Minstrels' Gallery

Winter Wonderland

Dear Chroniclers,

should you ever be invited by an attractive blonde neighbour to partake in dressing-up games, have no truck with it. It will be the very undoing of you, as I discovered to my cost this weekend just gone.

Teenygoth refuses to speak and, even now, mrs electrofried giggles manically every time she deigns to glance in my general direction. Oh, and we're still picking red fluff from our bedroom carpet.

A favour called

Sally the Flash lives just down the road from the electrofried estate. A professional photographer of no mean repute, she has on occasion helped yours truly extend his somewhat basic knowledge of the old Box Brownie and emulsioned glassy plates - for which I am deeply indebted.

Last Thursday night Fetlock opened the door to the Baronial Hall and in she marched clutching a designer-label carrier bag. The favour was about to be called. I should have spotted the danger-signs as soon as I saw the fur-trimmed sleeve dangling from the top, but no, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"Fancy dressing-up?"

How could I possibly resist?

The sordid truth

It didn't take long to regret my hasty decision.

I could sense the temperature drop several degrees in the TV Room as I broke the news of my imminent starring role in the Annual Christmas Fete at "Flatcaps", the local academic institutionary of choice to the well-heeled of Little Wittering.

Mrs electrofried appeared somewhat bemused,

"Santa, you're playing ... Santa?"

As for teenygoth she was, as might be expected, brutally dismissive,

"Well, at least you've got the figure for it, Dad!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "

Suitably discouraged, I made off toward my study as the horrible reality of the situation dawned.

The well-dressed man

Just one day later I was to be found up in the Master Bedroom getting ready for my star appearance.

It must be obvious to costume-designers the world over that Santas come in all different shapes and sizes. And the one who had occupied the Santa suit immediately before I, was clearly very different.

Tugging on the loose fitting velour trousers I soon established the waist was approximately twice the length of the trouser-leg. I tried to picture the previous encumbant in situ and alarming images of a strange jabba-like creature came all too readily to mind. Undeterred, for the electrofrieds are nothing if not resourceful, I reached for a pair of blackened Army boots that had last seen service in the relief of Mafeking, desperately hoping they would go some way toward bridging the substantial gap betwixt sock top and trouser-leg bottom.

Worse was to come. Closer inspection revealed the drawstring at the top of the trousers had perished, leaving no visible means of support. The only solution was to tuck the surplus material into the waistband of my empire-line pants and hope for the best.

Fortunately the Santa jacket proved more accomodating and was soon fastened firmly in place with a piece of loose webbing purloined from Cook's extensive collection of XXXL sized corsetry. The beard duly donned and a Santa hat perched jauntily on my head I made my way down the front steps of the House to where my carriage awaited.

Park and Ride

Sally the Flash, fearing justifiably that I might flee the country, had stationed her husband by the gates. There was to be no escape. He ushered me into his charabanc and off we sped toward "Flatcaps".

Disappointingly, there was no welcoming party to greet us. Indeed, so popular is the event in Little Wittering we had to park up some little distance from the school entrance and walk the remainder of the way. The one plus was that this gave me ample opportunity to practice my hearty Santa laugh on bemused members of the public we encountered during the last leg of our journey to the school.

Suitably disguised, I was even able to greet a member of teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group with a cheery "Ho, ho, ho!" without being recognised. Under questioning later that weekend he did confess to mrs electrofried he had chanced upon a drunken lout dressed as Santa, but had wisely declined to pay him any attention.

Sleigh Bells ringing

If the Santa suit had been challenging, his sleigh defied description. It was there awaiting my arrival, a loosely constructed jalopy of a thing fashioned on the framework of a trailer that had clearly failed all MOT tests south of Lapland.

Santa's four elves were of equally unpromising material. Chosen at short notice by Sally the Flash, largely on the basis of availability rather than suitability, they were positioned at each corner of the trailer ready to take the strain when Santa should choose to mount the perilous steps to his parcel-decorated station. The back-axle pairing were of particular note.

Offside elf was a giant of a man, his diminutive counterpart on the driver's side being an elf of considerably lesser stature. I suspected strongly this was not to be a "magic-carpet" ride to Santa's grotto and this did indeed prove to be the case. One carelessly manouvered corner on the way in almost saw Santa catapaulted into the waiting crowd of expectant children like some bizarre red-tinted human cannon-ball. The potential kiddy carnage did not bear thinking about.

