Capsized

Originally uploaded by framboise.

I was growing tired of looking at the grey-tinged spring blossom, so I thought I’d put up a more summery photo, which precipitated the change in colour scheme to reflect the sunny weather we’re experiencing at the moment (interspersed with rain, of course… this is scotland after all…). If the contrast is too awful for reading purposes or if the whiteness of the background is blinding you, please drop me a note in the comments, or email me if you’re one of my (few) friends who won’t get with the blogging thing. The blogroll is also updated. I couldn’t get the hang of changing the style for bloglines’ auto-blogroll, and had to type in all the URLs and blog names. I apologise for any mistakes, and again ask that you leave a comment if you notice an error.

Seeing as the flower photo was taken on our sunny day trip to Lindisfarne a couple of weeks ago, I uploaded a few shots to Flickr: Lindisfarne set (or see below). We didn’t do anything on Holy Island. That’s the problem when it’s so nice and sunny; you want to be outside. It’s a great place to just wander around and do nothing. And if you’re seeking a few moments of shelter from the baking sun, there’s a birdwatchers’ hut somewhere between the castle and the white wigwam-thing (either a marker for the local boats or something for tourists to aim for, who knows…). For about ten minutes of keeping quiet, we were rewarded with a flotilla of signets (counted 8 following their mom) and a small family of coots (the chicks are so colourful!). On the far side, we think there was a pied-billed grebe, but could not make out the markings on the neck with our piddly pair of binoculars. (Edit: Nah, I think it was just a wigeon.) And later, in a wee bay, I think I spotted some dunlins, but the hands were shaking too much to hold the binocs steady.

And for lunch, some yummy crabmeat sandwiches. No photos, unfortunately. (I’m not allowed to take photos of food in public anymore… It’s embarrassing, apparently…) A very pleasant afternoon was spent playing frisbee and watching two families try to play cricket on the rocky beach (the ball kept running into the mussel-strewn muddy rocks).

If you’re planning a trip to Lindisfarne, make sure you check the times of high tide (either online or at the wee signs posted before you cross the causeway). And when walking across the marshes, watch out for pirri-pirri burs (heh, or see above). The burs may look cool stuck to your socks or trouser legs, but try not to spread it about; it’s very invasive. Another plant to look for is the good old Southern Marsh orchid, Dactylorhiza praetermissa. The two main attactions on the island are: Lindisfarne Castle with walled gardens by Gertrude Jekyll (pronounced Jee-kil, as opposed to Jeckyll of the and-Hyde fame) and the ruins of Lindisfarne Abbey. The Priory is still in use, and robed monks and habit-wearing nuns were in evidence. And if anyone ever finds out what that white wigwam-thing is, drop me a line…

20 Jun ’05 update: Lindisfarne was on 55 degrees North last night. Premise for the episode? Black man in predominantly white village assumed to be sole murder suspect. Granted, there were eyewitness accounts of the victim asking Errol to get lost. But the automatic assumption was that he was harassing her. It may not be overtly racist behaviour, but in the boondocks round these parts, a foreign face gets more strange looks than in the cities. (Or maybe it’s just because I dress weird…)

Technorati tag: lindisfarne.

The Curious Hamster has clearly been up late partially baking pastry (it’s description, not mine, and given that it is a hamster, naturally nocturnal anyway). And I’m wondering if there was something introspective in the Scottish air last night.

[B*llsh*t On²] On one of our infrequent evening walks yesterday, I voiced aloud to P a concern that, really, deep down, I am one evil-minded, cunning, selfish latent-Thatcherite. Despite my attempts to pass myself off as a wishy-washy, Malbec-quaffing, chickpea-eating liberal, I can think the most devious thoughts. I’m as capable as right-wing nationalists of generalising vast swathes of people, if not by their country of origin, then by their political allegiance (see, I’ve done it again!). Example: I am liable to think that my native race is mainly concerned with profit and puts status ahead of genuine worth (and before anyone else thinks it, I’m not a banana). I silently curse queue jumpers, people with massive baby strollers/prams that run over my feet, tourists walking three-or-more abreast, those Tattoo coaches that make it impossible to cross town during the Festival when you’re late for an experiment, and tall people who sit or stand in front of me, thus blocking my view. And I openly rant and rave about, amongst other things, people being people.

