high up in the trees

see, hear, touch, taste & one other one

to see...
The Australian Ballet triple bill Revolutions, masterworks by Mikhail Fokine... featuring my favourite, Les Sylphides, inspired by the music of Chopin and premiered on June 2nd, 1909 by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes at Théâtre du Châtelet, Paris, and enjoyed by the three of us, one cold Thursday evening in the balcony, June 29th, 2006... as well as Le Spectre de la rose and Schéhérazade. Imagining how it would have been to see these three performances in the early 1900's... with elaborate sets and costumes, and the likes of Nijinsky and co.

The long black hair piece of one of the Odalisques in Schéhérazade coming loose and falling to the ground mid performance... subtly kicked out of the way by the Chief Eunuch in a not so subtle bright pink costume.

Receiving amusing spam mail asking me to become the Chief Financial Manager for Ukrainian Folk Instruments Sales, "Hello. My name is Dmitry Sergeev and I am the manager of a Human Recourses department of U.F.I.S. PE (Ukrainian Folk Instruments Sales)..." which specialise in making instruments with gold strings or inlaid with diamonds and rubies. The job would suit anyone aged between 7 - 70 and prepared to be based in New Zealand (I may still have the details in my trash if this holds any appeal to anyone out there). It beats my earlier offer with Global Austrian Syndicate (G.A.S) hands down.

The beautiful feathers of a wary and secretive rainforest pigeon in the Great Flight Aviary at the Melbourne Zoo.

to hear...
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's symphonic score and the music of Chopin (hear a small sample here and here) filling my ears, as we sit, wrapped in coats and Winter finery... a catalogue balanced on my lap.

The rustling of a paper wrapper as Mum unwraps several cough lollies in readiness during interval... just incase she needs them mid performance.

The clickity-clack sound of the long, interwoven strands of the pearl necklaces on the dancers as they move across the stage... heard all the way back in D reserve.

The delicious squeak of the otters as they chat to one another and scamper across the rocks whenever someone jangles their car keys. And the bellowing roar of the lions, with their dark, shaggy Winter coats, heard just moments before closing time, demanding that everyone other than their keepers with their supper, leave them in peace.

The repeated scratching of the pink flowering Bottlebrush against the kitchen window on a windy night.

to touch...
The otters pawing their favourite stones over and over in their tiny claws.

The smooth disc of the ipod as I adjust the volume walking across the Princess Bridge listening to the soundtrack to Black Cat White Cat.

Playing with the corners of the page as I leaf through one of many large, homemade photo albums. Stuck upon the black cartridge paper pages, in-between photos and ballet catalogues is a receipt from Kmart for $36.36 for a baby car seat... which enabled me to ride around in our British racing car green MG YB for a brief period before it became too expensive to run.

to taste...
Sharing a packet of Smarties on the walk home.

A chickpea panini at Degraves Espresso Bar, enjoyed underneath the outdoor heaters, as we catch up with G to hear all about her recent adventures abroad... getting the powdery dust of the panini all over my chinny-chin-chin.

A late night treat of take away Indian curry from our local... I can still taste the garlic naan (even after gargling with Listerine all day long).

Peeling the thick skin off a handful of mandarins whilst they are still in season and affordable as I watch the soccer (still). Watching the cats of the house wince as the strong citrus aroma greets their noses and sprays their eyes in a fine mist.

to smell...
Can I leave this one up to you?

{Fridays animals... A Lesser Hairy-footed Dunnart, who have a tendency for sheltering in the burrows dug out by dragon lizards... and, an Eastern Barred Bandicoot who loves nothing better than to dig in the topsoil for invertebrates and tubers.}

mud pies & hot chips

Yesterday strolling around the Melbourne Zoo in the late afternoon sun, making the most of a Friends of the Zoo pass about to expire at the end of the month... saying hello to the two Snow Leopards with their lengthy tails, the Blue-Faced Honeyeaters and other feathered companions in the Great Flight Aviary, and my favourite team of (insert a squeal of happiness) Small-Clawed Otters busily pawing their chosen stones from the waters edge, brought me to the simple conclusion - I love the zoo. Sharing a serve of hot, heavily salted chips in a sunny spot before the seal enclosure, watching the furry trio of seals glide through the water at speed, had me thinking I should do this more often.

