Photography ... art ... design ... astronomy ... technology
(... and the odd rant)

All of these make my world go 'round, to some extent, and they will all be found here at some time or other. Some of the photography can be purchased from my Redbubble site. I can also be found at Tempus Fugit.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

A public bookmash

I discovered the art of the bookmash—a.k.a. book spine poetry—via Stan Carey, who maintains the blog Sentence first. I have dipped my toes only briefly into the bookmash pond, as it were, and not for some time. Today, however, I found myself in one of our regular charity shops, and thought: bookmash!

I once introduced the owner of one of Brisbane's second-hand bookshops to this practice, and even perused her shelves in search of an example, but have never—despite threats to do so—rearranged any retail bookshelves to satisfy this particular creative urge.

If you're not familiar with it, the idea is simple: look at book titles and find an arrangement of them that seems in some way poetic; Stan has his collection here. Today's effort was put together fairly quickly, with all of the books already in one small section of the shelf; all that was required was a little shuffling. Judge for yourself if this is poetry:

Tangled webs, kiss, pillow talk.
Lies I told about a girl, tangled up in you.
The dance of anger; Sunday's silence.
The road.

Whether or not anyone else noticed this ephemeral poem is a matter for conjecture … but I doubt it. It's just our little secret.

Monday, March 4, 2013

More kitchen fumbling

Faced with a need for evening sustenance and a relative dearth of raw materials, I delved into the cupboard and the bottom of the fridge. It should be noted that whenever I do this, I will almost certainly produce something that I am more than happy to eat; whether others are keen to join me, might be another matter.

What did I fancy, and what did we have? Well, I fancied something hot or cold, that could be eaten with or without cutlery. I'm easily pleased.

Salmon. From a tin, certainly, but I have fond memories of Mum's salmon sandwiches, so it's a definite contender. Vegies: well, there's a courgette (or zucchini, if you will), 2 shallots, carrots aplenty, a few measly cloves of garlic, a red capsicum - oh, and a tin of brown lentils. Aaaand... brown rice. We rarely eat it, although I really like it (but I don't think the others share my liking to the same degree).

So, the assembled cast:

1 tin salmon
1 tin lentils
1 carrot
1 clove garlic
1 courgette
2 shallots
half a capsicum, cut into large chunks
dollop of olive oil
shake or two of Portuguese seasoning

Grate carrot & chop courgette, capsicum & shallots. Crush & chop garlic. Add all to pan with oil & seasoning and soften over low heat. Before courgette is reduced to mush, stir in lentils & salmon. At some point, start boiling rice, then in the fullness of time, mix all together and serve.

I have no photograph, but it was sort of beige-coloured with various colourful highlights, as one might expect. I toyed with the idea of adding a dash of balsamic vinegar, but decided against. A Lindeman's shiraz did it no harm at all.

It was acknowledged as worth repeating.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Wedding Vows

"Do you take this man...? Honour... obey... Till death..."

All that palaver: promises of lifelong commitment (pre-nups notwithstanding), joyous union, emotional mothers, sodden uncles and wayward children under the table, peering where children ought not to, and so forth. Time-honoured stuff. What if the parties involved are out of the ordinary? Special? Idiosyncratic? Idiotic? What might the vows sound like then? Here are some possibilities:

The Teenager

"Do you, Kevin, take Mandy--"
"Yeah, whatever. Chill, dude ... We done now? *hey bro you cool for a wave? c u l8r kev?*"

The Pessimist

"Do you, Reginald, take Gladys..."
"Yes, but what's the point? It won't do me any good, will it? Besides, it'll all end in tears. Or divorce. Or bankruptcy."

The Mechanic

"Will you, Mick, take this woman--"
"Yeah, no problem. I can take a look next Thursday, but won't know for sure until I've checked underneath. Judging by the bodywork, there's a few miles on the clock, and clutch parts can be difficult to get hold of with these older models. Could be expensive, too, if the rack needs work. Might need to get me mate Barry to take a look; he's worked on these before... sort of hobby of his, like."

The Lawyer

"Do you, Justin,  subject to the provisions set out in Annexe 'A', and without prejudice to your rights at law, take this person, known hereinafter as Felicity; and all of her goods and chattels as agreed heretofore in the Memorandum of Understanding set out in Annexe 'B'; acknowledging an attachment deemed to be of mutual benefit and with equal share of risk to be borne jointly and severally, but without burden of responsibility on either part towards the parties to be known henceforth as "The In-Laws"; wherein this ceremony represents, whole and comprehensively, a binding agreement not to be rent asunder except as provided for in Annexe 'C', under the powers granted by the Secretary of State for-- [etc, etc, and so forth, blah, blah, gasp, wheeze, yawn, shuffle...]

