I have no idea who would have put them there, nor why, but I found these strings of conkers looped around the railway fence when I went for a walk the other day.
They reminded me of my first visit to my brother’s house many, many years ago, where I found a collection of desiccated rabbits’ feet nailed to the shed door. I asked about them as I’d been told that Sammy the cat was a holy terror and I wondered whether it was a shrine to his hunting prowess.
Continue reading “leave well alone”
I took this picture a couple of weeks ago and was looking for an excuse to post it to the blog. 
L.P. Hartley was wrong: the past is not a foreign country; it is where I was born and I’m feeling quite homesick.
The village bus station looks quiet in the photo. Not so the journey into Madrid this morning.
En el autobús,
las viejas cotillean;
sólo los hombres casados
pueden dormir.
Roughly translated:
On the bus
old biddies gossip;
only married men
can sleep.
I swear you could tell which guys were used to nagging wives: they simply closed their eyes and nodded off as if the screeching voices were a lullaby.
Continue reading “poetry on the bus”
don't confuse the narrator 