P and I agreed that I am inherently selfish, but I hope to [insert deity of choice or favourite law of physics here] that consciously stopping myself from acting out every depraved thought is what makes me not just human, but humane. And while I may fail everyday to live up to my ideals, it’s a far better scenario than to just give up entirely. [B*llsh*t Off]

¹If you came mistakenly hoping to read about navel oranges, my favourite of all the citrus, I apologise, and send you here instead. Ah, the happy mutation that gives us those little orange buds to fight over when splitting an orange… (Oh damn, I’m doing it again!)

²Courtesy of anthony.

This could explain why I saw Natalie Portman at the Frida Kahlo exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in London two weeks ago.

And I subsequently sent my brother on a wild goose chase round the gallery. (Ha!)

A check of my Flickr statistics showed that my most viewed images weren’t even taken by me; they’re screenshots of Bad Wolf on the BBC’s Doctor Who site. I think I’m going to crawl in a small hole and bury my camera for good…

From BBC news: Baby step forward. (via Europhobia)

It’s great that majority of the Swiss people have acknowledged the need for gay couples to have the same partnership rights as conventional married straight couples. [Rant on] I don’t personally know any gay couples with children, but from what I see of heterosexual couples with children who they don’t appreciate and cannot care for sufficiently, I don’t see why having two mothers or two fathers who are determined to be good parents is a bad thing. Surely those who have to adopt or go through fertility treatment have an extra period in which to reflect on whether they really want to take on the responsibility of having kids. How does that compare to a drunken one-night stand that results in an unwanted pregnancy? [Rant off]

As previously threatened, a post on the Chelsea Flower Show. Almost two weeks late. (Ach, can you blame me? I’ve been busy…)

Perhaps it was down to my crankiness from sitting indoors in a hot and unventilated room with ~300 other people for an entire afternoon when it was nice and sunny outside, but I was distinctly underwhelmed by the showing at Chelsea. Firstly, was it wise of the organisers to sell so many tickets that a short-*rse like me couldn’t see most of the courtyard gardens? The showground is notoriously small, but in an effort to boost already great profits, more people are packed in every year. We had evening tickets, which meant we could enter after 5.30pm. This gave us just enough time to look at the show gardens, but we had to give the Grand Pavilion a miss. (No great loss as I’m not that keen on vast displays of perfect delphinium specimens anyway.) But even in the closing hours, there was barely any room to view the smaller gardens. The courtyard displays (probably the most popular due to space constraints on most British gardens) were packed so tightly that once you got close enough to see the garden, Sod’s Law dictated that a 7-footer would worm his way in front of you.

We came to realise quite quickly that the gardens don’t look as impressive as they do on the box, which brings me to my second dissatisfaction. The point of such garden shows is to inspire us proles and set the trends for the year’s gardening. But I felt no such vibe. (OK, that may again be down to my poor mood that day added to the prospect of another 2-3 years of no garden of my own.) Perhaps the innovations have all been made, and there is nothing new for the doyennes of gardening to show us. Rehashed cottage-style gardens abounded this year, over-stuffed with plants. Although, on plus side, there was more realism with over-grown looking gardens. A familiar look for those of us with insufficient space to cram in all our favourite plants.

My third gripe is about the ridiculous queue to see the three or four gardens under the TV interview platform. My cynical mind suggests it was to make that part of the showground look exceptionally busy for the evening broadcast, as the gardens we had to queue to look at weren’t particularly spectacular. There were two queues: a hardly-moving slow lane right next to the gardens, and a fast lane going along three terraced platforms where you couldn’t really stop to take any photos. Perhaps it was the proximity of the gardens to each other which made the queueing necessary, but good showground planning should have prevented that, not excacerbated it.