Santa's Arrival

Despite inital concerns. we arrived at length to the cheery cries of young children, accompanied by Santa's muffled entreaties to the now infamous back-axled elves not to lose their footing in the rain-sodden artificial snow. The sleigh duly ground to a halt, the safety of Santa's Grotto just a tempting few yards away. But first came the dismount.

Several of the more enthusiastic youngsters surrounded the sleigh as I began a backward descent, my Mafeking Army boots desperately seeking a grip in the footholds cut into the side. So keen were my audience to meet the star of the show they began tugging on my loosely fastened velour trousers. Suddenly my life flashed before me as I pictured said garment breaking free from the restraining grip of my pants to reveal Santa in all his glory. The front pages of the Little Wittering Post would be full of it come the morn.

Fortunately I managed to make a safe, if unsteady, exit from the sleigh to be ushered into the Grotto by Santa's two little helpers and a Bouncer carefully selected from the serried ranks of motherhood to guard the entrance from non-paying interlopers.

The dispensing of presents

I have to say it, but the next two hours passed relatively smoothly. A steady stream of small children were lead in at regular intervals, the little helpers practiced their "Ho, ho, ho's" and dispensed token presents with remarkable efficiency and the occasional blushing mother declined Santa's kind offer to sit on his knee.

All in all a good time was had by everyone concerned. The sole note of concern was the consumption of copious quantities of loose bri-nylon from a false beard that had evidently decided to commence its annual Spring moult under the heat of an adjacent gas-fire. Should I contract the Santa equivalent of asbestosis I shall call this web-page in evidence.

A Christmas surprise!

Had matters ended there, then the evening would have been pronounced a resounding success. But no, the allure of the spotlight had me in its grip and Sally's husband was called on to make one last journey.

He duly delivered Santa to the entrance of St Simeon's Church Centre wherein teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group were gathered for Friday night chilling. What a fatal mistake to leap through the doors with a loud "Ho,ho, ho" having failed to check the fastening of the velour trousers.

There was no stopping either my momentum down the Church Centre stairs, nor the the escape of the velour from my empire-line pants. I arrived at the bottom with trousers round my ankles and a neat pair of Christmas-tree printed boxers on display.

"Oh Dad ... how could you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The screams of teenygoth still ring loud in my ears as I do penance in the Tower, wrapping the last of the Yuletide goodies. Pray for my forgiveness as I wish you all a very happy and a very velour-free Christmas.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy

Dear Chroniclers,

despite the tinsel, glitter and general holly-bedecked merriment, for many of us the Christmas season can be a reflective, even a sad time.

With this in mind, may I present the shortest of short stories entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the dirt-kneed schoolboy".

Cast a pebble ...

By way of preamble, may I point you toward the photograph above. Fetlock the Butler rescued it just this morning from the electrofried photographic archives. I wonder if you may recognise the callow youth pictured deep in thought and about to launch yet another ill-timed skimmy pebble in the general direction of a stormy sea. If you look close you may see a small scar on his left knee.

So, without more ado - would you like a story? Then settle down and make yourself at home as I tell you something of my very own Captain Fantastic.

The Captain under enemy fire

My father was a Captain in the Second World War. He served in the Royal Engineers, building bridges with enemy fire all around. He always took great pride in his work.

I used to have a picture of him in uniform, a thick, dark moustache and hair slicked back - his eyes forever twinkling. It stood on the escritoire in my study. A picture of a young man frozen in time, off to war and leaving behind a fresh-faced Christmas Eve bride, the beautiful young woman destined to become the Black Dowager.

But for now, let's leave this couple happy in silent embrace as the snow falls on their Wedding Day. It covers them with a soft white coat as they fade from view.

The Black Dowager

Captain Fantastic used to have the most tremendous hugs. By the time I arrived on the scene he was a bear of a man, portly in stature and with a huge, hairy chest - all the better to embrace his young offspring. He used to hug me; often under enemy fire.

You see, Mother dear was forever nursing a string of the dead, the last of whom was my sister. She had ridden her bicycle behind a bus and out into the path of a passing car. Not a good thing to do.

