Blue Witch

Summerarily

On the left we have Albert Aubergine, on the right we have Daddy BW's Memorial wisteria, rose and clematis, busily taking over the south facing wall of The Coven, one year on, all doing spectacularly (the wisteria even had three racemes in its first year, the clematis had three burgundy flowers today, and the crimson climbing rose is budding and nearly out). All doing spectacularly, apart from Albert who got eaten last night smothered in pesto and mozarella.

Things we didn't have on Friday lunchtime that we do now: 2 premature kittens (Albert's Daddy may or may not provide photos for you; they are very tiny, and I don't know if they will make it - the other 4 didn't make it past Friday night), 350lbs sticky stuff in buckets (a BW World record of 2 hours for the extraction of same was set by the now highly skilled Team of Three), exhaustion, and a slight red tinge.

Glorious sunshine all weekend: the hottest day of the year so far (38 degrees C on the wall thermometer in the sun; 27 degrees on the one in the shade). A fitting tribute for today.

The Friday Question

I spent a long time yesterday talking to the mother of a child who claimed, "My child can't learn!"

And, from her point of view, it was true.

At school the girl had made no progress measurable on the school's tests (*sigh*) for the past 18 months, and, because of this, the parents have been paying for her to have extra lessons with a retired (German national) teacher who usually prepares children for e1even p1us and common entrance exams. This lady had succeeded in making the girl fail to come home from school on two recent occasions when she was due to have a lesson, and every session was ending in tears. Despite this, the parents thought that it was a good thing, and that the girl should carry on as it was the only way she would learn.

Talking to the mother I quickly realised that she was another victim of what I refer to as OLPS.

That is, Over Liberal Parenting Syndrome. For which I mostly blame the internet mumsy forums which are frequently fuelled by ideas from the plethora of books and magazine articles written by hippy types who think we can change the world by letting kids roll on the floor in supermarkets and climb on the chilled cabinets, "Because it's important to let them explore the built environment unimpeded!", that having one's child in bed with one when the child is nearly 6 is OK, because, "He needs the security!" (that was one I saw last week - to which I replied, "Er, no he doesn't, but I suspect you might, and it might be useful to think about whose needs you are fulfilling by persisting with this practice..."), and who believe discipline and boundaries are about saying things like, "Oh do stop doing that darling, it makes mummy so unhappy!" or sending one's husband out to the supermarket at 8pm because the child is refusing to eat anything already in the house (CBAT find the link, but that was something one of my Nice Lady friends witnessed at her daughter's last year).

I gave the mother some things to think about and asked her to ring me when she'd worked out the answer to her question, "Why can't my child learn?" which I told her would be found in the question, "What makes anyone fail to do anything?"

She rang me this morning. She'd worked it out. I have to say that I was surprised, not only that she'd put together what I'd said to her in such a way that she was able to answer the question, but that she'd done it so quickly and was keen to let me know. I am delighted and it's now worth moving forward.

What's your answer to the question, "What makes anyone fail to do anything?"?

Thought for the night

It's a good year for radishes.

And strawberries.

Thought for the day

Mere colour, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand ways.

- Oscar Wilde

My thanks to Ham for sending me over this one.

No thanks at all to Pipex/Tiscali/TalkTalk (or whatever they are called this week - the service just goes down with each buy-out) for the 27 hour internet outage over the weekend, or to Southern Electricity for the 2 hour power cut this afternoon. Grrrr.

Thought for the day

Look at a day when you are supremely satisfied at the end. It's not a day when you lounge around doing nothing; it's when you've had everything to do, and you've done it.

- Margaret Thatcher

Tues day-ending

It rained overnight and this morning.

The garden needed it. But Mi1dred had to go for her annual medical and so got wet. Mr BW had to change her wheel before they went because the foot pump broke and her tyre was a bit flat.

The man in the sympathetic-to-OAP-cars garage put her on the ramp, wiggled her wheels, assumed that her lights worked (without testing them), went to have his sandwich and read his paper, came back and passed her, and charged £56. This is her most expensive annual cost.

I spent the morning trying to do some work but was repeatedly disrupted by phone calls from Verbosities and people knocking on the door wanting advice about Stripey Buzzies. Far too effective that spell.