All the complaints aside, there were gems to be found. (Around 7pm when the crowds dissipated, and my annoyance about a wasted afternoon abated after an ice cream…) I fell in love with the sweetest looking poppy ever: Patty’s Plum. (The pool structure behind it looked inviting too…) And although it was absolutely mobbed, the Real Rubbish garden looked spectacular. It wasn’t very clear which materials were recycled or pieces of rubbish (and the leaflet I picked up is now lost in the mess of papers that is my living room), but that’s the beauty of it.

Diarmuid Gavin‘s lavender bushes were mocked by the Titchmarsh, but I quite liked them. I can’t imagine who would go round pruning them once a year to maintain the ball shapes though. And I loved the wee hobbit houses he scattered in his plot. We used to hate his Home Front concrete structures, but will concede that they look nice. That is, if you’re rich, have a massive garden, and are prepared to whitewash the massive structures once a year on top of the weeding. The planting was simple, with box(? leaflet somewhere…), lavender, and a few designer cabbages, and the overall greenness was soothing. Another eye-catching planting scheme was used by Kate Frey for the Fetzer Wine Garden. It was packed a little too tight to be realistic, but the mass of yellow, orange and blue flowers had the most cheery effect of the lot.

The star of the show was, of course, the Chelsea Pensioners’ Garden, by Julian Dowle. Including a wee veggie patch, it not only remembered the war-time need for home-grown vegetables, but also a growing trend for people to grow at least their own herbs and salads in whatever patch of green they own. I wish our vegetable garden as good; we were quite chuffed to find our favourite sweet peas rambling on the fence, but were a bit surprised to find them flowering so early. Another war-themed garden was the chic Peace is Special garden by Jennifer Hirsch. Paving stones and wall decorations were riddled with bullet holes, and dates of significant battles carved into the paving stones evoked a sense of sorrow and loss. Not one to have in your own backyard, perhaps. But one very apt for this 60th anniversary year of the end of WWII. Another melancholic garden was In the Grove by Christopher Bradley-Hole, created in memory of the late Sheik who had sponsered many gardens at Chelsea over the years.

Overall impression of the SW8 show? Crowded, maybe too much so for comfort. Recommendations for anyone planning to visit: Book early (or join the RHS for a member’s pass) and either get there really early or wait till late (after 6pm). And if you’re short, bring a periscope…

I have no chance of ever recreating any of these show gardens (notice how I failed to mention the Merrill Lynch…), but the possibility of continuing with our vegetable gardening is looking up. The Newcomer’s Guide to LA book that I bought through Amazon holds a wee glimmer of hope: they have community gardens in La-La Land (that’s allotments in British English). Wahay!

Technorati tags: chelseaflowershow,
gardening.

Badwolf.org.uk

Screenshot of the BBC’s Doctor Who site.

Spoilers ahead.

A nicely balanced episode, with moments of comedy interspersing the rather more serious story of Blon the Slitheen being willing, again, to exterminate the entire human race to get what she wants. The last time we met the Slitheen family, they were prepared to wipe out the whole planet for the sake of a small profit. This time, Blon/Margaret comes close to blowing up the planet to generate a wave on which she can surf back to “civilisation”. The way Blon/Margaret was trying to manipulate the Doctor, to appeal to his better nature, was uncomfortable. She had a point; his taking her back to Raxacoricofallapatorius (sp?) meant he would be complicit in her death, and not a quick or painless death it would have been either. True, a moment of empathy led her to spare the life of Cathy Salt, but that was partly from the self-pity she felt, stemming from her loneliness on Earth and the loss of her own family. Shame she couldn’t find the same empathy for all the other people she killed, or was planning to eliminate. The end result, while very much a deus ex machina, was more satisfactory than either sending her to her slow soup death or letting her go free to wreck more havoc. (And who did she say she got the transponder from?)

It was good to see Mickey again. His reference to the Doctor as “big ears” made us laugh (cross between Big Ears of Noddy and the Big Bad Wolf?). But as RTD explained in Doctor Who Confidential, his exasperation with Rose highlights the side-effects of the Doctor’s actions. You can’t help but feel for Mickey. He’s been left behind while his erstwhile girlfriend goes off on exciting adventures, and grows into a whole new person. From personal experience, that never helps a relationship, and usually ends in an acrimonious split.