I first discovered of my sister's existence aged three, exploring the immense walnut cupboard in my parents' bedroom. I levered opened the door and a small doll fell from the top shelf into my arms to be duly carried down to Mother. There were tears, but no hugs.

One day I hope, the Black Dowager will be re-united with the laughing girl in a white dress who still dances somewhere in an attic room, her short life captured in a few precious black and white photographs. One day I hope, she will learn to hug again.

A dirt-kneed boy

We lived close by the sea when we were young. Captain Fantastic took me out one day with my younger brother and the three of us walked the length of the beach to a causeway at the far end. It was here that we used to skip and jump across the man-hole bolted covers drilled at regular intervals into a sewage-pipe beneath.

Only this time I didn't jump quite far enough. I slipped on the thick, green sea-weed and fell headlong to the barnacle-encrusted concrete beneath. It took off most of the skin from my left knee and, if you look close, you can still see the scar to this day.

Captain Fantastic knew exactly what to do. He swept me up in his arms, a dirt-kneed schoolboy, and carried me off to the local sweet shop where he bought three bars of cinder toffee. We wolfed them down, brother, father and me!

The screen falls silent

My last few minutes with the Captain were shared sitting on the sofa watching a Sunday cricket match together. I was ten years old, mesmerised by swinging bats and the tick of the clock on the lounge wall. If I had known I might have hugged him some more before he disappeared.

The Captain had taken a new job in the south and was living in temporary accomodation with my elder brother, the rest of the family waiting to join him once the house had been sold. He left us in a car.

Captain Fantastic died alone in a Hertfordshire lay-by - a massive coronary. He never did get to see the end of the match.

Many things to say

There were so many things left unsaid and often at this time of year I dwell too deeply on them. This is not how the story should end, for life is just too short not to enjoy the hugs.

So I'll finish by typing the shortest letter to the Captain, wherever he may be, then enjoy the true embrace of my own family this Christmas. Should you feel the need, just click on the comments link below and post your own letter.

best regards

electrofried (mr)


Dear Dad,

Notts lost. Hope you're well and miss you loads,

love from the dirt-kneed schoolboy

Autumn Beauty

Loud music - Soft drinks

Dear Chroniclers,

after a whirlwind weekend or two, we're taking some time off tonight to put our feet up.

It all has to do with teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft drinks Youth Group at our local parish church in Little Wittering, of which more later.

Pickled and mixed

Regrettably, I have to report that Cook has taken the opportunity to launch yet another spirited attack on the House gin supplies. She's currently to be found sashaying around the TV Room doing the televisual equivalent of a karaoke to "Strictly Come Dancing" whilst draped in an alarming selection of pastry-cutters from the kitchen.

To compound the problem, Fetlock the Butler has recently emerged as triumphant winner in a protracted e-bay auction for a box of mixed turnips. They arrived, mail order from his native Slovenia, earlier this week and he's upstairs in the garrett peeling off the bubble-wrap as we speak. Fetlock intends to put the wretched things to good use shortly, having misguidedly promised to assist Cook with the preparation of Sunday lunch.

The omens, frankly, are not good and a certain unease has already settled on the House as to what the two of them may concoct come the morning. Turnip fritters appear a distinct possibility.

A new mission

Enough of our trials and tributlations - let's return to the theme for tonight's pasting.

Perhaps out of concern as to Cook's ongoing alcoholic challenges, or maybe a little closer to home, a general malaise concerning our own state of moral turpitude, but both mrs electofried and I have been contemplating a change of ministry for some time now.

Whilst mrs electrofried's regular dj slot at our local Women's Institute (the infamous "Loud, Proud and Homebaked") and my own irregular talks to the great unwashed of Little Wittering continue to enjoy a certain following, it has become abundantly clear to us of late there is much need to do more.

The chosen path

"You're kidding me!!!!", was teenygoth's immediate response.

We took this as positive affirmation following mrs electrofried's announcement that we were shortly to join the leadership of the Youth Team at St Simeon's, the Church for the Terminally Bewildered Anglican in Little Wittering.

Regrettably, for teenygoth at least, we weren't and we have ... and great fun it is too!

Windy vantage

The Church for the TBA is to be found at the top of a large hill, overlooking the market square below. Most weekends the youth of the village can be found gathered at this dark and windy vantage point, swapping homework notes on such interesting subjects as Chemistry, Biology and the like.

