Blue Witch

Thought for the day

Well done is better than well said.

- Benjamin Franklin

Update

Just to prove that neither Kitten BW, nor Mr BW, is dead, despite malicious rumours to the contrary. Although One-Eyed White Hen, who survived the Bushy Tail Attack that killed several of her relatives a few years back, is. Down to 14 Feathered Familiars now.

And just to prove that I am being a Diligent Student Witch and completing my advanced creative texti1e course homework (designing and making a printing block of a simple natural object, ready to experiment with at class tomorrow), despite having less than no time at present, due to surrounding illness, official paperwork, the need to finish up some already-booked work work in the minimum possible time before retiring, and the usual pressures of September Harvest Time:

As you can see, I was sitting in Mi1dred doing it. Which was better than being sat outside Mi1dred being cold, windswept and then rained on, last Sunday, on that September day that was doing a jolly good impression of a November day. If you've never tried cutting out and then sticking tiny pieces of funky f0am onto small sheets of foam board, on your lap, in about two feet of constrained space, then don't. It's not easy.

This was last week. This week, some of the chaos has been replaced by two buckets full of damsons, very kindly picked and brought over last night by Husband of Nice Lady Friend BW, as we hadn't had time to go over and pick them ourselves, as we normally do. Jelly bags dripping, preserving pans boiling, seedlings germinating ready to over-winter outside, emptied wasp traps draining prior to being stored away, and large piles of brochures and dimensions as we attempt to work out what we should do about refitting the utility and replacing the worktops in the kitchen. Well, actually, we know what we want to do, it's just a case of finding time to sort out the practicalities.

Mummy Mr BW is doing OK, in spite of the best efforts of the NHS to ensure otherwise. They discharged her from hospital last week, just 22 hours after returning from theatre having had a ma5tectomy. The drain left in came out in the night, which gave two district nurses something to worry about, but less work to do, as their regulations said that they then didn't have to visit again for a week, despite the fact that Mummy BW lives alone. Which she told the hospital staff. Several times. Only they seem to have written down that she lives with her husband (Mr BW, who is her named next of kin, but definitely not her toy-boy, as they must have thought, although maybe their confusion is understandable, if not forgiveable, as most sons probably don't go to appointments at the breast clinic with their mothers) and daughter (who actually lives 50 miles away, with her husband and teenage children, all of whom are fairly incapable in her absence, as was required for the whole of last week). Which explains why they thought it was OK to discharge Mummy BW 22 hours after returning from theatre. With such a basic mistake in paperwork, it's hardly surprising that they've had to have two goes at removing the cancer, so far, is it? One day I'm going to hear a good story about the hospital in question, and that department in particular. Maybe, perhaps, if I live a very long time. *sighs*

We laughed at the Daily Wail story of someone having bricked up the entrance to the Barc1ays Bank in Bournemouth this week in total frustration. A more inefficient bank there is not, as Mr BW has found to his cost while attempting to tie up the financial affairs of his late Grandmother. It should not take seven months to execute a straightforward will and estate which consisted only of money (her house had to be sold several years ago to pay for her care) held largely within that bank, particularly when everything Mr BW had to do was done immediately, and by return of post as time went on. Delays caused by HMRC and Barc1ays caused a loss of interest of, by my simple calculations, several thousand pounds. We're fast becoming the Ombudsman's best customer.

Talking of complaints, I've just had a phone call from a school I work with, informing me that I need to supply them with a copy of my formal complaints procedure, if I want to continue working there. Which, of course, I don't, although I haven't told them that. The person who rang me was a new-this-term admin officer, and clearly hadn't a clue about what I do. "Our proprietor has decided that all our outside contractors have to supply this," she told me. "In the 13 years I've worked in the school you now represent," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I've never had a single complaint. From anyone, Anywhere. I do have a file full of lovely letters, cards and emails people have sent praising me, but not a single scrap of anything at all negative. Because I work with people, I listen to people, I agree ways forward with people, and, most of all, I communicate well, and encourage people to ring me at any time if they have any concerns at all. Plus, as I work alone, there is absolutely no point in having such a document." "Well, that's as maybe, but our proprietor requires you to supply it to us within 7 days, or you'll be removed from our list of approved contractors," she said sniffily. Given that schools rarely pay me directly (it's generally parents who pay), I am hardly an 'approved contractor'. So, a nice simple way of not having to tell that school that I won't be going there again, methinks.