This afternoon the sun came out so we were working in the garden again. We seem to be well ahead for the time of year. Now in our 14th summer here: practice makes perfect.

We are now knackered.

The End.

You will always find us in the garden at weekends

Especially when it is gloriously hot and sunny. Chopping, trimming, planting, arranging...

"If I pretend to be a cute teddy, will you forgive me and my brother for removing a baby blackbird from its nest, twice, causing Mr BW to have to relocate the nest to a neighbouring holly bush so prickly that the parent birds nearly couldn't get in?" "No chance Cat Face, you are in disgrace." *respells: "Four legs and a long tail, bad, eat; two legs and two wings good, only watch."*

"Hahaha you can't catch me, I'm a flutterby!"

"Water is still my fascination."

Does anyone have any recommendations for automatic drip-watering systems please? The one mistake we made when putting on the extension 3 years ago was omitting to have an external tap on the balcony, and it is just becoming too onerous a task to keep lugging cans and remembering to water up there twice a day (the balcony glass panels dry things out really quickly, and salads and tomatoes need moisture). I'm looking for a Rolls-Royce system that will do the job well (ie I've already discounted the Hozelock-type systems you see in normal garden centres) but I need to be able to buy the parts and put them together myself (well, OK, get Mr BW to do it), not get a company in to do it.

Thought for the day

I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do.

- Leonardo Da Vinci

The Friday Question

What are you going to do to help the b33s?
(please read the post below for details)

Chelsea Part 3

These are definitely not the best of the images I took at Chelsea, but they nicely illustrate my post today. This was The Pilgrims' Rest, one of the small Courtyard gardens.

The blurb on the RHS site says:

"This intricately detailed garden takes us back to mediaeval times, when monks held encyclopaedic knowledge of herb lore and plants were key to curing ills as well as flavouring food and dyeing cloth. The herb garden was a place of peace, reflection and meditation, filled with scented plants of every kind.

Herbs spill out of woven split-hazel raised beds and scramble up screens. Each plant in the garden would have been grown in the Middle Ages and has been chosen for its medicinal or culinary use: dramatic angelica for indigestion, the flowers of the elder (Sambucus nigra) are used in a tisane to help combat colds and flu, and southernwood (Artemisia abrotanum) was used in ancient times to treat baldness."

I liked it because we have all the things it does. Give or take the monastery, of course.

I am still recovering from the shock of receiving a phone call early yesterday evening from a local farmer (in his late 60s or 70s from his voice) informing me that he'd just discovered he had to let Stripey Buzzy Familiar Keepers know when he was going to be spraying his fields (there's a box to tick on the EU forms - has been for about 5 or 6 years, but he seemed to have only just found out). He said that he was going to be spraying an insecticide onto beans, in flower, on Friday after lunch and all day Saturday, when our SBFs would undoubtedly be working them, as they are the nearest major nectar source to us now that the oilseed rape is just about over.

He had absolutely no idea of the effects on Stripey Buzzy Familiars of doing this, or of the value of SBFs to him as a bean-grower. He kept insisting that most beans are practically self-fertile now, totally failing to grasp that that wouldn't stop b33s working them, and so helping with the po11ination. Our six colonies (somewhere around a third of a million SBFs at this time of year), under a mile away from his fields, that have taken us 13 years to build up, would have been decimated.

Needless to say, I enlightened him, for nearly 10 minutes (my time in the farming community in Somerset in the late 70s and 80s, and the knowledge I gained of how to deal with old-boy traditional sexist farmers came in very handy). I then got Mr BW (out at a colleague's leaving do) to ring him too, and also to ring our tame but informed chemical using local farmer to see what he could suggest to help the situation.

To cut a long story short, we now have a promise that the spraying will be done very early and very late, when the SBFs shouldn't be flying. This is when informed farmers spray. But with ignorant farmers like that around, is it any wonder that every b33k33p3r we know lost between 30% and 70% of their b33s over the winter? These are not bad b33k33pers. These are people with hundreds of years of b33k33ping experience between them, but even that cannot protect their charges against the damage and imbalances man is doing/putting into the environment.

