Time Beans

Dear Chroniclers,

so do you believe in fairy tales?

We're all firm believers in the House of electrofried, and that's why we're about to introduce you to the time-beans.

Where we live

It's good neither to live in the past nor live for the future, but just to live in the time-beans. We've grown them for many years now on the estate and they're best sellers on the vegetable stalls of Little Wittering.

Transformation

You see, the best thing about fairy tales is that they transform how we see life. And, of course, that's exactly what our time-beans do.

Here's one growing now. Shortly, it will fall from the stalk and take root in one of the pastings below. Why not scroll down the page and see where it lands! Rest assured, there will be others to follow.

Our bags are packed and the Charabanc awaits

Dear Chroniclers,

excitement is almost at fever-pitch in the House of electrofried as the time nears to visit our cousins on the opposite side of the pond. You see, we're about to celebrate a plumply rounded birthday in the life of mrs electrofried.

Time flies

I will not bore you, yet again, with tales from our teenaged past (more from fear of incurring the wrath of young teenygoth, as anything else) but suffice to say the dear lady is rather special. An under-statement if ever there was one!

So what more fitting way to say thank you to mrs electrofried for sharing her life with us than flying her across the Atlantic for two weeks pleasuring deep in the heart of Pennyslvania's Dutch Country. Oh, and teenygoth gets to go too.

Instructions to the Staff

Please do keep a weather-eye on the House whilst we're away. We will be leaving Fetlock in charge, a decision I fear we may have cause to regret come our return.

For some weeks now he's been beavering away in the Servants' Quarters, head buried deep in the well-thumbed, but grossly inaccurate Slovenian/English dictionary that is his faltering life-line to communication with the residents of Little Wittering.

If you do call by, expect to be greeted with the cryptic entreatment, "Dve karti za avtobusni izlet v Postojno?". This may come in handy should you indeed wish to purchase, "Two tickets for the guided bus tour to Postojna.", but otherwise is unlikely to be of much substantive use in ongoing conversational repartee.

The assembling of luggage

You will doubtless be pleased to learn I have given Fetlock the afternoon off to conserve his somewhat limited energies. He will need all his strength to hoist aboard our charabanc the substantial assortment of light hand-luggage and general trunkery that has been amassed by mrs electrofried in the upper reaches of the House.

The collection began some weeks ago with one small valise. It now covers most of the visible flooring area of one of the smaller bedrooms in the West Wing and spills over into a considerable portion of the backstairs.

Cook's Tours

Cook is far from pleased. Her garret hideaway lies immediately adjacent to mrs electrofried's luggage repository and the prospect of negotiating its straits whilst bearing her customary crated cargo of super-strength alcohol fills her (and us) with some dread.

It seems likely she will resolve this predicament by consuming half the contents of the crate before venturing past the box-room. Given past form, we anticipate a lager spillage of Exxion Valdez proportions.

In-flight Entertainment

I conducted a brief, but revealing, inspection of the hand-luggage earlier this morning.

Personally, I thought we might leave the Victrola behind for a well-needed "dust'n'lube". However, mrs electrofried is determined it must be packed, together of course with a small selection from her extensive and ever-expanding Perry Como collection.

She has even gone so far as to fashion a curious device out of a pair of heavily embroidered ear-muffs and a short length of garden-hosing. I am informed this is to convert the much-loved Victrola into a personal stereo unit for in-flight entertainment purposes, but I remain to be convinced this will be a viable option given the baggage constraints currently in operation on most Transatlantic flights.

Mrs electrofried is, however, a lady on a mission. And who am I to bet against her emerging victorious from battle with those who man the Customs Stall at Heathrow.

My contribution

Of course, I have made my own contribution to the ongoing luggage assembly. A crate has been duly packed with several Box Brownie bodies, an accompanying assortment of carefully dusted prime lenses and a box-load of freshly emulsioned glass plates.

Oh, and I've bought a clean pair of pants.

The call of the charabanc

Forgive me if I now bid you a fond farewell - I hear the familiar parp of the charabanc as it pulls up the drive toward the House. Happy journeyings all and see you in a few weeks' time.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Streaming

I knew you would get here eventually - I've been watching you ever since you began visiting the House. Not that you seemed to notice me standing by the portal on your way in. No-one ever does, until it's too late.

So have you guessed my name? I'll give you a little clue - cast your mind back to that very first walk along the corridor.

Armoured

"We walk, braille-like, the length of the corridor, careful not to trip inadvertently into one of a series of mounted suits of armour that line the wall."

Tentative steps and a light that beckons toward the end of the corridor. Past silent rows of rusting armour in search of the sound of a tapping type-writer - I slip away into darkness and the noise gets louder as you close in on its source.

Footloose

I see you approach. The sabeton lames of the armoured feet stretch tight across the tips of my toes, set ready to flex. It's hot in here, so hot.

Buried deep within the metal suit I wait patiently for you to appear. The quilted layers of the aketon lining are sweat-stained and bloody from so many encounters before. But I dare not move a muscle.

Until, of course, you arrive ...

Peek-a-boo

I sense your footsteps close by and the visor drops open to reveal a pair of deep-blue Predator sunglasses.

BOO!!

