Salt and corrosion

Yesterday's mystery item, for those playing along, was my mother's wooden suduko board (at least, the tiles thereof). Here's the whole thing:



It has been strange not taking photos. I did take one yesterday before remembering that I didn't need to; today when I left the house I had a panicked moment of 'Where's the camera? I can't leave the house without the camera!' before remembering that, yes, I can leave the house without the camera.

In the interests of finishing the books I have before getting any new ones, at the moment I am reading a book that, for reasons long forgotten, I put on my Kindle some time ago: At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald (published 1871). It's a bit rum. It's about a boy called Diamond (named after his family's horse), who is, in the way of these things, a source of delight to his poor but honest parents. Diamond makes friends with the North Wind, who appears as a tall, beautiful woman who takes young Diamond out with her at night while she sinks ships. As you do. Then she takes him to her home, the Back of the North Wind, and when he returns, he finds that he's been in a fever for a week and that everyone thought he would die.

Then the book changes and rarely mentions the North Wind again, except to remind us that Diamond has been to the back of the North Wind, which makes him special. As his family ekes out a living, Diamond makes up apparently nonsensical, but in fact meaningful, songs for his baby brother, runs his father's cab business to great success while his father is ill, cures a drunk from drinking and beating his wife, befriends a sick orphan girl and a lame boy, charms a rich man who writes fairy tales and funds a children's hospital, and generally makes the world a better place just by existing because he has been to the Back of the North Wind. He gets work as a page and the lady he works for sometimes summons him just so she can drink in his darling face. He says things like: 'Love makes the only myness.' I hate him. I am ninety-nine percent certain he's going to die at the end because he's just too good for this world.* It's that sort of book.

The thing is, the author knows how irritating Diamond might seem. He tries to justify it by saying that Diamond really isn't one of these annoying little brats who deserve to be killed and have their heads stuffed. Really. In the middle of this twee book, the author suddenly talks about killing irritating children and stuffing their heads. I mean, I'm no fan of Diamond's but I wouldn't go that far.

My favourite bit so far was when Diamond eavesdropped on Diamond and Ruby, his family's horses. (He can understand their strange horse language. Of course.) Anyway, (horse) Diamond was telling off Ruby (who is really an angel, or angel-horse, or some such) for pretending to be lame to get out of work, and said: 'I'm not denying there was a puffy look about your off-pastern.' Because that's how horses talk.

Back to work tomorrow. I don't know that it would have been better to go back today. It's too hot to do anything else.



* Actually, I just read the Wikipedia page I linked to, which says he dies, so now I'm 100% sure of it.

This person is doing a 2011 photo a day project that puts mine to shame: the Stormtrooper family. Seeing that has made my day.

I've just seen an advertisement for a medical clinic, which surprised for two reasons. First, because I didn't think they were allowed to advertise. This is certainly the first advertisement I've ever seen for one. Second, it said that you could ring and make an appointment. Even, it said, appointments 'in the future'. As opposed to all those times you ring and make an appointment in the past, I suppose.

Yesterday was an Open Day at Flagstaff Hill, which is a model colonial village and museum, so all and sundry could come and look at their latest acquisition, a watch that survived a shipwreck. So that was exciting. Well, no. It was... something to do. That's more like it.

My mother spent some time volunteering in the tea-rooms at Flagstaff Hill earlier in the year. She decided after a few months that making cups of tea for people wasn't her cup of tea, so to speak. Also, the tea-room shifts were six hours, six-and-a-half during school holidays, working alone, usually without a break, which wasn't her idea of fun. Also, there was a hierarchy among the volunteers, in which the ladies who dress up and wander the village streets in full colonial regalia were top of the heap. Not only would they refuse to help clear tables or whatever during busy periods, they would come in and make themselves a cup of tea and drink it in the kitchen. 'And no-one else could get in the kitchen because of their big skirts,' said my mother. 'Silly cows.'