I'm sure that many of you will have seen one or more of the excellent documentaries that have been on TV recently about the current problems. They are not exaggerations.

The Nice Ladies are campaigning for the Governmint to cough up the other half of the £8 million over 5 years being sought for research into all the current problems (the Governmint have managed to fiddle the presentation of the existing monies spent so it looks like they have come up with £4M of new money already, but they haven't). I'm sure if MPs paid back their immorally claimed expenses, they could come up with the pennies. And how much did that leaflet on Swine Flu, that basically said, 'use a tissue and put it in the bin', delivered to every home, cost? A major Swine Flu epidemic would be nothing compared to the effects of having no b33s.

Each of the 274,000 colonies of b33s in this country contributes £700 to the UK economy (more facts and figures down the bottom of this page) The value of b33 po11ination to our economy is £200,000,000 a year.

Did you know, one third of every plate of food you eat is due to the work of the h0ney b33? Without them, as Albert Einstein said, in four years, man will no longer exist. There will be no way of pollinating much of our foodstuffs. It's easy to forget b33s are also responsible for pollinating the hedgerow food that feeds many species of wildlife.

This is not an exaggeration. B33s are in crisis, and the Governmint aren't taking the problem seriously. We've seen that there are farmers around who don't understand their importance, so I'll bet most MPs don't either. This is a much more pressing matter than 'climate change' as a general concept.

B33s have been on the earth for 25 million years. We need them. Without them if won't matter whether the oil runs out or the climate heats up, because we won't be here to see it.

Could you do something more to help them continue to exist?

Ideas hereand here.

Even if you can't do more than plant a bee-friendly plant or tree, or help someone to learn to recognise the difference between a h0ney b33 and a wasp so they don't kill any unnecessarily, it will help. Or, encourage any local groups who invite speakers, to which you belong,
to have a b33k33per along. Mr BW gave an illustrated presentation to 50 or so of Mi1dred's Mummies and Daddies on Wednesday, and they were totally enthralled/educated for an hour and a half.

Thought for the day

Life is like a carrier bag, put too much in it and the handles will snap.

- Jarvis Cocker (via)

Chelsea Part 2

Some pictures - I had written some words, but they somehow vanished into a cyberhole (have you noticed how that always happens when you haven't ctrl/c'd properly?), and I have to go and referee a Nice Ladies' Sewing Project Meeting, so haven't time to rewrite them:




And then, if I survive, I have to get one of these - everyone was admiring them and the nursery is, amazingly, just down the road from me. Only open Thursday to Sunday and I was told they only have 20. I think I'll buy them all then sell them to the highest bidder:

They're nicer than they look in the picture, or if you're red/green colourblind.

Chelsea Part 1

The most-seen plants in planting schemes: Aquilegia Ruby Port and Astrantia Ruby Wedding (well, crimson ones, probably this one) with quite a few lime-green and purple Heucheras (see picture below - a display in the Grand Pavillion from a specialist nursery) and lime-green ferns, together with assorted dark irises, and bronze fennel thrown into the mix.

Stupidest comment overheard (from sober person), addressed to one of the amateur designers of the courtyard gardens: "Does it take a lot of work to make a garden like this?"

Stupidest comment overheard (from drunk post-work socialite/corporate invitee type person): "What shall we see next, or shall we have another Pimm's? Oh, let's have another Pimm's!" (and at £9 a go for the size he was drinking, one can only wonder why he bothered coming - I could have bought nearly two bottle of Austin's from Aldi's, which we think is infinitely better tasing and doesn't froth when you add lemonade, for the same price).

Purchases made: 2 more pairs of Darlac secateurs (undoubtedly the best Value we've ever bought); 4 special fuchsias, unsourcable locally, to arrive by post at some point; and, erm, oh dear, one of these:
In cedar (so it will match the Buzzy Stripey Familiars' Houses, and last a very long time), and complete with double glazing, insulation and electricity, so I can sleep in the garden, having been thwarted, by the more than £3K cost and logistics of radiator moving/ positioning, in having French doors installed in our bedroom during the recent decoration project. Yes, a tent would certainly have been much cheaper, and we have been toying with the idea of designing and building our own, but, we decided, after 3 years of looking and pondering, and only because the roof of the old summer house is leaking (despite Mr BW's best repair attempts) and the wood rotting, to spend double that and have it all done for us. We're getting old, and we deserve it *sniggers*. But in magnolia, not in any kind of Blue. And not arriving until sometime in July. And, they only sell direct-to-the-public at Chelsea, so two grand cheaper than the outlets they otherwise sell through.