The Scientist

"Abstract: This experiment is intended to demonstrate the long-term miscibility and covalent bonding stability - expected to be in excess of 25 years at 20 degrees Celsius - of 2 unique and volatile organic reagents, in the presence of a varying admixture of organic and inorganic contaminants, catalysts, coagulants, heavy metals etc.; such agents being introduced to the mixture at random intervals throughout the experiment. The presence and action of a variety of alcohols is an utterly unknown factor, the effect of which will be closely monitored, and which may prove pivotal to the outcome of the experiment as a whole."

The Art Critic

"This is a collaborative work that brings a beautiful dichotomy into sharp focus, while casting a murky veil over the consciousness of personal identity and ambition. It references duplicity-as-singularity - a veneer of cooperation in the public eye - while alluding to stark contradiction in its purest form. Ultimately, we are left with the burning and very contemporary question 'Is this a good idea?'"

The Wine Buff

"This is a blend - an audacious one, if I may say so - of widely-differing characters in an attempt to produce something that is at once both volatile (almost shockingly so), and deeply soothing; something with a certain je ne sais quoi, or perhaps je n'ai pas la moindre idée. The liaison between a bright, cheerful component with a light body and long finish, and a heavy - almost thickset - tart and astringent one that ends all too soon, is bound to surprise at first, but time will tell. Probably best laid down for several days, somewhere dark and quiet. Left for too long though, the delicate (and, let's face it, rarely perfected) balance of Magnolia blossom notes with somewhat brusque tobacco overtones and a whiff of ripe Adriatic seaweed could be a disaster in the making."

Thursday, August 16, 2012


It's winter. The tail-end of it, anyway. Mid-August, and winter, so I'm clearly not in Scotland. Not that August in Scotland couldn't be wintry, although that would be more likely in June. June snow! Summertime, supposedly, and yet you can see gravity-assisted ice crystals without being fundamentally suprised, just indignant.

No indignation here, now. Not a trace. Except possibly directed at my coffee cup, which has had the temerity to empty itself.

This is suburban Brisbane, and at this moment it's deeply pleasing. Blue sky with more than a smattering of cumulus fractus. There is a wind too, possibly around Force 2. If it gets above Force 4, most Australians seem to start complaining; "shitty weather" was a phrase I became familiar with some years ago. Try the east coast of Scotland in February, when the wind is coming off the North Sea (having previously deposited any and all of its warmth over Russia); then you'll learn what shitty weather is. Mind you, I suppose in Alaska they'd scoff: "Scotland? Paradise with whisky."*

Today, it's about as pleasant as it gets. The mercury is probably sitting around 23, and suburban Paddington is simply a haven. Sitting on a ridge, in my favourite bookshop/cafe, overlooking palms and a variety of broadleafs - deciduous and evergreen - and any cares and concerns I might have, have made themselves scarce. My son's happy place is the beach, in the surf; mine is here, but it's hard to define precisely why, so I won't try. I shall just return in a week or three for another dose, when my batteries need to be recharged.

* Yes, I know; that seems tautological.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Faster, Higher, More Sedentary

OK, so I'm not a committed blogger. Mea culpa. It's a fair cop, guv. For a while though, I was dabbling elsewhere ( and may yet continue.


The Olympic Games are on as I write, in a land far away. Mind you, they could be just down the road, for all the difference it would make to me. I used to watch a bit of football in my teens, if I had nothing better to do, and Wimbledon used to hold some fascination, but it's many a year since I felt drawn by either. Later on, I found televized lawn bowls appealing - though goodness knows why, given its inherent lack of obvious drama (I find Stephen Fry's attachment to darts quite bemusing) - and have even rolled a bowl or two, with a surprising measure of success. It has to be said though that I am not a huge fan of sport, as either a spectator or a participant.

Surely the Olympics are different? They are inspiring, aren't they? All those super-fit, single-minded paragons of sporting prowess and excellence, giving their all. Sounds about right... Many years ago, in school, we were asked to write a composition about the future of the Olympics. Well, in asking me, the teacher was asking the wrong person, given my ambivalence towards the subject. However, after due consideration, I wrote something about the increasing cost of hosting the event, and opined that it would become prohibitively expensive for many nations. As it is, we see the massive undertakings becoming exercises in brinksmanship, with facilities being completed barely in time, not to mention the failure to recover a sufficient portion of the cost though ticket sales. Still, we love the Games themselves, don't we?