Anyway, my mother left, explaining all this in her exit interview. She was enormously gratified the following week, when she saw an ad in the paper calling for new volunteers in the tea-rooms, which mentioned that people would be working in pairs and for three-hour shifts. She's also been invited to the tea-room volunteers' annual breakfast, presumably so they can celebrate her achievements.

As we walked around the village, my mother kept pointing out all the other things she could suggest they improve, if only she still had a voice there. Somehow, I don't think she's finished with the village just yet.

Today I have been out doing Christmas shopping. A woman in Target said to her friend, 'All the grandkids are getting pool noodles this year.' She was carrying an armful of said pool noodles, at least ten, so presumably anyone else wanting pool noodles from the City by the Sea's Target outlet this year will be out of luck.

I enjoy the phrase 'pool noodle' very much.



Day 331. Sparrow on the door handle, Day 332. Today they put up the street decorations outside my office, Day 333. Run, run, as fast as you can, Day 334. Some of my mother's crystal bells, Day 335. Getting ready for vampires at Bunnings, Day 335a. Bird (and me) scarer, Day 336. Obligatory plant of the week, Day 336a. Ditto (this is my Christmas tree, still undecorated), Day 337. Ropes, Day 337a. Lower lighthouse, Day 337b. Garrison..., Day 337c. … manned by hobbits

I have to go to another board meeting on Tuesday. I have spent all weekend feeling vaguely ill every time I think about it.

I left the house this morning with nothing out the ordinary. When I came home, though, I opened the door to what can only be described as a foul stench. I followed it through the house from the back door to my bedroom at the front of the house, where I found a black tomcat sitting on my pillow, looking smugger than anything smelling that vile has a right to look. He looked a lot less smug when I brought in a bucket and a cloth and washed him.

I think after nearly a year I can safely say he's mine. I've got leave in a couple of weeks, so it's off to the vet for his operation. Hopefully that will get rid of the smell.

While I'm giving the local cat news, do you remember the little grey and white cat that was left behind when her stupid owner moved? It hasn't been around much the last week or so. I saw it walking along the back fence yesterday, looking much more well-cared for than it ever has. I wonder if the new people in that house have taken it in? I hope so.

The year is turning. In the supermarket today, bananas were $4.98 per kilogram. Back to normal after the highs of $16.98/kg a few months ago. Joan-next-door has a bush with pink flowers growing in her garden; I can see the flowers bobbing over the top of the fence. I was going to take a photo, but it turns out I already did, in the early weeks of 2011. Only six weeks left to go.



Day 317. Little... Boy Blue or Miss Muffett?, Day 318. Bricked up,Day 319. Freshly squeezed, Day 320. My first artichoke, Day 320a. My first garlic, Day 321b. Bursting through a fence, Day 321. Love-in-a-mist, Day 321a. Love-in-a-mist spreading, Day 321c. Filling a space with some clouds, Day 322. Getting a face lift, Day 323. Stone fruit season, Day 323a. Hairy carrots

Day 317's little figurine is tiny, not even as tall as a matchbox. My mother found it buried in the garden when she first moved in here, and now it lives on the windowsill near the kitchen sink. My mother calls it Little Boy Blue. I think it's Little Miss Muffett. Who's right?

I spent the last three days of my working week doing job interviews. As an interviewer, I mean. Nothing to say about them, except that one guy turned up under the influence of... something. He had pinpoint pupils and was unfocused and rambling and answered every question by saying, 'I... I don't really understand what you mean, could you say it another way?'. Just a general tip for anyone going to a job interview: sobriety is good. He didn't get the job.

This week's photos:



Dat 303. Stray cat (seen through the kitchen window), Day 304. 2011 and 2012, Day 305. The most exciting mail delivery of the year, Day 306. Lighting the stove top, Day 306a. Split rock plant splitting, Day 307. Fruit stickers, Day 308. Shadow on the floor, Day 309. Supermarket shelves, Day 309a. A strange addiction

Every time I look at the split rock plant, I think how painful it looks. I suppose it isn't, though.

Glue update: My glue that that claims to be 'idea for glueing'... didn't glue what I wanted it to glue. False advertising.