And then I got to thinking what my complaints procedure would look like:

"1. If complaint is made, talk through the concerns of the complainee with them, rather than immediately requiring it to be submitted in writing, including any and all supporting evidence.
2. Evaluate complaint.
3. If appropriate, apologise profusely and genuinely, avoiding the words, "I'm sorry if you feel that x did not meet your expectations," and ask the complainee how they would like their complaint resolved. Then put right whatever is wrong.
3. If not appropriate, tell the complainee to [go away], in terms more or less polite, depending on whether they were more or less polite in the communication of their complaint.
4. The decision of BW is final and all further phone calls will be ignored and all further written correspondence will be used for firelighting."

What a nonsense. What is the world coming to?

And I'm feeling slightly miffed that I wasn't the only one to think that 'Special Ed' (so many different meanings to that one, including the nasty Americanisation one) was a good name for the new who'd-trust-someone-with-those-eyes bod who the unions (but not MPs or Party members) have chosen to lead the Labour Party. Just listening to all his rhetoric gives me the creeps. Not quite as badly as listening to Goldfish Brown did (I noted on Sunday that he was still Goldfishing - but not apologising - during his speech to Conference). Has anyone seen a dissection of what Special Ed is saying in his speeches now, compared to what he said previously? Someone will do it, I'm sure. Clearly not a details man, anyway.

And I'm very pleased to see a tiny note of sanity returning to public examinations in this country. Either all-exams, or exams plus supervised-in-school coursework, has to be the only way forward. Under the current do-at-home coursework system, far too many parents have gained GCSE grades for their offspring that the offspring's own efforts and/or abilities do not deserve.

Grey Blue

Today, Mi1dred and Mi1dred's Daddy want to go and sit in a field on the top of what passes for a hill in these parts, with several thousand other vehicles of various vintages, and their spare parts.

You've seen the weather forecast? I have unearthed my thermals, my winter coat, and a scarf. I have got out my wellington boots. Wish me luck.

The Friday Question

How many cookery books do you have, and of what era? And which is your favourite?

I have about four and a half metres worth; I will count them later.

Fewer than half a metre's worth has been acquired in the last 10 years, I'd say (I'm not into 'celebrity chefs' or their creations). Most are from the 70s and 80s, with quite a few 50s and 60s, and several much older ones I've 'inherited' or bought in junk shops.

My favourites are undoubtedly those produced in the 70s by the Milk Marketing Board (as it was then): "The Dairy Book of..." series, that included British Food, and Home Cookery. They came from the milkman, and you had to buy extra pintas to be allowed to purchase them. Good, solid recipes that work every time, and reflect seasonal produce and our culinary heritage. Ah, those were the days. Oh, and Mrs Beeton, especially for recipes for preserving things.

But I hardly use cookery books these days, as I can cook most things by intuition and imagination.

Thought for the day

Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live.

- Nicolas Chamfort

Thought for the day

The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.

- Samuel Johnson

Blue blue

My Blue is exhausted. My world smells of sulphur dioxide. I'm not sure if there's been an accidental time warp, because, although our felines are still tabby and black (depending on how they started), as Ham pointed out in yesterday's comments, Andy Warhol had a blue cat several decades ago.

All summer we've been growing po1yganum plants and they've worked fantastically. Plus, I still have two-thirds of the patch left for some more magic colour therapy later in the week! I followed the recipe demonstrated by one of the Rotating Ladies on Saturday, which wasn't at all like that shown in the link, and which produced much better blues.

I fiind I can disagree with very little in Nick Clegg's Conference address. At last, the BBC News website provides a text version as well as video, for those of us who want to skim read. I'm glad he's/they're adopting my policy of paying off debts (left by the previous governmint's mismanagement over 13 years) quickly (£120,000,000 is being paid in interest per day - that's quite a lot per taxpayer...), because, as I have proved at a personal level, once one is free of debt (especially mortgage debt), one's life can be very different, and one has real choices. Short term pain for long term gain.