Smelliest garden: the plasticine one, when the sun came out around 6pm. Drawing huge crowds, although I was disappointed to learn that there was no plan for doing anything with the 2.5 tonnes of 24-coloured floral product afterwards. They even had plasticine sandwiches you know.

Celebrities seen: Umpteen. On the very first garden we looked at, only I could be handed a planting list by the designer James Wong and think, "Wonder if he's a garden-making import from the Far East just for Chelsea?" rather than, "Oh look, star of the make-your-own medicines series *swoon, mustn't wash my hand for a month*" and later stand next to Wesley Kerr while waiting for the planting-list distributor to finish talking to someone so they could give me a leaflet, and think, "What an unpleasant person!" Mr BW proved that he can even identify the likes of Joe Swift from the back of his shiny bald head, and Peter Seabrook from his voice, but me, I'm only interested in the horticulture.

I'll put up some more photos soon. Bit busy with sorting out some work and/or a 0% purchase credit card so I can pay for yesterday's extravagance without upsetting my 100% offset mortgage arrangements ;)

Thought for the day

The possibility of stepping into a higher plane is quite real for everyone. It requires no force or effort or sacrifice. It involves little more than changing our ideas about what is normal.

- Deepak Chopra

If it's Tuesday, third week in May, we must be off to Chelsea

Bluffers guide to Chelsea here.

Medals guide here.

See us on the webcam here (not until after 3.30pm though, because we now miss the worst of the crowds and go for the afternoon only).

Top Gear's James May and his plasticine garden (2.5 tonnes in 24 colours) got a 'Special Letter' I see. Must have been my anti- associating with chauvinistic pigs spell at work :) (a 'Special Letter' is a 'Duffers' Award' for those not up on these things - usually given to 'not according to schedule' exhibits - and given that IIRC, 30% of the marks are given for flowers, then he could never really have expected anything else - but, it was all done for a TV programme, still to air, can't wait....)

From what I've seen on the pre-TV so far, I'm not convinced I'm going to find that elusive idea for replacing the dead almond tree/seat surround that I mentioned last week...

Hum hum, 'pacas, have you any wool?

"Yes Witchy, yes Witchy, eight bags full. Just give our Mummy and Daddy a few jars of BW Special and it's all yours to take away, providing you stand around in a windy field on the Estuary for a few hours, and help a bit."

Waiting expectantly for the specialist Antipodean shearers (who were only 2 hours late, having got lost, and cut through their cutter lead):

"Hmmm, bondage. I never knew that getting a fleece-cut could be so much fun..."

"But I asked for a trim not a number zero!"

"I'm much cooler, if less trendy, now."

That was Mr BW's Saturday morning. Had the shearers been on time, I'd have got to see it too, but, I had to leave for a lecture/demonstration, coincidentally on what to do with the eight bags full.

Update: with the images requested by drD:


I won't post the ones of them cutting his teeth with an angle grinder as it may give anyone with a dental phobia nightmares...

Utterly unbutterlyelievable

I hardly ever watch adverts.

I accidentally caught some earlier.

Johnny Rotten advertising Country Life Butter.

Has it really got that bad?

And can you imagine what he'd have said 33 years ago if someone had suggested to him what he'd be reduced to in 2009? As I always say, everyone has their price.

And, oh look, Wikipedia tells me what the avid TV watchers amongst you were about to say... that advert's been out for 6 months and the product in question saw a rise in sales of 85% in the quarter following launch.

I'm really glad I only buy organic butter.

The Friday Question

If you were arranging a 'brainstorming' session, that necessitated giving each of 50 people 6 Post-It notes, on which to write 6 different ideas in 5 minutes, how would you organise it?

Thought for the day

Nothing will end war unless the people themselves refuse to go to war.

