don't confuse the narrator

unwinding

I’ve been up in Catalonia all week, doing some English consultancy and support for a client.

I’m used to working from my own studio and it had been ages since I last spent a full week working in someone else’s offices.

I ended up doing far longer hours than I had expected to and although there was plenty of time to eat and sleep, I don’t seem to have done anything else at all.

I am back home now, but I definitely need some time to untangle my thoughts.

Once again, I’ve sat down at the computer today without any ideas about what to write. My suitcase is lying on the sofa behind me, too full for me to close it; my desk is almost hidden under an assortment of papers, cables and chargers, and shoes and sandals are liberally scattered across the floor. So far, none of the work stuff or shoes are in the case, which is a wee bit worrying, and nor is my ticket among the papers.

There is clearly still a lot to do if I am to catch my train in a couple of hours time.

So I’ve found an eight-year-old photo which fits well with the idea of travel, as well as being fairly topical – it was taken at the Bristol Balloon Fiesta in 2005. (Why do I have a complete set of 2005 photos on my laptop? Might this tendency to hoard give an insight into why my case won’t shut?) This year’s festival starts on Thursday.

Now I must fly. Though not in a balloon.

a point to writing

I was surprised this week to be told by the WordPress robots that I registered this blog six years ago. (If they are right, I must have fudged some dates at the beginning as the first post is dated 23rd April 2007.)

During those six years I’ve written over 750 posts. Some have featured photos and very little text, but some have straggled on well beyond the 500 words that I think is a good maximum length for a blog post. This means there’s probably enough text in this blog for three full-length novels – one written every couple of years – without any great effort on my part.
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(cat) food for thought

Cats have been an integral part of my life for the last 20 years. The ones around now are quite fussy about the tinned food they’ll eat, but less so about the kibble, so I don’t tend to pay a lot of attention to which brand I buy.

This morning, though, I paused to wonder: if cats are happiest when they can snack on and off all day, why am I feeding them something called “Brekkies”? Why isn’t it brunchies, din-dins or snaxes?

Looking closer at the Spanish label, I find that the little yellow flash boasts +sabor / +sapore which sounds worryingly as if it has “more taste : more toads”.

As for this post title, since the Spanish for kibble is pienso, maybe I should have called it “thought for food”.

poetry, plants and poison

Other than the gourd patch down in the orchard, one of the few bright spots in the garden at the moment is the uncontrollable oleander outside my study window.

I say “uncontrollable” as it has been ruthlessly cut back a couple of times and tied back with twine, rope and clothes line and still manages to break free enough to block the driveway. At least this year it isn’t covered in black fly and other bugs.
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