w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

where

Last day at work today, until the New Year, so postings may be sporadic for a while.

We've a table booked this evening in the 42nd floor of the NatWest tower - 90 minutes to drink no doubt exorbitantly overpriced wine, but overlooking the lights of the greatest capital in the world, Bar None.

So have a superb Christmas, y'all, and I hope you get what you deserve.

That didn't quite come out right, did it? But you know what I meant.

X

Today's lyric coincided with completion of the current read, an intriguing tale which I'd recommend to the house.

Moving on now to "Birds of America" by Lorrie Moore and wondering what Santa might bring, literature-wise...

There are days when I really wish I could paint...

Witchy seems to be making a good fist (sic) of it, but as I commented on one of her offerings, I'm incapable of drawing stick insects, let alone eyes and so forth.

But when a new, clear dawn appears during the commute, I want to stop the train and capture the vision. Photos can never do it justice - even blown up - it's the burst of energy, knowing you've made it to another day, that I feel the need to express.

I'll never have a chauffeur - even if I win the Lotto - but maybe one day I'll have a hired artist on tap, and I'll just point and say "I'd like that done, please."

The food was average (typical hotel Xmas meal fare) the Abba tribute band was average (some truly appalling harmonies - and I'm no Abba fan!) but the company was excellent.

We eschewed (sic) a hotel 'breakfast' and co-opted for bacon butties.

My Gawd, I haven't started a working day with one of those for an awfully long time...

Enjoy your weekend, fans - the weather forecast is for 'improving'.

This was to be yesterday's post, but Blogger fcuked up, didn't it?

It's our Office Xmas meal tomorrow, the secret Santa giveaway, the raffle in aid of this (over £130 raised in two months) and the return of the toy bear kidnapped from a colleague's monitor in the summer and which has been the subject of numerous ransom notes, hostage photos (appropriately toned down because of subsequent events in Iraq)and postcards from various foreign locales.

It's secreted in a Christmas cracker, which will be her second sS gift and will no doubt have to accompany us to the Abba tribute evening we're to 'enjoy'.

I'm dressing up in a self-designed T-shirt - there may be pix..

I went to a neighbour’s cremation service yesterday. He was the first person I spoke to when I moved here, fourteen years ago. I introduced myself to him and asked if I could park outside his house while the removal van was on our drive – “No problem, lad” he replied, with what we subsequently found was typical friendliness.

His daughter was concerned that there’d be few mourners, but she needn’t have worried – it was literally standing room only. She sat in the front pew, her black headscarf serving the dual purpose of covering the side-effects of the chemo – which is staving off the disease which claimed her sister five years ago, and their mother ten years before that.

A stroke had quickly seen him off – like most people, he’d have hated a lingering death. He’d made 90 this year, played golf three times a week, drank gin with a thirst normally reserved for desert travellers at an oasis and still mowed his own lawns.

I was stood at the back, with another neighbour. He offered me a hymn book, which I declined. “D’you know all the words, then?” he asked, prematurely impressed. “No, atheist” I grinned back.

The sky pilot gave a decent sermon, which included several references to death being a victory (hah!) and “Death, where is thy sting?”. Just then, the intermittent buzzing which I’d thought was coming from the two-bar heaters up on the walls dropped down onto the chrysanths behind us – a humongous bee (one of yours, Witchy?).

“There’s the sting” commented my neighbour “and if he comes near me, he’s going to get it with this hymn book.”

It then zapped off, over the heads of the congregation, probably carrying enough venom to render some of the mourners in the same state as the dear departed.

Some of the girls in the office (and me) are hoping to do this next year. Normally, I support these two charities, and I’d hoped to be able to tap Eric up for some of the £100 sponsorship we each have to raise. Knowing him, he’d probably have given me the whole lot by himself.

A grand old feller.

Have a great weekend, y'all

It's a very grey but horribly dull morning in t'City. (That's London, for the benefit of my Japanese and Mexican Referrers.)

The sort of day when you know the sun's up, but can hardly believe it?

A sallow pallor on every callow face.

For only the third time since I re-located here, I'm heading off East to my old (work) stomping ground. And given the bizarre events on the two previous trips, I wonder what female interraction will happen this time? (If I was clever enough, I'd link back to the posts which recounted those events, but hey ho..)

Anglian, here we come.

This kitchen seems to be taking forever.

A weekend of painting/papering relieved only by a dinner party for S and C.

Poppadums + pickles for entrees.

Chilli chicken for the main nosh.

Cheeseboard for the gannets. (self included)

I passed out around 3.00 a.m. (apparently).

Just another diamond dog day.

Another beautiful sunrise.

Just seen a little too soon after getting home from the latest Office ‘social’ – a trip out west to Kew Gardens’ ice rink. Another place I’m embarrassed to admit never having visited before.

Your intrepid reporter did not risk life and limb (this side of the Feast of the Cash Register) but stood watching, laughing and taking pictures of colleagues falling A/T which will be posted on our intranet later.

I may have one of the illuminated Gardens’ buildings to post tomorrow.

Still no sign of that boat angling trip though…