- Albert Einstein

BW adds: and one can, of course, change the word 'war' for almost anything else...

Giving it all away

I worry for people who give away personal information on the internet without thinking about who might see it.

Twice this week I have stumbled upon the Twitterations of people who have contacted me professionally, while Googling their names (in a 'Know Thy Client' sort of inquisitive way).

The first Google return of the chap with a mightily uncommon name who called me at lunchtime took me straight into what he thought of our conversation, "Just had lovely chat to extremely reassuring lady who is going to fix all [my son]'s problems." Not quite what I said, but. And 6 hours ago, his linked wife's Twitterations confessed, "Got to make a call demanded by [son]'s school, but dreading it. Might make [husband] do it." Just a couple more clicks and I found his LinkedIn profile, his full CV, and her postings on Mumsy Forums.

I just feel so uncomfortable stumbling across things like this.

If I chose, I could easily construct a pretty good understanding of the intimate details of their lives, how they think, and what they do, just with a few clicks of a mouse. And if I were of a criminal persuasion (eg burglar, identitiy thief), I'd know exactly when they were at home and when they weren't, where they went on holiday, who they socialise with etc etc.

I had a conversation with someone recently about why some people give away such information too easily, and he gave me a good explanation I hadn't thought of before: they've never had information they've given in good faith used against them. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not all out to get me :)

And on a related-but-different subject of mobile phone conversations overheard today, am I the only one who wants to shout "Liar!" when I hear someone telling the unseen party that they are very busy with customers when they are sitting outside a coffee shop with a magazine, or that they are just taking a comfort break from a conference in Manchester while in actuality they are going round Sainsbury's in a location several hundred miles away?

I just find such lying totally incomprehensible. But, technology makes it all too easy, doesn't it?

Thought for the day

There is one thing stronger than all the armies in the world, and that is an idea whose time has come.

- Victor Hugo

Know your enemy, plus cushions, ducks, cats and trees

I hate adverts. The internet is over-run with adverts. When I'm buying from the internet I now deliberately buy from companies not in the first screenful of returns on a page (easy as I have Google set to give me 100 returns at a time) as the top returns are frequently falsely inflated in the ranking by payments, which, of course, have to be recouped from somewhere (ie the purchaser). I often click on all the pay-per click right sidebar and top adverts, then immediately close the pages, just to cost the advertisers money.

I'm tired of comment spam. Recently, people have been commenting near-sensible comments, but using a URL linking to some spurious product I have no wish to unwittingly endorse. Most of the time they get trapped by the spam blocker, but the rest I either delete or remove the URL.

I happened upon this article on how to make money from the internet by 'posting simple text into online forms'. In other words, by spamming blogs and forums. Working for Google AdSense. I laughed when I saw what was written at the bottom of the page: "Comments Closed Due To Abusive Spam." Now they know what it feels like. Wish I'd got there before they closed them...

I do not understand how anyone could think that that sort of 'work' (effectively polluting others' websites) is morally defensible. I know I could never do it. Would you?

This picture taken yesterday evening just about summed up recent activity here: beautiful light, redecorating, playing with fabric, enjoying the sunny outdoors and ultra-abundant verdantness as the trees we've planted over the years begin to mature.

Later, I saw a duck reading a newspaper in The Coven Grounds:

I'm not sure if it's the Daily Wail or The Sun. The Hens seem to be having a spate of shredding then kicking out the newspaper that lines the bottom of their ark, and it then blows around the garden. I don't buy newspapers and we are too far out to get free papers delivered, so I have to take what I can get from those I know who do read adverts news in print. It used to be the Torygraph, now it's The Wail and The Sun. I've been surprised that I prefer the latter's content (one can't help but notice what one is subjecting one's Familiars to read as one spreads it in their house).

Oh, and I've spent lots of time playing with my favourite Magic Broom recently:

The best way of effortlessly cleaning anything at all.

And, before someone objects to seeing no pics of their favourite subject, here's a picture of one of the boyz.

He's very timid of late.

Probably since he came in through the bedroom window in the middle of the night, jumped on me, causing me to wake and scream, and Mr BW to chase him back out under the curtain the way he'd come in. He's the first Familiar ever to dare to play that game.