Evidence of their study is invariably to be found behind the Chancel wall come Sunday morning services, but is usually removed fairly speedily by the Verger before the first of our dear ladies arrive for Matins.

There is however, a new attraction on the hill!

Open for Business

After months of powerful and intense liturgical debate concerning its name, the imaginatively titled, "St Simeon's Church Centre" has opened once more for business. It's a 1950's warehouse of a thing, recently refurbished with copious quantities of EEC money and now suitably bedecked with fancy electronic doors, a new plumbing system and a kitchen clearly designed by a male dwarf with a wicked sense of humour.

And it is here mrs electrofried and I now ply our trade to the passing and frankly bemused young-folk of Little Wittering.

Musical Youth

Opening events for the Centre focussed on all things musical and I'm delighted to say yours truly was asked to fetch out the Box brownies and a box of freshly emulsioned glassy plates.

Mrs electrofried too, was pressed into early action - her role being to crew the lighting rig cunningly fashioned from a torch masked with various coloured wrappers purloined from a half-emptied tin of her beloved Quality Street.

A specimen example appears above - the "Vanilla Fudge Special", if memory serves me correct.

Tales to follow

I sense that as our ministry unfolds there will be much to share with you. Already, after just four weeks in situ, the weekends have sped past in a blur of loud music, soft drinks and general chit-chattery with a burgeoning and highly diverse group of young-folk - some churched, many not.

However, the lure of "X-Factor (reloaded)" calls to me from the TV Room. And I suspect from the loud crash within that poor Cook's karaoke has hit the bumpers yet again.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

American Beauty - Gallery 5

The heart of good and evil

Dear Chroniclers,

this is the last in the series of "Adventures across the Pond". It will be the shortest too, for the actions of the people will speak for themselves.

Helicopters overhead

When we first came into Lancaster on our tour charabanc we saw helicopters flying overhead. We thought nothing of it until we switched on the TV that night in our hotel room.

Preparations

A local milk-truck driver called Charles Carl Roberts IV had pulled up his truck outside an inconspicuous Amish schoolhouse in Nickel Mines three hours before we arrived. It was one of his regular deliveries.

Roberts had prepared his visit meticulously for at least six days beforehand, ticking off a list of items he would take into the schoolroom with him. These included:

• three guns;

• a stun gun

• a bag with 600 rounds of ammunition;

• a piece of wood pierced with ten eyebolts spaced ten inches apart; and

• a set of plastic bindings.

There were other things he took into the schoolroom with him.

The heart of evil

Roberts did not emerge alive. Instead, he tied up ten Amish schoolgirls by the blackboard, shot them at close range then put the gun to his own head.

Five of the girls were killed outright, three left in a critical condition and the remaining two seriously injured. They ranged in age from six to thirteen.

The heart of good

The Amish buried their lost girls quietly and as a community. They invited the family of the killer to the funerals, believing they too were victims. They will be sharing the money raised in the wake of the tragedy with the family.

Our last day

On our last full day in Pennsylvania we went into the heart of the Amish community. Here are three memories we carried home with us:

• the Amish grandmother who greeted us, full of joy, to her quilt-shop. She had three grand-daughters who attended the schoolhouse - one escaped, another was in hospital, her shoulder shattered, the last had just been buried. She harboured no hatred.

• the ninety-six year old Amish man who showed us around his simple workshop where he still makes the most beautiful furniture.

• the faces of the straw-haired Amish children who ran out to welcome our charabanc as it pulled up outside the farmhouse where we ate our penultimate meal in Pennsylvania. They greeted us with smiles and waves - the road, just a stone's throw from the schoolhouse, has just been re-opened by the police.

The grace of God

There are tears in my eyes as I type these last words and close the book on our visit. It is the meaning of the grace of God that we saw first-hand in the Amish who carried this message so very faithfully.

The last words are from Him ...

"We know that in all things God works for good with those who love him, those whom he has called according to his purpose."

Romans 8:28

American Beauty - Gallery 4

Going for a song!

Dear Chroniclers,

so here we are again. Take a seat next to me on the hard wooden bench and listen awhile to a lilting song - you'll soon pick up the rhythm if you just let your ears grow accustomed. It starts something like this ...

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive!"

The chanted pattern enfolds us and before we know it, we're drifting back in time.