On the bad wolf front, it’s payoff time. Tonight, the Doctor finally notices the many occurences of Bad Wolf references, as does Rose.

Doctor: “Blaidd Drwg. Bad wolf.”
Rose: “I’ve heard that before. Bad wolf. I’ve heard that lots of times.”
Doctor: “Everywhere we go. Two words. Following us. Bad wolf.”
Rose: “How can it be following us?”

Elsewhere, badwolf.org.uk is now live. The intro opens with an unnerving distorted recording, with snatches of the Disney tune “Who’s afraid of the big bag wolf?”, and apparently, also contains of a distorted reading of William Blake’s “The Sick Rose” (via wikipedia).

The Sick Rose
O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

We were reminded tonight that the TARDIS is alive, and amongst a long list of speculations, is one of the TARDIS trying to warn the Doctor or Rose of impending doom. Who is behind the badwolf.org.uk site? Is it Mickey (unlikely as the Theories page also lists him as the potential bad wolf), someone from UNIT, perhaps even Adam? If you go to the Disclaimer page, highlight the bottom of the page. The webmaster is desperately trying to warn Rose…

Rose – Are you there? Are you getting this? You’ve got the point, haven’t you? Rose…?

Edit: I may be very late to catch on, but the UNIT website has some new pages, accessed by typing “badwolf” as the password instead of “buffalo”. But can you believe it?

The Bad Wolf is not real. The Bad Wolf is not real. The Bad Wolf is not real.

06 Jun ’05 update: LOL… I wish I had a job like that. (via Scaryduck)

Technorati tags: badwolf, doctorwho.

This is going to be a lazy link post. Chicken Yoghurt says a lot of what went through my mind when Bob Geldof announced the plans for Live8. He makes the excellent point about the naïvety of Live8 organisers. When you think of how Tony Blair turned on his selective-hearing aid after the election, do you really think the other G8 leaders will even notice a million protestors on the streets of Edinburgh or a bunch of young people enjoying themselves at pop concerts? (And that’s even with Tony Blair on the side of Africa…)

[Rant On]The organisers and supporters of Live8 may have altruistic purposes in mind, but who will benefit from it? Who will go to these concerts? Most likely fans of the bands/pop groups (Chicken Yoghurt highlights the predominance of white artists). What will these concerts achieve? Back-patting for those who attend, endless praise from the media about how all these rich-as-Creoste pop stars gave their time for free, and maybe a few seconds of attention to the inability of our super-rich nations to cancel unfair debts that have resulted from years of exploitation. To the cynical mind, it all smells like a massive PR exercise for all involved.

This isn’t sour-grapes ‘cos I won’t be here by then. It’s about being annoyed that they think that people need to be bribed to care. And that their good intentions are misguided. They probably think that the raising of such issues by celebrities and making those (unethically-made) wristbands trendy will raise awareness. But the reality is probably closer to the comments gathered by the Guardian at the Hay-on-Wye festival:

An 18 year old:
“We bought the Make Poverty History one this morning in Hay-on-Wye. Many of them you have to buy on eBay. I don’t know what Live Strong stands for, but it is the one that everybody has and it came in a smaller size, as I have very skinny wrists. They make the charity more cool.”

A 12 year old:
“I wear them because they’re trendy and it supports charity. This one is hard to find. I’ve also got Beat Bullying, Breast Cancer and Make Poverty History. If I knew it was unethically made I wouldn’t buy any more but it wouldn’t stop me wearing it. Loads of people are buying fake ones from the garage for 99p. They have nothing to do with charity.”

A 10 year old:
“I wear the bands because they are cool. I’ve got the most in my class. My favourite is the anti-racism one – it’s the most famous, every single person in my whole school is trying to get one. They are banned in school but we still wear them.”

You reap what you sow. [Rant Off]

Oh, and there’s no way a million people can fit in Edinburgh. Are they going to p*ss on the streets? ‘Cos even I have difficulty finding loo facilities here.

06 Jun ’05 update: From the BBC, news that the poor man has probably lost it. For those who watch Doctor Who: “Pity the Gel(do)f”.