And as Mummy Mr BW has yet another operation today, let's hope that they manage to remove all the cancerous tissue this time. And remember to do all the necessary tests, that are essential for determining future treatment, on it.

The lovely Debster Lily has hatched!

No time for words, too much harvesting and dye1ng to do.

Debster might tell you the tale of the red ball lily (not forgetting the wasps, and Lily Glade at Wisley), if you're lucky...

Or, if you've been reading closely, including the comments, you may be able to work it out for yourself.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life

After several years of anguish, I finally decided, in the middle of last night, that I don't need to work any more. The thing I have done since 1988, and which I worked towards since 1981. The thing for which I studied and trained for 9 years, post-21. I'm going to give it all up.

In recent years, I've repeatedly said I'm cutting down on the amount of time I spend on this aspect of my work, and I have managed, to some extent, but I am hugely loyal to schools and parents who have employed me (and said nice things) before, and I'm a sucker for a, "Oh please, just this once, we're desperate, and you know there isn't anyone else..." sob story. So, I've still been doing a lot more than I want to. Plus, the money has been nice. Not to spend, largely (once the mortgage was paid off, it was amazing how little we found we needed to live comfortably in our self-sufficient-as-far-as-possible stylee), but to amass, in some vain hope of early 'retirement'. A word which I fully expect to be permanently removed from the OED in the next ten or so years. With money in the bank losing value at 2 or 3 percent per year, and the state giving nothing to those who have been prudent, and everything to those who have spent spent spent all their lives, I can no longer see the point in saving.

With the extra layers of legislation thrust upon my profession in the last year or so, it is just too expensive to pay all the professional fees, subscriptions, insurances, enhanced CRB checks, and, most of all, for the required 12 days of professional development per year to keep my registration which allows me to practise. The 12 days are required, irrespective of how part-time one practises, or how many years of post-qualifying experience and expertise one has. Courses at the required level cost upwards of £500 (plus travelling to get there - and many are hundreds of miles away) per day (and, quite honestly, are frequently delivered by BYTs with a tenth of my experience and no intuition, which has always been a very important factor to my work), and while a few of us working independently in this area have been sharing expertise and training each other on a reciprocal-free-tuition basis in the last couple of years (to save a couple of days of course costs), it still costs £4,000 a year for me to stay registered before I ever make a penny.

Mr BW has been encouraging me in the freedom direction for a long time. We've talked a lot about it. I've got over the Protestant Work Ethic (with which I was brainwashed as a child) idea that I *should* work, and that it wasn't fair if I didn't but Mr BW did.

Last night I finally believed him when he said that loves his job, and as, at a pinch, we could probably afford to retire now, it's his choice to carry on doing it, and his choice to carry on working should not affect my choice to work, or not. If you see what I mean.

But, it's hard to give up the potential ability to make a large amount of money per hour doing something that I am (I'm told) extremely good at (it took me a long time to believe that, actually, but, somewhere along the way, I'd heard it enough times, and I finally did). The thing that once defined my life and me as a person, almost completely, in the days before Mr BW, when I could regularly be found on a Sunday afternoon working away planning courses or catching up on paperwork and file-notes in my nice large office in a beautiful Old Rectory in the middle of the D0r5et countryside. The thing that I once enjoyed more than anything else. I used to work 70 hour weeks in those days. It's going. I'm giving it up.

Increasingly I am disillusioned with education in this country. I know that what I do often changes the course of lives, hopefully for the better, or at least for the more realistic. I know that what I say, and how I relate to people, can change perspectives, and bring hope and ideas for new directions and ways of coping where there was none before. I know there are precious few of 'me' around, and that by stopping practising, there is unlikely to be anyone to fill my Witch-Sized gap (at least not until the LEAs start cutting publicly funded posts and making the currently state-employed practitioners redundant), but, my heart just isn't in it any more. I can't do it. I don't want to do it.