The throng of families with much equipment dwindled as the afternoon sun retreated, leaving us with many of the animals all to ourselves, in that glorious hour just before closing time. However this also ensured that not only were we likely to actually see the Asiatic Golden Cat in her leafy jungle enclosure, we were also equally likely to see her reward for a hard days work exhibiting before the human crowds - a mouse on a stick, a critter on a rope. A virtual host of small furry rodent treats... rodents bearing a striking resemblance to many of my pencil drawings.

I've been looking at old family photo albums of late and trips to the zoo, Melbourne or otherwise, feature on many of the pages on more than one occasion... me beside a peacock roaming the grounds or standing before an enclosure of an animal in the far distance. Or, as above, my Mum and I making mud pies in... I think... the local gardens, our own little archaeological dig conducted on public grounds. Looking at all these photos I realise I look pretty much the exact same now as I did then, save for those awkward years. My hair is darker and perhaps more unruly and my front tooth has since been smashed in half and glued back together again (thanks to a foolish rollerskating stunt I pulled In Primary School), however the rest remains the same. Very little has changed, the expressions in the photos then are the same today.

Very little has changed on paper too... only todays mice and their ilk are beginning to sport tribal markings across their snouts and pearlescent bubbles of colour.

{Please meet - a Musky Rat-Kangaroo, with a tendency to hoard excess food... and a Desert Bandicoot, presumed extinct since the 1960's, though formally common in the sandy deserts of central Australia and WA... coupled with a nocturnal Brown Antechinus.}

J for JIMMY

{A short-clawed otter, the most dextrous of the otters, from South-east Asia, Indonesia and the Philippines... no doubt named Jimmy Otter.}

Recently I dreamt I was back at school and for reasons which made perfect, logical sense to me at the time, I had been asked to give a lecture on Jimmy Little (not a specialist subject of mine) only I'd actually prepared my notes on Jimmy Cliff (again, not a specialist subject of mine). I had muddled my Jimmys... and was standing in the wings preparing to fudge my way through the event just moments before the credits rolled (as they often do in my dreams) and I woke up. Now I'll never know if I managed to pull off my Jimmy blunder with a convincing bluff and blurring of the facts.

Was this dream alluding to a hole in my cd collection... is the letter 'J' poorly represented (my cds are arranged loosely in alphabetical order, save for compilations and soundtracks as that would prove an impossibility)? Scanning the 'J's' behind me as I type, it is actually a small, underrepresented section... though perhaps this is beside the point as I clearly would have filled 'L' for Little alongside the likes of Les Negresses Vertes (I did mention it was a loose alphabetical system didn't I?)... and Cliff under 'C'.

According to quite possibly the worlds smallest catalogue of dreams analysed, at 5cm X 5cm X 2cm the Penguin Little Book of Dreams can only offer this pearly nugget of wisdom; "Learn from your dreams what you lack." W.H.Auden, 1907-73. Thank-you Joan Hanger, your little book of dream analysis has been pawed over and absorbed ala Manny ingesting the Little Book of Calm (Black Books, episode 1, series 1). So perhaps now as I purchase further Gogol Bordello tracks from itunes and load Sister Gertrude Morgan from cd to LJ's trusty ipod (which I borrow heavily) I ought to cast my musical download net a little wider.

{Day dreaming underneath a handknitted stripy rug made especially for me by Mum.}

And how about you... do you dream in colour?
Happy slumber & pleasant dreams all.

five senses once more

The return of Friday Five Senses...

to feel:

The crick in my neck from sleeping on the lounge room floor in order to wake up in time to watch Australia vs. Croatia at 4.30 in the morning on the telly. Struggling to find the alarm on the glass cabinet beside me as its sound wallops me over the head and proceeds to box me about the ears with a "it's time... it's 4.30!" buzz... and subsequently being blinded by the bright glare of the telly, after spending a good five minutes fumbling for the remote... oddly enough placed conveniently beside the alarm. Crumpled and stiff and feeling as though I've stepped off a flight from LA to Melbourne... trying desperately to stay awake to watch the match.

to taste:
Ushering in the shortest day of the year, Winter Solstice, with cupcakes from the Crabapple Bakery at the Prahran Market. A white chocolate daisy and a musk cupcake, halved down the middle, and gobbled up in mere moments.

to see:
The pile of rental dvds we didn't get through due namely to too much soccer. Les Visiteurs and Respiro will have to wait till next time. We did however manage to squeeze in Pickup on South Street, a film noir classic by Sam Fuller, on loan from a friend.