What I didn't comment on, 40-odd years ago, was the issue of performance-enhancing drug use. To me, that makes a mockery of the whole shooting match (ironic moment: haven't heard of any shooters being chastized for drug use), as there is always the nagging doubt: 'yes, but did s/he win fairly?' It may take years for that question to be answered, if testing procedures have yet to be developed for new doping agents.

The other thing that niggles me is the constant examination of which nation has most medals. I really don't give a monkey's whether China has more medals than the UK, or Uzbekistan. Nations don't win medals, competitors do. If Mark Spitz or Daley Thomson (that dates my interest...) wins a neckful of gold (and does it cleanly), then I salute their achievement. If the USA sends a crop of hopefuls that ends up collectively more successful at acquiring gold, silver or bronze than their Australian counterparts, so what? Nationalism strikes again.

I wish all fair competitors the best of luck, and congratulate those who have already stood on the winners' podium, but the simple fact of their being accomplished enough to get to the Games marks them as being something special in the first place. To further divide them by hundredths of a second or by being millimetres closer to a bullseye, seems almost superfluous.

It has to be said that I shall be far more interested in whether or not the Mars Science Laboratory and Curiosity rover land safely on the Red Planet tomorrow afternoon. Hitting a 3km-wide target at a distance of 250 million kilometres (as the crow flies), and doing so in a controlled manner, is a significant achievement. My fingers will be crossed. For those equally interested, Catherine Q has a post about Curiosity here: Mars Rover's Risky Ride.

Monday, May 30, 2011

In pursuit of bodily harm

Horses and fishing rods. At first glance, they don't seem to have much in common. One's got legs and can run like the clappers; the other's good for throwing food to the fishes. Each of these disparate things, however, gives me cause to fear and respect them.

Other than a brief few moments as a tiddler, placed in the saddle of a horse that my sister was about to ride, and a trip along the beach on a donkey a few years later, I have only ridden a horse once. Similarly, I have been fishing on only one occasion that I can recall. It is perhaps significant that I was not the prime mover on either occasion, but was encouraged to take part by well-meaning friends or family.

Memories of my equine experience were brought back only too clearly when watching some youngsters about to disappear on a morning's trail-riding. As each horse-child pair was saddled up, strapped in and otherwise properly prepared for the impending adventure, a number of them gathered in front of me, waiting for the off. I watched the nearest horse plodding around, browsing on the grass at its feet, and generally filling in time. As it did, it turned this way and that, bobbed its head up and down, swayed around, and generally did as it pleased, with the passenger taking no part in the proceedings. It brought back in a vaguely unsettling way, my own experience some 20 years earlier: that horses have their own minds, desires, intentions and agendas, plus the nervous system and musculature to put it all into practice. In short, unless you are absolutely in control, with sufficient authority - and the ability to convey this to the horse - you are on a slippery slope.

With a car, you can generally turn off the ignition and the car will stop what it was doing up to that point; this does, of course, require good judgement, care and attention on the part of the driver to ensure that it is not done at the wrong time, but there is absolutely no doubt who is in control. Any misbehaviour: it's engine off, and bye-byes. With a horse, you have to say, "Look here, I say, would you mind not doing that - YES, THAT!" and so on. Any mistakes and you're cactus. Oh, and by the way - the horse will be quietly laughing at you.

A loaded fishing rod, it has to be said, has similar undesirable qualities in the hands of a novice. To be precise, it has a curved piece of metal with a very sharp barb on the end, flailing about on some very fine nylon. Said barbed metal is furthermore designed to become lodged, and remain firmly embedded, in flesh - nominally piscean flesh, but any flesh will do; the hook's not fussy.

