where art collides philosoperontap

October 30, 2019

30th October 2019 CE

Filed under: 57 Varieties,diary — Trefor Davies @ 8:45 am

Early start, sniffles and a bit of a cough and sat in office waiting for it to warm up. No swim today. It’s bright out and the plumbers arrived at 7.30am to get the central heating finished off. All new radiators and pump. A lot of metallic sludge clogging up the system. Expensivo.

Used the path to get to the office today. The grass is wet and needs cutting again. The path is the long way round but it’s going to get a lot of use over the winter. Regular use will hopefully also stop it from becoming overgrown.

The office is still a mess but the tidying process must wait until I have the new shelving in place. This will hopefully get kicked off tomorrow evening in the Morning Star where I have a meeting on the subject.

Through the corner window I can see bamboo canes stacked in the corner of the greenhouse. There is poetry to the empty greenhouse. An overwinter pause in the growing process. It will come out fighting in the spring.

I have a lot on today. It’s good to have office time to get things done. Clear head despite the cold The garden is still. We have a nice garden, developed over 22 years of living here. It is multifunctional – a great place for bbqs and parties but also an extension to our living space.

Ten minutes in my hands are warming up. I do feel as if a cup of tea would go down well but I have no up here. It will be some time before one is proffered from the house. There is still 30 minutes before a working day officially begins although that rule doesn’t apply when working from home. Life is all work and play

October 27, 2019

Waiting for spring

Filed under: 57 Varieties,poetry,winter series — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 2:14 pm

deep hibernation
breath freezes outside blanket
slow rhythmic breathing

wondering whether
cup of tea will make itself
stare into darkness

October 6, 2019

chicken casserole

Filed under: 57 Varieties — Trefor Davies @ 11:25 am

Relaxing start to Sunday. Two cups of tea in bed. Fullish English (no egg). France v Tonga on telly. Chicken casserole prep (fiddly onions).

Rain. Yesterday’s outdoor efforts vindicated: lawn mown deck oiled. I daresay there is an indoor jobs list today. Anne needs some cranberry juice. Check if curtain pole repair has worked (remains to be seen – less than 50:50 I’d say). Upstairs the rowing machine sings.

Bookshelves in front need filling. Two hundred books this summer consigned to the loft. Cut not made. 

I find cooking very therapeutic. There is a difference between cooking in the morning and preparing a roast, say. A casserole deserves to be started early and given time to slow cook. The one time that cooking is stressful is Christmas Day where the timing is everything, the food more complex (parmesan parsnips, honey roast carrots, carrots and swede and the rib of beef where the right level of pinkness is paramount). Christmas also requires the right timing for the champagne – starting too early marks trouble.

Enough of this ritin stuff. A casserole doesn’t prepare itself.

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