Having failed with that, I went out to the garage and rummaged around in the old paint tin where I keep nails and such, and found my tube of superglue. Only that's not going to stick anything either, since it has dried solid.

So I went and bought a new tube of superglue and thus succeeded in sticking together what I wanted to stick together, as well as two fingers, and a tissue to a newspaper. So that glue was definitely ideal for glueing, but given that I think I also glued the lid to the tube, it won't be ideal for glueing things any more.

The reason for all the glue is that I decided that, since I didn't do anything constructive all week, I would use this weekend to finish off a variety of small projects that have been hanging about: the owl on Thursday evening, a felt case for my iPod on Friday, a little purse to keep in the glove box with change for the parking meter on Saturday. Today I am supposed to finish knitting a dishcloth I started so I could use up some odds and ends of cotton, but I am finding it hard to get enthused about dishcloths. They're a bit dull after all the glue excitement.

I have been thinking about what I will do next year, once my photo a day project is finished. Perhaps I could make a thing a week. It would have to be a small thing, obviously. I'll have to give it some more thought.



Day 289. I wasn't going to buy another book until I finished all the ones on the shelf, and yet I seem to have acquired this today, Day 290. New box of matches, Day 291. Oops, Day 292. My sole, Day 293. Owl box, Day 293a. Beetle, Day 294. Whale, Day 294a. Fish and chips and whale, Day 295. iPod case

It is spring here, which means the Spring Racing Carnival, which means the shops will be full of things to wear to the races, which means we will be subjected to weeks of hideous puns about the 'fillies' and how good they look, ahahaha. Puns confusing women with horses make me want to stab things.

Anyway, to kick things off, there was a 'what to wear to the races' lift-out in today's paper, a before-and-after sort of thing. Average people in what they wear every day, and then all gussied up in their racewear finery. Most of it was all right, but one page was devoted to three 19-year-olds and, well, they look fine in the 'before' photo.

( Not so much in the 'after' )

The 'after' outfit of the one on the left is okay, it's cute and age-appropriate, although she could pick up TV reception with her fascinator. The one on the right is a lovely dress, but the makeup makes her look twenty years older (and they need to tell her not to slouch). The one on the middle, though, is not being done any favours by that outfit at all, is she?

Photos of the week:



Day 275. Vacancy, Day 275a. Piles of dirt, Day 276. Bobbles, Day 277. Before, Day 277a. After, Day 278. Exciting mail day, Day 279. Sweet pea, Day 280. Window, Day 281. Lotus flower egg poachers

I upgraded my MacBook to OSX Lion last week, and was promptly dismayed to find that my USB modem no longer worked. Tragedy! I've spent the last week updating drivers and doing stuff I don't really understand and today, finally, happily, I've got it working. Only now I can't upload to flickr from it. Sigh.

Last night I finished reading this book, which was good. Good, right up until the end, which ( I'll put under a cut in case anyone else is planning to read it )

Today I offered the Next Doors some of the celery growing in my garden, which is all ready to be eaten right now. Brian came round to get it, bringing with him my canine admirer, Chester. Wasn't he excited about that? So many new things to sniff, including, oh dear, Percy. I didn't realise he was asleep under a bush. Chester was so pleased to meet a new friend. He barked and danced about. Percy swiped. Chester thought this was a great game and charged in. Percy stalked out. I thought he'd jump over the fence to get away, but he didn't panic. He didn't even hiss. He walked coolly round the back of the bush and smacked Chester from behind. Chester decided perhaps he didn't want to play with this grumpy creature after all and came to talk to me instead. Percy went back to sleep.

I was disappointed with this year's season of MasterChef Australia. Someone (Angela) told me I should watch Junior MasterChef instead and I scoffed. Scoffed, f-list! Well, I scoffed too soon, it turns out. I watched the first episode tonight and now I am hooked. Where else can one see a ten-year-old announce that today she will be making duck raviolo in broth? Or a boy of a similar age tell the judges that his dish is titled 'An Adventure for the Palate'? In both those cases, the kids were poorly served by whoever does the on-screen captions, because the girl's single raviolo was captioned as ravioli and the adventure for the palate was listed as duck with wild rice salad.