I am a much happier person when I don't have to fill reams of paper with pointless assessment data and recommendations. I'm bad at completing reports, and I always have been, because I am too much of a perfectionist, and I cannot bear to miss out any little detail. So, whereas most people will write 5 pages of grammatically incorrect, badly spelt, un-proof-read words that actually help no-one, I will write 15 pages of readable, coherent, crafted English, that present the scenario, assess the problem, analyse it, and provide alternatives for solving it. Whereas most people will give 3 cover-all bland recommendations, I will provide 3 pages, complete with suggested up-to-date approaches, resources, suppliers and instructions. But, that's me. If something's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. I can't half-do something, I don't know how. And, when I have completed a piece of work practically, but not written it up, it hangs over me like a black cloud. And I am very bad at letting the cloud sit over me, sometimes for weeks, which makes me miserable and stops me getting on with anything else that I would enjoy more.

And now, entering my 23rd year doing it, I'm going to give it all up. It's a one-way decision, because, once my registration lapses next summer, it will be near-impossible (or maybe impossible) to get it back.

Today I made arrangements to fill the time I shall be freeing up. With creative things. Expensive creative courses, one day a week for a year (the day that I used to work at what I'm giving up), and several weekends, that I only found out last week existed in exactly the format I have been seeking (ie non-certificated, but at a higher level than the locally available certificated courses), taught mainly by someone who shares my educational philosophy, and approach, and whose work I greatly admire.

And then I got scared about how much it had all cost.

And when, minutes later, co-incidentally, someone I like working with rang up offering me one easy-peasy piece of work, somewhere that I like working, that would pay for all the courses, I said, erm, well, despite my mid-night resolution, I erm, I er... said yes. Because, after all, I am still registered to practise until next summer. And the work in question has to be done on a day that I normally couldn't have done, but which I could do due to the electricity supply where I normally go on that day being off due to planned overhead line work. It was meant to be. Or was it a temptation, to test my resolve? I won, or failed, depending on your point of view.

Tomorrow I am running a creative fe1tmaking course for two people who've asked me specially, and insisted on paying. The first actual course I've run here (although I often do informal things for/with friends). And I'm making exactly the amount for teaching an all-day course that I could usually earn in an hour doing [the other thing that I now hate so much]. And do you know what? I couldn't be happier about it. That can't be a full-time thing (much as I might like it to be) due to all the regulations and legislation (risk assessments, health and safety nonsense, fire regulations, requirement to have full access and facilities for the disabled) (I've written before about my investigations of that), but, I can do it informally, on a cost-covering only basis, for people I know.

I could never give up teaching, even if I can give up the more lucrative side of my work that is strongly connected to that. I teach because I love sharing skills and enabling and enthusing others to reach their potential and believe in themselves and their abilities. And I think that teaching creativity is the best thing in the world to teach, for someone who loves creativity.

Now that I've finally made the decision, I am sure it's the right one. But it's scary. And what do I tell people, now, when they ask what I do? I've been saying, "As little as possible..." and laughing for several years now, but some people don't get it, and persist until one answers, don't they? Perhaps I'll just bulk-buy copies of Oriah Mountain Dreamer's 'The Invitation' to hand out:

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Interestingly, that was one of the first things I ever blogged about way back at the beginning of 2003. I thought I was there then. I wasn't. But I didn't realise it, or what I needed to do about it, until now. There is a time for everything, and everything becomes clear in time.

Dark days

I really, really hate this time of year. Always.

Shortening days, cold, dark, rain. Yuck.

But it's made much worse this year by all the constant and incessant media wailing about the economy and how awful it all is, and how the alleged north/south divide is, well, divisive, and how kids from poor backgrounds should be given positive advantage so they can achieve as well as other kids whose working parents manage oh so much better on, if anyone cared to look carefully, less than those scrounging from 'the state' (aka the ever-shrinking working population).

Everything based on no reliable evidence and no knowledge of any solid plans at all, but on so much hearsay and speculation. Everyone slagging each other off, arguing, constantly, in interviews, in the press, and in the 'books' they are publishing.