Now, old hands at the fishing game are presumably possessed of at least one of the following: (a) fine motor control - that in a deaf signer would represent perfect enunciation, syntax and fluency - coupled with the eyes of a hawk; (b) a devil-may-care attitude in respect of vicious puncture wounds; (c) no nerve endings below the elbow; or (d) membership of certain recreational clubs involving leather restraints and whips and an associated pleasure in maltreatment of personal tissue. This must be the case, because when a rod is in the process of being prepared with lead weight and hook (some of which, you may be astonished to learn, have more barbs than a caffeine-deprived shock-jock), the business end can develop a mind of its own that a horse would be proud of. It can appear that the hook/weight assembly regards Newtonian physics with utter disdain: there can be much comical to-ing and fro-ing of hand and line, trying to ensure a satisfactory confluence of the two without dermal perforation, while the hand holding the rod gradually joins the rest of the body in a rising panic, ensuring that proper coordination and control become merely wishful thinking. At such times, if my advice be sought, it would be prudent simply to throw the whole contraption in one direction while leaping quickly in the other. Of course, this does not guarantee an injury-free outcome, but at least the torment and uncertainty will be brought rapidly to a conclusion.

If you are determined to give fishing a try, I would suggest fly-fishing, on a day with moderate but steady wind. Simply stand with your back more or less to the wind, then because the fly has no associated lead weight, it will be carried safely off away from your body, should you happen to lose control of it; in that situation, dropping the rod will put everything out of harm's way. Of course, you eventually have to cast your fly towards the fish, which seems to involve waving the rod around in a somewhat cavalier fashion, with the possibility of all manner of mayhem occurring anywhere within umpteen metres of you.

Tell you what: take my advice, and leave horses and fishing rods alone. Photography and aerobic poetry are fairly safe and surprisingly diverting; there is every chance that your body will remain undamaged in such mild pursuits. Afterwards, you can drive your car to the fishmonger.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

A little something to keep me going

A gaming table, somewhere in 18th-century southern England...

John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, sits with a few choice companions – all movers and shakers (either that or just rich and idle). He is holding a handful of playing cards... a shrewd move on his part, as his associates are doing the same, and he does not wish to appear different – or indifferent. There is the aroma of tobacco and of port, walnuts and bandaged gouty feet; a heady mix at any hour. The hour is late, but it is not yet pyjama time or the wytching houre. All eyes are on Sandwich, save for those on the fine bosom of a serving wench, or those searching for a glimpse of a neighbour's cards.

Characteristically, the Earl of Berkshire spoke first: "Come on, Sandwich! You have been sitting there like a haunch of mutton for fully five minutes now. Either play or resign."

Sandwich, being the Noble Fellow that he was – not to mention the holder of such illustrious offices as First Lord of the Admiralty and Postmaster General – dismissed this discourteous interjection with barely a twitch. He moved only let go a silent one and to take a pinch of snuff. After further deliberation and scrutiny of his options, he played a card, sat back in his chair, and gestured for his valet. "Higginbottom," he said, for no other reason than the man's name was Effingham, "I am hungry. Kindly prepare me a plate. I rather fancy the mutton, or roast beef if perchance there is no mutton. Wait though – my hands will be greasy upon the cards, and I cannot bear that, so be creative. Chop chop! I won't have that scoundrel Buckingham winning because I am weak from lack of sustenance."

The play continued, with the Good Earls doing their best to acquire a considerable pot that was there for the taking, gods willing. Presently, Higginbottom/Effingham returned with a large plate, piled high with what appeared to be a compôte of sliced bread and meat.

"What the Devil is this?" demanded Sandwich.

"My Lord," fawned Higgingham, "it is the mutton, as you requested, but I have taken the liberty of enclosing it in some fresh bread, that you may keep the grease enclosed and under control."

"Capital! First rate! You hear that, Buckingham, you old fool? A manservant who can think for himself. I should think you green with envy, if you weren't already green with a bilious attack." Effingbottom relaxed almost imperceptibly, stiffening with pride at the same time. "What do you call this... creation, Effingsworth?"

"My Lord, if I may make so bold, and given that my family name is–"

"Excellent, splendid! 'Sandwich' it is. There you go, Buckers, how are your pork scratchings now, eh? Not only can the man think for himself, but he is also modest and loyal. Har, har. I say, Higginsworth, my goblet appears to be void... as does the bottle, since the Earl of Idiocy here just knocked it over."

"Certainly, My Lord."

Sandwich selected a 'sandwich' from the top of the pile, studied it briefly and then took a hearty bite. "Mmmf... it'f goob; weawy goob!

"I say, you fellows," he declared, once the Noble Mouth was empty, "I think this 'sandwich' thing could be quite something. Possibilities for a business here, don't you think? Damn fine idea."

Moments later, Bottomsworth reappeared with a large boxy-looking affair in his hand.

"What on Earth have you brought me now, Hilary?"