The spindly local man who rollerblades down a busy main road near a friends house, pulled along by his two fast paced dogs at top speed... shouting "go left... get across!" as he weaves across busy lanes of oncoming traffic with only the aid of a faded fluorescent safety vest.

to smell:
Organic goodness from the green grocer on St Georges road... enjoying a chickpea tagine and corn fritters with L & L.

Reacquainting myself with Giselle... or at least half of it, as free tickets to Box D are enjoyed.

Collecting Rima knows the curse of being born on Christmas Eve from our framer J, as well as our Blink and it's over print... clearly there are many new and delightful smells for O & O to enjoy. Corners have been kissed, sniffed, nuzzled and rubbed... leaving a telltale sign of hairs and whiskers.

to hear:
Shanghai Diva recordings from the 30s and 40s, and Vashti Banyan on rotation and very little else due to a beanie purchased from the Artisan Books 6th Annual Beanie Exhibition being pulled snugly over my ears.

The happy hum of a gas heater since repaired.

The familiar and keenly anticipated click of the letterbox lid as snail mail arrives from Shari, an Imagined Travels postcard featuring a work-clothes quilt from Gee's Bend, c.1935, in denim and beautiful dirty mustard hues... and a delivery from Mecca Cosmetica.

Tearing down sheets of large paper to draw more creatures and circles. A stoat, famed for mesmerising their prey with a dance before nipping in for the kill (quite a skill, huh?) and a common Eastern Cottontail, neither of which are from this neck of the woods.

Happy weekend all!

fancy footwork

The neighbourhood dogs are barking. Someone must be walking down the back lane, setting them off, one by one, into a yapping, yelping frenzy. Leaves have been rustled, footsteps heard and new smells awoken. It's a little too early for my night owl self, sitting in the backgarden, feeding Misha her breaky of Chicken in Giblets Pate from a small, cracked Japanese noodle bowl. I'm contemplating whether or no to risk running out to collect the snail mail in my pyjamas and new strawberry beanie. Perhaps not.

With the advent of the World Cup, my natural night owl tendencies have been pushed to the limit. Aside from watching the fancy footwork of those soccer players, LJ and I received two free, friends of a friends of a friends tickets to see the 183rd performance of Maina Gielgud's production of Giselle the other night... flying leaps and nimble steps of an altogether different kind. A perfect pairing. We jumped at the chance, even, or rather especially as Louise had seen Giselle four nights prior.

Our seats, up in the box, did mean that the entire right hand side of the line of Wilis and Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, in the second act, could not be seen from our vantage point unless you clambered onto the shoulders of the person to your immediate left... however the effect and impact was the same - wonderful! Never before have I felt so grounded to the earth and in possession of two left feet, and one of them lame, as when watching Lisa Bolte glide across the stage. Or for that matter, when curled up at 4am watching the soccer, wrapped in a swathe of blankets and every conceivable knitted garment on my person, as men in brightly coloured guernseys move a soccer ball around with seeming ease.

So there you have it, add an engagement party, some vintage fabric finds at The Winter Garden in Geelong and a 50th anniversary gathering to celebrate our friend C's Dad's arrival from Germany to Australia at a restaurant a stones throw from the actual arrival dock... and it's the weekend in a nutshell. Plus a few new creatures to add to the ever growing carnival, and a lucky baker's dozen sale at our wee hammer & daisy online store.

How about yours?

(THANK-YOU! Thanks again for all your wonderful comments in relation to our Blink and it's over print... glean a little more here too.)

psst... a little more friday

P.S.
A little extra posting to say, "we're in Imprint magazine"... (Tall tales and antipodean adventures: narratives in contemporary Australian printmaking, Jazmina Cininas, page 28-32. Imprint, Volume 41, Number 2, Winter 2006.). I had just plunged the coffee when a copy arrived via a sled of postal snails late today, and we are thrilled.

A glossy page detail of The Case of the Lost Aviary (2005) receives Olive's seal of approval.

Plus, our print, last seen in state of near undress over here at Louise's blog elsewhere, is happily now complete. The final wedge in the circular tail feather has been glued in place and small pencil ladders now prop up the hand coloured robust white-eye, a little like a broken fairground amusement.

Blink and it's over, an edition of 27, paper size 46cm x 30cm, 2006.

to all the pets I've loved before

A little five senses friday hiatus today though the squadron of see, feel, taste, hear and smell will be back next week with gusto (and I miss them already). I'll also be throwing in some carpet selling past life tales for good measure as well, Risa. In the meantime, to round off an unplanned creature focus, here's what I've been mulling over...