American Gothic

Strasburg is a small "chocolate-box" of a town some fifteen minutes from Lancaster City - the houses that line the main road through its heart are smartly painted and well-kept. One, in particular, catches our eye.

The house in question is set back a little from the road and, unlike its neighbours, it sports a small railing fence delineating the start of a well-manicured garden. Beyond that lies a brick-built mansion. It's flanked on either side by two imposing circular tower-wings, both of which are pierced at regular intervals by a series of leaded-windows.

We pause for a second to admire this American Gothic beauty then pass on by. It's not what we've come to see.

Off Main Street

As the sun begins to fall in a late afternoon sky, we travel a little further west along Main Street then take a left down a small, non-descript turning. A few hundred yards through a picket of white clapper-boarded houses and now it's sharp right.

We've arrived! 203 W Franklin Street - home to the Strasburg Fire Company.

Forgive me for a second if I pause to take a few photographs - unfortunately, I won't be able to get out my camera tomorrow morning as the Amish will be here in force, so I'll take my opportunities while I can. I won't be long - why not go in and take a look around in the meantime?

Exploring the Firehouse

The approach to the firehouse takes you past a swathe of freshly-mown grass and a flag-pole with its stars and stipes lowered to half-mast in respect. There are four huge glazed doors at the front with a vehicle stationed behind each. A simple white sign runs the length of the building just beneath the flat-roofed top. It bears the title, "Strasburg Fire Company No. 1".

You find the Visitors Door. Straight in, then past the Command Office by the entrance and you come to a row of heavy-duty metalled hangers - each bears a thickly padded fireman's uniform and the ubiquitous yellow hat. Their owners are nowhere to be seen.

Buffed and polished

The main hall now lies before you. The newly commissioned, "County Station No 50 -01" boasts two fire-engines, a 3,000 gallon tanker and a Chevy 4x4 Crew Cab and all of them have been buffed and polished until their red-lacquer paint gleams spotless.

You see your reflection in the immaculate chromework ... and just behind you a shadowy figure holding a camera.

"Click!"

I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have crept up behind you like that. I do hope I didn't startle you. Take a few moments to get your breath back then follow me - there's something else I want to show you.

A Feast of Quilts

We walk to the far end of the firehouse where two huge metal frames have been erected, one on each side of the hall. Both are clad in hundreds of hand-crafted quilts, from which just four of the very best have been carefully selected for mounting on the end wall.

The display is a dazzling kaleidoscope of colour and pattern. Stars, zig-zags, fabric leaves, rough-cut patches and smooth creamy rows of hand-stitched embroidery all melt dizzyingly into one. It's more than we can take in.

The unpacking of parcels

We watch as, one by one, the members of our tour party unfurl the packages they've transported across the Atlantic. Each new item is named, catalogued and added to the assembled racks of quiltery.

Mrs electrofried's turn arrives and we bid a fond farewell to "Lancaster Dream" as it joins the display - a wall-hanging in autumnal brown and yellow that she's been working on for weeks.

It's time to go now, but we'll be back again, come the morning, for Strasburg's legendary Annual Quilt Sale.

Custom and Tradition

Like many rural towns in America, the vast majority of the buildings in Strasburg are timber-framed, so an effective fire-fighting capability is essential. However, across in the States much of the fire-service is maintained on a voluntary basis.

Fund-raising events accordingly play a vital role in sustaining the service. In the case of Strasburg, the legendary Quilt Auction has been at the heart of its fund-raising endeavours for many years. It's an event organised by the Amish as part of their contribution to the wider community in which they live.

And there's another long standing tradition - visiting quilters from England bring with them a piece of work to be entered in the sale. So for now, all we need is a good night's sleep and then we can return first thing tomorrow to experience the Auction first-hand.

Sitting on the bench

I do hope you're feeling refreshed - it's going to be a long but fascinating day.

We're back once more in the main hall of the firehouse, only this time it's populated by a steadily growing audience. We take a seat towards the back, on one of fifty or so wooden benches brought in overnight by the Amish. They use them for their fortnightly religious services and they're just as uncomfortable as the typical of Anglican church-pew, though conceivably occupied rather more regularly.