I think my favourite moment came when one of Australia's most lauded chefs, a man who would have apprentices jumping at his every word, told one of the kids that his duck needed a little bit more time to be properly cooked, and the boy said, 'Yeah, I'll think about it,' in a tone that suggested he wouldn't be doing any such thing.

I watched it with my mother and quite early on, when they were introducing the judges, the next judge to come out was clearly going to be Matt Moran. So when the announcer said, 'He did this, he did that, and he is...,' I said, '...a big lizard,' just as my mother said, 'Voldemort!' What do you think, f-list? Australian celebrity chef Matt Moran: does he look like Voldemort or a big lizard?



1. Aphid soup, 2. Just some of my many aphids, 3. 1977 and 2008, 4. Storm clouds over Joan Next Door's roof, 5. Draught excluder at the garage door, 6. I should probably tie it back when I'm trying to type, 7. Chester tries out the cat ramp, 8. I am unimpressed you let a dog in, 9. Broccoli

This coming week will is shaping up to be... well, not interesting, that would be a lie, but a bit different to an ordinary, run of the mill week, in that Monday and Wednesday I won't be in the office. Monday I am going to a payroll and taxation seminar, which promises to be seven hours of non-stop excitement in a fully air-conditioned venue. But it's right on the beach, so sea views, that's something. Wednesday, I am going to Melbourne for a meeting that has been cunningly planned to fall precisely between the arrival of the morning train from the City by the Sea and the departure of the afternoon return. We'll see how that pans out.



Day 247. Locking the back door, Day 248. Mystery plastic bird found in my coat pocket, Day 249. Eye chart, Day 250. Dental floss, or tiny toilet brush?, Day 251. Sunflowers and snow peas, Day 252. Green door, Day 252a. Swans and cygnets, Day 253. Not colour-fast, Day 253a. Day 242's waratah bud opened

Enya rang me yesterday. No, really, that was the woman's name. She asked if I over eighteen and interested in taking part in a survey to measure community attitudes toward carbon capture? Yes to the first, Enya, and I suppose also to the second.
 
I'm not good at being put on the spot, so when she asked me to explain what I understood by the term 'carbon capture', my answer was: oh, well, it's, um, it's when they, um, capture the carbon, um, from, um, industrial processes and, um, store it underground, um, I think it's called geosequestration? Enya said, 'Do you have anything to add to that?' Good lord, Enya, I thought I was doing well to get that far.
 
It was a rubbish answer, but Enya's next question was, 'If I tell you that carbon capture refers to the process of capturing carbon from industry as it occurs and storing it deep underground for a long time, how would you rate your knowledge of the carbon capture process: very knowledgeable, somewhat knowledgeable or not at all knowledgeable?' I was going to say 'not at all knowledgeable', but thought that since her definition was more or less the same as mine, with fewer ums, I could bump myself up to 'somewhat knowledgeable'. I feel a bit guilty about that now, since that one sentence covers everything I know about the subject.

For reasons I don't understand (because I'm not interested and haven't been paying attention), there is a special football match on today, recreating the local grand final from 1991 twenty years on. Actually, I do sort of know why. One of the players in that match has since become one of Australia's biggest comedy/TV stars (Dave Hughes, if you're wondering, Australian readers) and it was his idea. Or something. Anyway, I was vaguely aware it was going to happen at some point, until this morning when I heard a helicopter, children singing the national anthem, and then a lot of blurry announcements from the football oval a few blocks away. So it's today, I gather. There will be some pulled hamstrings tonight.



Day 233. Evening walk to the river, Day 234. Blossom, Day 235. Blue car, red door, Day 236. New hair clip, Day 237. Cheap pumpkins, Day 238. Before, Day 238a. After, Day 239. Pot spots, Day 239a. Stripes