Of late I've been thinking about all the different parts of me my pets, both past and current, have claimed. Omar, the Siamese of wiry, athletic build, has put his mountaineers flag on my left armpit of a night time... don't think the right would be just the same because apparently it ain't. Only the left will do, cradling his dark, stubbly, brown chin to perfection.

Olive has staked her claim on the toes, left or right, five or ten, bare or incased in socks, single or pair. Her only stipulation being that they are tucked underneath many blankets of an evening. If it's especially cold she'll think about claiming a shin as her own little patch but this generally does not happen.

Misha claims the chin. She likes to head butt and nuzzle it, to prompt for extra food whenever I bend over to pat her.

Our neighbours black cat, Carpatina, likes to ride up on my shoulder when I water the garden and if I kept still enough, she'd happily slumber there. As the woman across the street hollered, whilst out walking her little white dog: "A real bare back rider!".

Stella, the surly British Blue, will settle for my lap, though only when my mum's lap isn't available.

Dixie, the lilac Siamese from my childhood, fancied the top of my head as I slept at night. There was no other possible, conceivable spot he'd rather be than wrapped around my skull like a living beaver hat. In the morning he was particularly partial to my bare ankles - a tasty bite.

Polly loved the back of my legs when lying stretched out to read the papers on the floor and Georgie-Dog wanted any patch of carpet I was currently occupying. She was also especially partial to homemade biscuits... a whole days labour (well, half a day) snaffled up in one doggy woof when a plate of Almond Kipfels covered in sugar were left on the kitchen bench to cool.

Nutmeg, my beloved big ol' ginger tom, he liked right inbetween the knees, on top of the covers of a night. His thick, shaggy coat worthy of a Muppet... and with a loud snore cum purr, breaking through the silence.

My many pet mice enjoyed the palm and forearm region. Sometimes they'd venture up the shoulder and peer into my ear. Over the years many pets have selected their favourite body bits... and I still have a stomach, right armpit and collarbone for any future pets. All this talk of pets of old has reminded me of the Kinky Friedman eulogy for his cat Cuddles...

"To find the roots of the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch, a good place to start is New York City in 1979. Friedman was walking in Chinatown when he came across a kitten in a shoe box. Cuddles became his and served as a companion like no other. When she died in 1993, he wrote in a eulogy: "Dogs have a depth of loyalty that often we seem unworthy of. But the love of a cat is a blessing, a privilege in this world. They say when you die and go to heaven all the dogs and cats you've ever had in  your life come running to meet you. Until that day, rest in peace, Cuddles."."
(Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch)

"we do so want to settle down"

Neatening the nest and lodging of late, untangling the greenery and cutting back the dogbane that grows by our front door... pruning the rose bush at my favourite time of day in the late afternoon, just before dusk and before the office workers descend from the tram and walk hurriedly past our house. Things are looking spick-and-span out front in comparison to yesterday. A path to our front door can be seen and the postie can now safely reach the green letterbox without the dwarf bamboo giving them a friendly poke in the eye or a tickle on the cheek. If our house were a person they'd be... hmm? I'll have to come back to that one.

And now, some midweek creature updates before I head out to the back-garden island republic, which has been taken over by Miss Misha Stray Cat and The Possum... they say they have no tablecloth and tableware.

See footage from The Archives Office of Tasmania of the last Tasmanian Tiger (Thylacinus cynocephalus) in captivity. Read about the shy and secretive creatures of nervous temperament here...

Meet the endangered Smoky Mouse facing extinction. And read about a group of white mice-astronauts orbiting the Earth inside a wee spacecraft. Apparently "The mice will descend by parachute and land near Woomera, Australia, inside a small capsule reminiscent of NASA's old Apollo capsules".

creature handler

New furry friends and spun webs to start the week or to help you put a seal on a pleasingly long Oueen's birthday weekend... either way, please meet a Wongai Ningaui (a tiny carnivore with spiky hair and unkempt appearance from west of Kalgoorlie across the northern half of SA) and a Mallee Ningaui (with tawny-olive fur and a whitish chin, sparsely distributed across southern Australia and always associated with spinifex grass, courtesy of: A field Guide to Mammals of Australia).