It's only ten o'clock, but already the hall is almost two thirds full. Next door there's a sale of Amish-made furniture and toys, and it too is doing brisk business. The auctioneers on either side of the thin dividing wall do battle to be heard with competing whoops and cries.

Let's settle down and let our ears get accustomed to their rhythmic cadence. Do you remember the start of the song?

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive!"

The team gets to work

We watch in fascination as the Amish auction team get to work. The smaller items go on sale first and for this five players are sent out - one auctioneer, two spotters, the book-keeper and the deliverer. Each one weaves in and out of the tableaux before us in a carefully orchestrated dance.

The auctioneer commands centre-stage. He grips the sides of the stand and peers over it like a judge at court, gavel in hand. It's his dipping and barking chant that provides music to the movement.

The spotters stand on opposite sides of the room - two gnarled football managers, each goading on his team to victory. When his side is ahead in the bidding, the spotter rolls a folded Auction catalogue round and round in the air - the sign to keep watch for a competing bid from the opposition. Meanwhile, the opposing spotter will jab a similarly folded catalogue toward his team, seeking to tease out a higher bid that will win the day.

And so battle is done - a mesmeric chant and alternating movements of folded catalogues, rolling and jabbing as the bidding war passes from one side of the room to the other - until at last the victor emerges.

The book-keeper records the number of the successful bidder and the spoils of victory are promptly delivered by the final member of the team.

A pretty bonnet

This pattern is repeated time and again as the smaller items are struck, line-by-line, from the catalogue. Pillows, wall-hangings, linings and fabric bundles are all swallowed up by the sea of bidders, many of whom have travelled across State to join the Auction.

One moment of humour interrupts the flow briefly when a rather fetching pink bonnet comes up for sale. The deliverer seizes the opportunity to remove his traditional Amish straw headgear and replace it with the bonnet in question. He earns much laughter and a round of applause from the audience, and we suspect a "ticking off" to follow from his elders.

Noon fast approaches and we await a special announcement from our auctioneer.

Cousins across the Atlantic

At length the sale of the smaller items comes to an end. The Amish auction team has been rotated twice and now the original members return to take their place to host a special slot that has become part of the tradition for the day.

The English quilts are introduced to a round of applause and much blushing from the assembled tour party, all of whom have returned to see their handiwork go under the hammer. "Lancaster Dream" comes up toward the end and mrs electrofried is delighted to learn she's raised $95 to support the fire-service. Job well done!

Raised high

Now the smaller stuff has been despatched and the English sale completed, the time has almost come to bring on the stars of the show.

The charged atmosphere in the hall goes up several notches as a fresh Auction team steps up, this time supplemented by two further groups of young Amish girls. They take up position on each side of the auctioneer as two matching sets of pulleys and ropes are lowered from the ceiling. Their purpose quickly becomes clear as the first large quilt from the rack is pegged to a fixing bar and hoisted high up in the air for all to see.

The chant resumes and we're off once more ... only this time the bidding goes into hundreds, rather than tens, of dollars. Even so, there are bargains to be had aplenty. Last year the best quilts raised in excess of a thousand dollars each, now they struggle to achieve a little over half that figure.

Mrs electrofried enters the fray

Of course, mrs electrofried is not to be denied. Family savings have been scraped together and a small non-interest bearing loan of Slovenian Tolars extracted under duress from Fetlock the Butler. And now the purse lies in her tender care.

Her first purchase is a navy, rust and cream log-cabin quilt. The hand-stitching in part can best be described as "rustic". Mrs electrofried believes the quilt may well have been worked up by an Amish mother and a young daughter, which only adds to the charm of it.

An hour or so later the girls manning the pulley on the right-hand side of the hall hoist up another log-cabin quilt, this time in green and cream. Poignantly, the middle panel depicts an Amish schoolhouse. Under instructions I raise my hand once, twice, then a third time and as the bidding closes the auctioneer calls out for our number to record in his book.

For many reasons, this quilt will provide a focus for prayer in our House - it lays upstairs as I type, ready to be put on our bed.

A long day comes to an end

Once more the sun begins to fall and it's time to make our way back to the charabanc. Our heads spin with dizzying patterns, colours, dances, rotating, jabbing catalogues, whirring pulleys and ropes - all the while accompanied by the rhythm of this song. I believe you may know it by now, it goes ...

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive"

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

American Beauty - Gallery 3