I am, quite frankly, sick of it. I cannot remember the last time I felt so disenchanted about the state of the outside world and the future of our society. The values that made Britain great have disappeared, almost without trace.

If everybody started looking after their own, and contributing to their geographic communities a bit more, taking responsibility, rather than blaming everyone else for their own shortcomings, spending faster than they can earn, expecting constant handouts and bail-outs, and coveting consumer goods more than they value real-world friendships, and non-material things that are really important, then we wouldn't be in this mess. In the words of JFK, more people need to think and, "...ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country." But, that sort of sentiment seems to have been lost along the way somewhere.

I could write lots of things (and much more coherently) on all of these subjects, but I fear they would offend many of you, so I shall spare you and go back to stuffing stuff in jars and the freezer instead, and caring for those who are important to me.

The Friday Question

The worst airline meal ever?

Back in 2004 when we went to Australia, Qantas served me a pre-ordered and clearly labelled vegetarian meal: a chicken sandwich. Unfortunately, I bit into it without first checking the contents. It was quickly expelled form my mouth. I complained. The response of the camper than a field of tents steward was, "Well chickens eat grass don't they?" and he minced off with a jaunty shake of his head that only those with that degree of campness can manage, without apologising at all. On a later leg, we did get a bottle of decent champagne (a full-size bottle no less) out of a senior steward in recompense, when we were chatting to him and recounted the horrors of all our Qantas legs (we'd booked BA, but they code-share with Qantas, so we'd ended up on the world's most sub-standard airline).

BMI surpassed that in the bad airline meals stakes. On our way out to Turkey they served a pre-ordered gluten free meal that included pre-packaged fruit cake, containing wheat, and Jacob's cream crackers, containing wheat. On the way back they again served Jacob's cream crackers and a Twix, also wheat-based. On both legs, there was nothing like salad or fresh fruit included. Now, I'm an obsessive label reader, and so I didn't eat the wheat-containing products. But, had I consumed them thinking they were gluten free (which I might have done if I didn't speak English so couldn't read the ingredients, or didn't have my reading glasses handy), as I'm only wheat intolerant, I'd 'only' have had an upset stomach and ached for a few days. But, for someone who was coeliac, consuming them could have been much, much worse. The stewardess told me that BMI gluten free meals always come out with the standard supporting boxes served to everyone, which invariably contain items that are not gluten free. That sort of sloppiness is just not acceptable, in this day and age. If airlines can't provide the special meals they say they can, then they shouldn't offer them.

In fact, I do wonder whether the whole concept of food being served on airlines is out-moded.

Now that there are so many catering outlets at airports, with more choice and more reasonable prices that previously (I noted at Heathrow Terminal 1 that Boots now have a Waitrose-branded cold-cabinet, selling sandwiches etc at normal high street prices, within their tiny store), is there any place for the dire gunge that airlines still serve up in economy, and often also in business (if one reads the airline meals review websites)? It is probably still necessary on long-haul flights, where more than one meal is involved, and where the serving of 'food' breaks up the flight and ensures that people have to move around (to go to the loo afterwards), so lessening the risk of DVT. If people have to take their own food, there is also the problem of collecting the ongoing litter that would be produced, and coping with those who sit in a window seat and want to get to their bag in the overhead locker to retrieve the hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and curry, and thermos of tea, in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep.

What's your worst ever airline meal experience?

What do you think is the future for airline meals?

By the way, in case you're wondering, I've nearly planted enough lettuce seeds to offset the carbon dioxide our holiday flights produced. No more room for new trees here, and those 'official' offsetting sites are, as I've said several times before, a huge con, that often cause huge damage to be done to the parts of the third world where they plant the purchased trees.

The hidden cost of cheap

There was a huge flurry of media attention when, after a long campaign from consumer organisations, Ofcom stopped companies benefiting from using revenue generation/sharing 0870- and 0845- numbers by introducing new regulations from 1st August 2009. BT then rapidly started including these number ranges in inclusive call packages, and were followed by several other (but not all) telecoms providers.