Only 7 days until Chelsea. I can't believe how quickly it's come around. Nor, I expect, can some of the people in SW7 madly trying to get their building and planting finished.

I need inspiration for a new area in The Coven Grounds where a dead almond tree needs to come out. Last year the clematis and other climbing plants covered the dead frame, but this year it's just looking past it.

Bit of a large job as it has a Mr BW designed and created wooden seat around it (since copied in at least 2 places locally), and stone cobbled suround, with half a cubic metre of concrete under it (only a slight exaggeration) but I'm sure we'll come up with something after visiting Chelsea.

Thought for the day

Some high ground is not worth taking. Some connections are not worth making.

- Christy Moore

Note to self

If there's something in the fridge smelling like gone off cabbage that you can't find for days on end, then suspect the cabbage.

Mr BW finally worked it out this morning.

I've now cut off the nasty smelly bit (which sadly will have to go directly to the compost heap without going there via the hens), shredded it, and put it in to boil for an hour and a half, as I planned nearly three weeks ago when I bought it as an end-of-day 3 for £1 offer on the market.

Don't worry, I haven't been turned into a cabbage soup drinker by the local immigrant population.

It's the red variety, for dye1ng woo1.

Another note to self:

Don't boil red cabbage for an hour and a half when Mr BW is bringing a colleague home on his way back from a visit to a northern factory to look at our so1ar pane1 water heating system.

Thought for the day

I think everybody at some point has to go through the process of having the realisation. That may come as kind of a rude awakening, or it may come as, “Aha, I told you so!”, but at some point everybody goes through it. It tends to deepen as time goes on, and people have their own periods of weeping and gnashing the teeth, but then you have to cope, you have to get up and do something about it. I think the more important thing is to have an attitude that something can still be done. You can’t exclude the possibility that the future is still malleable, that there is still an opportunity for positive change if we exert our capacity or our abilities to do that.

- Albert Bates

The Friday Question

My head is full to exploding this week. When I got in late yesterday afternoon, I listened to the answerphone messages and by the time I got to half-way through the fourth, I had forgotten everything about the other three.

I've forgotten what I intended for the Friday Question too. It was something inspired by something I heard on the car radio, while out and about on a day that couldn't have been Monday or today, because I didn't/haven't yet been/gone out on those days, and I don't think it was yesterday either. And I can't remember whether it was on R4 or the local BBC station, so it's not worth trying to track it down by looking for triggering clues on t'inter.

So, today's question has got nothing to do with anything except for the fact that, as I look out of the window I can see my favourite tree - a silver birch, Betula jacquemontii. Fabulous bright white light-creating bark (that copes with being cat-claw-shed on a regualr basis as The Terrible Trio love seeing how quickly they can run up and run down it), and very dark green leaves which provide good contrast.

What's your favourite tree?

Wondering about chicks

Here are four of the five Buff Babies last Saturday just before we moved them and their surrogate mother (and the other hens) back into The Coven Orchard from their winter weed-and-feed sojourn on the Coven Lawn.

The oldest pictured here is 11 days, and the younger ones are 10 days old. From day one chicks can eat solid food. With a mother hen present to demonstrate how to peck, I suspect they eat marginally sooner than if they were hatched by an electric box and so have to work it out for themselves. By day 8 we noticed them grooming and stretching their wings just as adult hens do; again learnt by watching mum.

They went through a stage where they looked more like ducklings than chicks in shape, provided their feet were hidden. Now, at 14 and 15 days old, they are almost fully feathered, lanky, ever-hungry, mini-adults. Mummy Hen's only job is to keep them in order. With a peck peck here and a peck peck there.

All poultry (I think) are functionally independent from day one, hence why they can be commercially reared en masse in large-scale, high-density, fully automated, units that would probably put most of you off your chicken and turkey dinners if you visited them.

By contrast we have the D'Oves (and many wild birds) whose ugly young have developed the ability to be fed on demand and cuddled at whim, even after they have made their first solo flight. Weeks after they are autonomous adult birds, they often have to be bodily thrown out of the D'Ovecote by a parent bird.

I can't help making a comparison between children of the 'developing world' (chicks) and children of the 'greedy world' (D'Oves).