Lately I've been reminded by bugheart of the Moomins... a world full of wonderfully named Hemulens with their misdirected social tendencies and the Hattifatteners "who care about nothing else but reaching the horizon" and of course those Scandinavian trolls, the Moomins themselves. Head to the Moomin site and turn the pages of the Tove Jansson & the story of the Moomin's for yourself. I'd all but forgotten about these books... so this weekend I dug out my tatty copy of Moominsummer Madness, with my name written in green texta on the inside cover "Gracia Haby, Grade 3G".

I've also been reading novel home heating techniques provided by Hayley, which has led me to excavate yet another book from the archaeological dig, otherwise known as the bookshelf - Warming and Humidifying by Jewyo Rhii... a DIY manual full of suggestions, solutions and drawings for transforming a wet towel into a humidifier for insomnia and other low tech, everyday items which can become potential sources of heat.

And, I've been entranced by this photo of a slumbering trio of dormice in the Age... apparently they are waking sooner than they ought from their big Winter sleep. (Working for Wildlife, an education and conservation charity mention that "half nibbled nuts lying around and hazelnuts with a small hole-smooth surface inside, and teeth marks around the surface of the shell" are fairly good indicators that there is dormouse activity in your neck of the woods). This little European blackcap, a migratory bird which breeds in Germany before wisely spending the Winter months in Spain and neighbouring Portugal, is now heading to the UK for a Winter chilly enough for him. Read more here, at National Geographic, before rounding off an animal/creature Monday evening viewing this wonderful Mousehotelbed sculpture by Maria Bussmann, as well as her works on paper too (found via Karin's style blog & Swissmiss... just incase you missed it).

five broken senses

to feel:
Stiff, new fabric finds receive Olive's special stamp & sniff of approval... including one with small brown bird silhouettes floating on a sea of orange flowers and some large overlapping, irregular circles from Prints Charming. And, the feel of the scissors in my hand as I cut through metres and metres of fabric on the floor.

The warm feeling of wrapping myself up in a green Winter jacket. In it I feel worthy of living in the town of Nutwood with Rupert Bear and Bill Badger for neighbours.

The thick, downy coats of the local cats, leaving hairs of many colours and lengths on the cuffs of my jeans.

to see:
Taking in a morning session at the Kino of Ballet Russes, full of beautiful archival footage and tracing the company's Diaghilev-era beginnings through to the final days (psst, see the trailer here, further photographs here and read a little more here).

As well as revisiting a few movies on dvd - Monsoon Wedding, Watership Down and Agata and the Storm (which made me hanker for a black & white striped deckchair to loll on)... not to mention indulging my love of woeful yet wonderful, formulaic, mainstream, dreadfully corny movies in the early hours of the morning (I'll never admit to which ones).

to taste:
Very little, the element in our oven has keeled over and bitten the dust... the reason being - a general lack of use. The condensation upon said element causing it to pack its bags and head to a home where more than an occasional cake or homemade pizza is placed on its rack.

to hear:
Our teeth chattering. To usher in Winter, our once trusty vulcan wall furnace, no doubt upon hearing that the oven was going on a little hiatus to the Bahamas to stay with a family that wish to utilise its many talents for roasting spuds, has collapsed as well. However not before apparently leaking carbon dioxide gas into the lounge room for an extended period of time. So whilst new parts are ordered in and until it can be repaired, we look rather like two Michelin tire men (to quote an oft used expression)... bumbling about the place in a bid to keep warm. Underneath several jumpers, a scarf (worn indoors) and a woollen beanie (again, worn indoors) and a pair of footy socks pulled high over my knees (in a manner previously not thought possible, who knew they could stretch to be so long... though they are starting to cut off circulation now)... somewhere underneath all this lies a set of limbs awaiting Spring.

The delicious sound of a common brush-tailed possum chiselling his way through a bruised fuji apple whilst swinging in the bird feeder. To dissuade him from eating Mishii's cat food we have taken to feeding Mr Possum in the hanging dish of the terracotta bird feeder. He climbs down the springy branches of the white hibiscus and plonks himself down on the feeder, his little pink nose glistening and his beady black eyes eyeballing us. His pointy snout reminding me of those famous ecologists from the 1970's - the wombles...

to smell:
The smell of the Casablanca Lily from a Tocca grace candle being overpowered by the smell of carbon dioxide.