But, now I've noted a recent proliferation in new revenue sharing numbers: 0844- and 0871-, neither of which are ever included in inclusive call packages, and neither of which are available to access cheaply via call cost cutting services such as 18185. Even companies that previously used geographic numbers rather than revenue sharing ones have now taken to using these expensive numbers.

It seems as if Ofcom didn't think to also legislate for this eventuality. Like most regulators, Ofcom are as useful as a chocolate teapot. In fact, less useful, as a chocolate teapot does at least have other possibilities.

The "saynoto0870" website lists many landline number alternatives, but, increasingly, if you use the geographic numbers they give (that are included in most inclusive minutes packages), you are met with a recorded message telling you that the correct number to call is "0844-...." "or 0871-..." Several credit card companies who list international numbers (starting +44) on the back of statements and cards, to use if calling from abroad, are similarly blocking calls to these numbers originating from within the UK, with a message telling you to redial an 0844- or 0871- number.

On principle, I will not deal with companies who use premium rate or revenue sharing numbers. But, what does one do when companies from whom one has purchased an annual contract (such as car or house insurance) change to using these numbers in the middle of a year?

One of my Crafty Ladies had a (non-fault) car accident a few months ago. As these things do, it became a three act drama, and she ended up with a phone bill of nearly £200, from chasing the various companies involved, all of whom provided only 0844- or 0871- numbers. When she told me, I suggested that she get her loss recovery company to reclaim the costs from the other party. Despite providing a copy of her itemised phone bills, fully annotated, her claim was refused, as the loss recovery company said that the charges were "excessive". They may have been, but it wasn't her fault! As I was saying a couple of months ago, loss recovery companies are just not worth the premium one pays them. Plus, she is now aware of the perils (hidden costs) of using the cheapest return from one of the insurance screen-scraper sites.

And why companies who sell things use 0844- numbers I will never know. Perhaps most people who ring up to order goods don't know, or don't care, that a ten minute call will cost them nearly £1 from a landline, or considerably more from a mobile?

This whole business of hidden costs to goods and services if one needs to contact a supplying company just seems so dishonest. Why can't companies use geographic numbers? Undoubtedly the price of their product or service would then rise, as they wouldn't be getting a cut of the price users were paying for calling them, but at least the true cost of the product or service would then be visible. But, honesty is not valued in the world today.

Words

Here's a lovely site to browse if you like Clear English as much as I do.

Except that it's a bit American...

I haven't heard all of the expressions listed, but, (a) I don't work in an office, and (b) I expect their use will soon become more widespread, given the relentless cross-Atlantic degradation of the English language.

Those of you who are unfortunate to work in environments where this sort of nonsense-speak predominates could try playing reverse Bullshit Bingo with this list of treasures: that is, see how many of these you can sneak into a meeting, and then watch how long it takes for them to be adopted into your 'corporate language', and by whom.

Thought for the day

If any field needs integration, it is medicine. If any field needs an integrative paradigm that can make sense out of all the different models of healing, it is medicine. The weaknesses of the conventional medical model have been clear for some time. Its procedures are too invasive and have too many harmful side effects. There is no conventional model for the treatment of most chronic and degenerative diseases… and it is expensive.

- Amit Goswami

If this strikes a chord, do read this article, which perfectly sums up my own views on this subject..

On their return from holiday, the BWs were surprised to see this:

"Damn!" said BW, "I know I've always wanted a house cow, because then we could be more self-sufficient, but this is ridiculous! Those Turkish Toads must have been stronger than I thought in the spell pot..."

The Villa Cat was pleased to see us go because she got to eat up the remaining cheese and yoghurt.

And I was pleased to find some new brooms in a local market. Only I wish we'd found them at the beginning of the holiday, with petrol at £1.70 a litre (cf around £1.12 around here at present), and a small-engined car that did fewer than 30mpg up and down the mountain roads (and we deliberately didn't have the air con on)...

Today we have to go home

We do not want to go home.
This is very unusual for us, at the end of a holiday.

We shall return.