But, I do wonder about the evolutionary paths, and values, of the two different routes to adult birdhood.

Trapped

I am fairly certain that a spell has gone astray again.

I seem to be killing mice.

Unlike the Terrible Trio of Tabby Familiars, though, my mice seem to be computer mice. Three in the last month. I can't use a trackball, so now I can't do any work involving anything 'complicated' like cut and pasting or dragging lines and paragraphs around. What a shame.

Busy Busy Busy

Busy weekend (or, more precisely, 4 days, as Mr BW had Friday off as he'd had to fly for work on the previous Sunday).

Sorting, sorting and more sorting.

Too busy to write about it in detail, but it involved moving Familiars, planting plants, power washing everything in site sight, and finishing off and putting back the new Coven Bedroom, and playing nurses and doctors as Mr BW decided to accidentally insert a Stanley knife blade deeply into the base of his thumb whilst carrying out running repairs (only he wasn't running as running with knives is foolish). Oh, and lots of sorting.

I did wonder about reposting a post from one of the May Bank Holidays of the past 6 years, but think that one can probably only get away with repeats every so often (Ha! No-one noticed!) ;) But, if you want to know the sort of thing, take your pick from the past May archives.

This time of year, with all the lush new growth and new life, always makes me particulalry Witchy. I liked this little quiz, because it reminds me of t'inter of old, and just about sums it up:

What Chakra Are You?

You Are the Third Eye Chakra

You are insightful and spiritual. You trust your intuition. You are deeply philosophical. You spend a lot of time thinking and theorizing. You are wise beyond your years. People turn to you for direction and hope. You are a clear thinker. You often know what you want to do and how you're going to do it.

You Are the Navel Chakra

You are confident and assertive. You have the self esteem to stand up for yourself and what you believe in. You are persuasive and intuitive. You are good at leading a group, even if its members don't get along. You are inspiring. You understand when people need encouragement or nurturing, and you're able to give it to them. You have a lot of will and are very determined. You are able to see tasks through, and you have the courage to aim high.

Thought for the day

If you want to achieve excellence, you can get there today. As of this second, quit doing less-than-excellent work.

- Thomas J. Watson

The Friday Question

Working in a junior-age independent schoo1 yesterday where I hadn't worked for a good ten years, I was struck by the fact that their summer school uniform was still the same as the last time I was there. And probably still the same as it was when the school was founded in 1921.

While the local state schoo1s now have easy-care wash-and-go fleeces, polo shirts and joggers as standard uniform, this place still boasts ties that need tying, staw boaters with bands, sock tags (those little bits of ribbon on elastic that are placed under the turn-over tops of long grey or white socks) and flannel dry-clean only blazers, all only available from Harrods.

Quaint and quintessentially nineteenth and early twentieth century English. But totally impractical for all three and four year olds, and some older children with motor-control problems.

I went to a totally progressive sixties primary school. No uniform, no formal curriculum, and learning by project work and practical experience and experimentation, mark your own work using the answer books designed for teachers, with occasional teacher input if you weren't bright or self-motivated enough to be devising your own next-steps.

And so it was that I arrived at grammar school at the age of twelve and was immediately thrust into a Latin class where my inability to know the difference between a noun or a verb, let alone a present participle and a past participle (although I could use all of them perfectly) made my progress in the subject harder than it needed to have been.

Luckily for my daily comfort, the school uniform changed the year I entered the school, from ties, blazers and pleated skirts, to 70s navy blue crimplene pinafores and static-y white long-sleeved polo-necks of an indeterminate man-made fabric, and navy-blue crimplene jackets with a metal pin-on school badge, and white long socks or navy tights in winter, and BW Blue and white striped cotton front-buttoning dresses with the same navy crimplene jackets and short white socks in summer. Saxe-blue aertex t-shirts and dark navy short skirts and navy blue knickers for gym, with the addition of navy cotton track-suits for games (hockey and netball in winter, tennis and athletics in summer), and BW Blue thick cotton lab-coats for science. The latter all with one's initials embroidered on in red. And all only available from John Lewis in Oxford Street.

School uniform. What colour was yours?