"My Lord, I have been thinking for some time about this, and felt the time was ripe to try it out, if you will pardon the pun."

"Yes, yes, of course, but what is it?"

"My Lord, I have devised a container that can serve in place of a bottle, so when the Earl of – I mean, so that in the event of any mishap at the table, the wine will not be spilled."

"Extraordinary! How does it function?"

"In brief, My Lord, I have contained a fresh – but not too fresh – pig's bladder full of wine inside a case made of stiffened parchment, and fashioned a kind of valve at the base, to allow the wine to be released only when required." Effingham demonstrated for the Good Lords, to quiet muttering and comment. After a few seconds, Sandwich piped up.

"Bottomsworth, I fear you are on a genuine flight of fancy here. Kindly take that contraption from my table and bring me a proper bottle of wine, as God intended. If He had meant us to serve wine from such an abomination, He would have called this land Aus– ... Austral–... oh, something else! It's England, man, England, dammit! Now be off with you, and spare us all your fanciful notions."


In due course Effingham, now a humiliated and dispirited shadow of the servile man he once was, fell foul of the law and was transported to the colonies; one of the very last to suffer that fate. Once there though, he applied himself diligently, kept his nose (and many other parts) clean, was granted his freedom in due course, and went on to start a chain of wine dispensaries. Several generations later, a great, great nephew had a brilliant idea based upon an old hot water bottle, a cornflake packet and a bottle of cheap shiraz...

Thursday, August 26, 2010

And the winner is...

So. Australia voted. This time, the voice of reason may lie with 3 independent MPs. Will it do us any good? Will the glue hold for 3 years? Will anyone end up insane? Answers on a postcard please, to...

Ah well. It was tedious before, and unexciting now, which might be the best outcome of all. Anyway, while it lasts, why not celebrate and enjoy it with a choice t-shirt? Perhaps this one:

Thanks for fellow-Twitterer @sjb351 for the inspiration.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Honeyed Chicken Delight

No, it's not a pet name, it's a recipe. One that my beloved concocted recently, when faced with the need to feed us. So simple, so tasty. Here's the vitals:

  • 1 carrot
  • 1/2 onion
  • 400g chicken tenderloins
  • 1 dessertspoon honey
  • small sprinkle caraway seeds
Sauté the carrot (thinly sliced) in a little butter or oil until beginning to turn golden. Remove from pan and add chicken. Brown nicely on both sides, sprinkle in a few caraway seeds (1/4 teaspoon max.), add honey and stir around to deglaze the pan. Return carrot to the pan and stir through until heated.

Serve with rice or potatoes and greens.

That's it, apparently, so go to it.

Monday, June 14, 2010

300 Words

Having discovered 300 Words this evening, and finding it a splendid idea, I thought I'd try to rise to the challenge. If I manage to turn it into a habit, I might even become a contributor. Here's a start.


I’m a cat person, sort of. I prefer them to dogs, without question – which isn’t to say that I like all cats, or dislike all dogs; far from it, and perish the thought. Why the preference then, when it turns out that I am allergic to the fickle felines?

Let’s see: they amuse me. Well, dogs can do that too, so it’s not just that. They look pretty and feel nice, on the whole. They take care of themselves, without having to be walked, and without one having to pick up biological detritus dropped on said walks. Mind you, I feel somewhat ashamed that they might be nipping over the fence to dig up a neighbour’s precious primulas, but compared to what my son could be doing to their precious daughter, it’s a minor misdemeanour. Not that he lives with us any more, but that’s beside the point.

Maybe it’s an ego-massage-thing: that an animal that can be so aloof if it chooses, might decide to honour your lap with its warm presence, is clearly a comment on your suitability as a host. Have a gold star.

Cats eat quietly. They don’t drool… much. They can’t be heard a couple of hundred metres away, barking at anything that moves – and several things that don’t. They are not inclined to roll in all manner of unspeakable substances that consequently require the donning of protective clothing and a fixed grimace in order to eliminate the offending miasma. They do, however, have minuscule lances on their feet, which they tend to use indiscriminately when young; adulthood eventually puts a stop to that sort of nonsense, unless they are being tormented (or think they are).

Maybe it’s the wide open, love-me eyes, or the I-know-you’re-there-but-I’m-ignoring-you confidence as they walk past, or even that they are a smaller package. Ultimately I’ll just have to admit that Mr Spock would find it illogical. Perhaps I can get some therapy.