The Friday Question

The tea/coffee shelf in the main local town's supermarket:

Why is it that wherever you go in the world, there is always Lipton's Yellow label Tea? Wherever you go, except, of course, England.

Captain Pugwash's monosyllabic son was pleased to prove that he was actually polysyllabic when he announced to us on the boat on Tuesday afternoon that, "Tea is served!" and lo, it was: Lipton's Bloody Yellow Label. Turkish cay would have been far preferable, but.

The only things I always take when leaving the UK are a supply of decent teabags and a box of tissues. The thought of having to drink Lipton's could quite spoil any holiday.

Does anyone actually like Lipton's Yellow Label tea?

How did Lipton's do such an excellent marketing job on the rest of the world?

Mugla Market Views

This was an inland market of a size I have never seen anywhere. Mostly fruit and vegetables, but with some textiles, footwear, and some grains (complete with floor-standing mills to grind them to the desired coarseness), cheese and fish.

We saw three other non-Turkish people in the 3 or 4 hours that we were wandering about there.

If I could only photograph one subject for the rest of all time it would be local markets.

I always try to be very unobtrusive when taking photos, but, in other countries, if 'caught', I've often been pestered for coins, or to buy something, but here, when seen, my smile of thanks was always rewarded with a smile back; the people seemed genuinely happy to be recorded for posterity by The Incomer. But, I guess that's tourism off the beaten track for you. Give it twenty ten years...

There were a few signs of Western influence too:

Just what the doctor ordered

Tis is a haven for the best kind of toads for spells...

But I think one of them must have gone a bit wrong.

Guess who was responsible for this little mishap?

And have you any idea how long a lizard's tail wriggles for, after said Talking Villa Feline has detached it from said lizard's body?


Today were were driving back from a fantastic home-made from home-grown ingredients traditional lunch with a local couple (who have been involved in building and maintaining these villas from the start) who speak no English, when we saw a tortoise crossing the track to our villa.

Can you guess what happened next?

No, it's OK, we didn't run it over.

I got out and picked it up and put it in the side of the road. It was at least a foot long and weighed about a stone.

Yesterday we went out with another friend of the villa owner's, on his boat. Captain Pugwash and his 20 year old 'helper'. One sufferring rather badly from OCD in the cleaning department (but the boat was immaculate) and his cute son, allegedly studying 'international relations' at university, although you'd never have guessed from his monosyllablicity. We spent nearly 4 hours snorkelling, from four different deserted places.

Very clear, and delightfully warm, water, and zillions of tiny fish, but not many larger ones. I guess people are hungry round here.

Mr BW has decided he likes Turkey as, "The men do what they want, and the women do the rest." Which is rather opposite to how things are at The Coven ;)

I like Turkey because their kitchen roll has perforations every half-sheet, something that should be adopted in England, pronto.

We've been watching storms echo around the mountains for most of the afternoon. 20 drops here, but we did drive through some torrentially scary rain on the main dual carriageway in the bottom of the valley. You could smell the rain approaching before it hit, and the temperature fell from 35 to 21 degrees in 10 minutes. I've walked and climbed in a lot of mountains in my time, but I've never experienced quite that rate of drop before.

Back to sunny and hot tomorrow, for the rest of the week.

Having a few power cuts and intermittent internet signal, hence lack of regular posting. And, looking around at how hard the locals (of all ages - from birth to 90 it seems) work scraping (literally) a living from agriculture...

(this picture of a family selling their produce in a locals' market: I suspect they harvested all they could, took it to market, and will themselves live off the leftovers),

(this picture of a man selling his own olive oil from old plastic coke and water bottles)

...or building roads with a very minimum of machinery (high vis jackets? Protective headgear? Ear defenders? Protective Cones for miles and miles? Oh don't be silly, just work inches from the traffic passing dustily at 100mph... actually, I think the road-building workers that I saw when I was in Cambodia at the beginning of 2007 were better protected), we know what the villa owner means when he says that the UK 'spoils' itinerant workers, which makes a huge problem for this country when they return here. Perhaps the £2 a hour that a fish and chip shop in Small Local Town pays to a regular supply of Turkish workers is not so bad after all...