So now, some mice in carbon dioxide bubbles for you...

cats in the kitchen

Two admissions of the not so secret variety - I can't for the life of me cook unless guided by strict instructions and I actually feel the inclination to whisk, stir, beat and spoon away an afternoon in the kitchen... AND after centuries of muttering: "Who are those odd folk who dress up their pets?" - I've bought a little knitted red, blue & white guernsey for Omar. In my defence, he does feel the arrival of Jack Frost keenly, what with those lanky limbs and skinny hips, and it only lasted 1/2 an hour (though only because the arm holes need a little further modification as it's actually a jumper fashioned for a poodle who has a back length of 30cm. For the record, LJ is even planning to embellish the knitted surface with ribbons, stripes and possibly even a few mock medals.). So there you have it, two rather sorry, limp admissions.

The Lemon Coconut Cake, which thanks to 125g (4oz) of melted butter took well over 40 minutes to declare itself cooked was a Winter white success (even if we'd previously filled ourselves silly at the Moroccan Soup Bar), with C, C & R declaring it looked like something out of Narnia. Thankfully they weren't privy to witnessing LJ & I, earlier in the day, slapping on the icing like we were plugging up a hole on a sinking ship: "It won't stick, it simply wont stick to the cake! (insert expletives) Surely we can't stuff up icing a cake?!". How the cooking gene passed me by completely shall forever remain a mystery to me. I come from a long line of natural "add a bit of that & a dash of that" natural cooking wizards, capable of whipping up red beans & rice, bread & butter pudding and so on and so forth at the drop of a hat. Using only the oddest of culinary ingredients and spices, anything, if you have the know how, can be transformed into a gourmet feast. Such insider knowledge would have proven useful this evening... as it is, tonight it's carrots, sprouts & broccoli.

It is indeed possible in our household festooned with cats, to muck up pasta and botch up risotto. As a result we, the household occupants, have had to adjust to the idea that RAW FOODS ARE BEST OF ALL. It's virtually impossible to bungle up a dessert which consists solely of a bowl of ripe, unpeeled mandarins... though I'm quite sure I could rise to the challenge and prove this a fallacy.

I'll leave you now with further photographic evidence of Mr oh-so-patient Omar in his Footscray FC jumper, pleading silently with us: "Why? Why did you do this to me?" and perhaps a little dash of: "Tonight my human slave, you will pay" (uttered in your best Puss in Boots accent).

More of Omar's shame (or should that be mine) is due to appear on flickr shortly... and of course, feel free to share any embarrassing faults and like quirks if you choose.

the weekly roundup

The weekly gathering of five senses... for the first week of June and Winter too.

to touch:

The worn smooth handled, cherry red coloured pair of the secateurs in my hand, as I tackle the front jungle accompanied by several sniffing though largely decorative cats... and finding a pond of four leaf clovers in full supply.

to see:
Welcoming Rima (Rima knows the curse of being born on Christmas Eve, 70 x 56.5cm, reduction linocut, woodblock, 2006 by Jazmina Cininas) in from the cold snowy forest and into our home... and trying to decide upon a perfect spot to hang her once framed.

A skinny old local man riding about in his rickety homemade tricycle (a little like this one) with a giant St Bernard hound (a little like this one) for a passenger, last spotted heading East.

to smell:
The rich buttery smell of a Lemon Coconut Cake baking in the oven for C, C & R, with a whole cup of castor sugar to ensure tastiness (I'll shelve the photos for a little later on).

to hear:

Sifting small, sometimes rusty, sometimes broken badges and pins through my hands, sorting out which ones I'll keep to wear... Traveller's Orphanage, Trench & Agricultural Queen, Empire Week 1942... and finding a keyring with a mirror on the reverse side, of mum and I taken in a photo booth at Spencer Street railway station (in the early 80's judging by my hair).

The scissors slicing through 12 metres of ivory netting to hang in the window of the bookbinding studio as Olive busily occupies herself with chewing the ribbon like edges as they are cast aside... listening to Gogol Bordello.

to taste:

Celebrating LJ's Dad's birthday with a shared serve of lemon crepes to round off a 'flat foods are my favourite' meal - chicken schnitzel and crepes.

Enjoying a serve of freshly made heart shaped scones with lashings of raspberry jam for lunch... which were much tastier than the cardboard and condensation which a feline stowaway dubbed Chairman Miaow lived off on his voyage in a crate of crockery across the high seas...
(other famous stowaways unearthed... Diamond Lil' and her Atlantic Voyage, Colins and her South Korean Adventure and Emily and her French High Jinks.)