

Bugger, went off at a tangent after all.

So it's cold, Sunday morning and 100 miles to go; for once my 2 wheels are powered and I'm walking into a Very Large Building on a spit way out to sea, a building that used to house the Sunderlands that took off from the Solent, bound for the New World, for the Orient, for exotic destinations now made mundane by technology and package holidays.

Seems fitting they've built a velodrome in it, where bicycles can round and round at a speed limited only by bravado, skill, and fitness (it's a wood thing).

I've got my hand up for the novice group, it's the steepest velodrome around because it had to fit into the building; (Wikipedia entry for velodromes singles it out as being "notoriously steep" but during the last two weeks of pre-ride planning the veterans have refused to use any phrase other than "the wall of death").

47-point-something degrees (that's more than 1 in 2). More than 30 feet high (don't look down).

Special track bikes, no gears, no brakes, no freewheels; no technology assisting, it's as pure as it gets.

Sore neck railing the corners - the golden rule look where you want to go. Head way back, world at crazy angle and ride high on the banking for the speed buzz dropping to the straightaway, an intense speed kick (slam marks in the wall, the burn marks on my bars are reminders to get the weighting right in the bends).

Rumble, buzz, whirr, hypnotic nailing the line ever faster - the beauty lies in the focus, nothing but the track ahead, mistakes swiftly punished.

And someone makes one; news arrives through my ears of a problem behind, smack of flesh on wood mixed with grunts of pain and the sound of breaking bicycles. Doing anything other than what I'm doing would be a mistake, and thankfully the guys riding my wheel do the same. Half-circuit later snatched glance across the 'drome and it's Charlotte and FB who are down, we slow up enough to see they're ok(ish), carry on circulating till they slot new wheels and rejoin the pattern.

Blast of a whistle, it's time for the wind down, takes 5 laps to bring the train to a halt. Homemade cycling food handed out, if McD's ever get that recipe obesity will double overnight. Charlotte hands Andy a couple of books (I spot Neuromancer in there, which kind of fits with his bonkers head-up display/helmet cam).

Smiles, high fives and 2 powered wheels get me home much faster, with much less intensity.

Snake eyes

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 20:13:45 GMT

Adder on the trail, head up catching some rays. Roll to a halt down-sun, lay the bike aside, just sit and watch.

Eventually clouds come to pass, she slithers into the grass.

In the meantime, the puncture fairy has put the bite on my front tyre. I'm a little careful where I sit to fix it.

Snapshot

Fri, 12 May 2006 18:27:55 GMT

Winter Ghost

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 12:13:23 GMT

Do they know it's Christmas?

Tue, 27 Dec 2005 20:36:33 GMT

Looking up into the falling snow, discovering the white doves up there, doing something new (to me). Around twenty of them, hovering high in a cluster, holding station in a way I haven't seen before. Why?

There's always one

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 21:34:31 GMT

Spot the one that shops at Cyberduck.

Devil's Coach horse

Mon, 31 Oct 2005 22:10:32 GMT

Staphylinus olens trick-or-treating by the back door earlier today (rare sight, as they're nocturnal).

The 'net says:-

At the end of its abdomen are a pair of white glands which can emit a foul smell. It can also squirt a stinking brown fluid from its mouth and anus.

The 'devil's coach-horse' name came from Irish mythology where this particular beetle was considered [a] symbol of corruption. It was believed to have the power to kill on sight, and that it would eat sinners. When the beetle raised its tail, it was thought to be casting a curse. The foul smelling fluid emitted added to the effect.

Happiness

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 20:31:50 GMT

"The things that you desire are not the things that you end up liking.

The mechanisms of desire are insatiable.

There are things that we really like and tire of less quickly — having good friends, the beauty of the natural world, spirituality.

But our economic system plays into the psychology of wanting, and the psychology of liking gets drowned out."

More on happiness (Times online)