... I grab hold of you and now we're streaming in time.

Life is a Beach

A shadowy figure beckons to us, its hand playing out patterns across the surface of the cold saline water. We're sucked out by the current into a triangulated trench toward the bottom of screenshot and leave the page together, embraced in a metalled armour suit.

We interrupt this pasting

Hello!

It all seems a little Gothic round here, don't you think? And rather confusing, if I may say. I guess that's what you might expect when time starts to stream the wrong way.

I should explain. But first, would you mind holding out your hand.

A simple Borlotti bean

Well caught! Now I guess you want to know what you're holding. Lift it up to the light and take a look. Do you see an oval shaped, pale brown legume?

That's right - it's a Borlotti bean. A rather special Borlotti bean, grown exclusively in the kitchen gardens of the House of electrofried. It has a sweet flavour with a creamy, smooth texture. But may I suggest that instead of tasting it, you dig a small hole in the ground before you.

Yes, just like that. Now plant the bean at the bottom, cover it over with soil and stand well back.

Blossoms

Nothing much happens for a little while. Time is like that - it requires great patience to bring to the boil.

Then a small crack appears in the soil. It spreads rapidly and begins to divide - once, twice, four times then eight. And before we know it, the ground in front of us has fissured and fractalled into a spider-patterned web.

A small shoot appears at the epi-centre. It leaps free into the air and spins round in a gaudy green-leaved waltz that has us both dizzy before we know quite where we are. It's all we can do to hang onto its tendrils as it pushes upward.

Taking hold

The shoot chases toward a triangulated channel in the time-stream and locks on to a medieval armour suit just a few seconds ahead. This suit has a whitened body clasped firm to its metalled breast-plate.

There is no escape! The shoot takes hold of the armoured feet and begins to wrap around. It covers the armour in a green-leafed bower from which blossoms a sweet smelling orange flower. As the metal begins to rust and flake the suit releases its captive cargo.

A portly horologist steps forward, shakes the cold saline spray from his hair and smiles. He has in his hand a magic time-bean.

The confusion of time

We're all very confused!

Those of us who have not visited here before may fail to spot the joins. But there's no getting away from these strange interruptions throughout this pasting. Why do we leap from a darkened corridor to a shadowy figure on the beach, then on once more to a the stalks of a green legume?

And for those who have travelled this path in the past, the shifting sands of time have changed this pasting beyond recognition. On our last visit we were flowing out of a computer screenshot in the cold grasp of a metalled armour suit - but now?

An explanation is required.

The power of fairy tales

Do you believe in fairy tales? They have an uncanny power to transform things so we see them in a different light.

Welcome then to a modern-day fairy tale and shake hands with the time-bean that is the invention of one Master Clesiastes, the keeper of the Horology Factory.

Too confusing by far? Then here are some questions to puzzle over until next time we meet:

• Who greets us as we enter the portal to the House?

• What's the significance of the suit of armour?

• Why do fairy tales have the ability to transform?

• Just who is Master Clesiastes?

Hope to see you soon. And, before you go, here's a present from the horologist who lives here - a time-bean of your very own. Keep it close to hand, just in case you need it to transform something in the future!

All is not as it may first seem

Dear Friends,

sometimes all is not as it may first seem, as I have discovered, much to my embarrassment, this weekend.

Some words of wisdom from Fetlock

"Ne hodi po travi".

A double-take

Forgive me, for I sense we must investigate the concept of confusion a little further before we proceed down an increasingly bizarre path toward the House of Electrofried. No doubt you will have observed on your way in today two portly figures, both of whom are dressed in black and wearing Predator sunglasses.

One clutches to his breast a well-thumbed Slovenian/English phrase-book and the other a manual film camera whose genesis began some ninety three years ago in the mind of one Oskar Barnack.

But who is the real horologist? And why?

Central Exchange

This weekend has seen a veritable frenzy of phone-calls and increasingly confused emails as various members of the family electrofried have emerged, one by one, from behind a series of curiously fashioned Circus masks to reveal their true identities.

Perhaps confusion is a natural hazard of hosting a Chronicle that is subject to the vagaries of the shifting sands of time. So take a seat as the drama unfolds.

An invitation is extended

A few weeks ago (if time can be relied upon) I extended a family-wide invitation to visit the House. The initial response was muted, the electrofrieds being a somewhat cautious and sensitive clan.

Brave nephew, Piercelings, was among the first to visit, though to date he has yet to register his presence formally. Perhaps the mention of his name will prompt a comment - please do keep a sharp look-out for any trail he may leave.

Piercelings was followed closely into the House by much-loved son-in-law, His Imperial Hirsutelessness, who was bold enough to venture into print. His first, but hopefully not last, contribution to the Chronicles appears in the chapter entitled, "TW3".

So take a bow, Piercelings and His Imperial ...

Fungal Growths

All was quiet for some time then, much to my surprise and great joy, a comment appeared overnight like some exotic fungi deep within the woods, from another family member. Enter stage left, Lagerfried.

For those of you who are remotely interested (and I sense you must be in the rather less than significant minority) the debutante pasting of Lagerfried can be discovered by scrolling down to the very bottom of the page.

There you will find the first entry to my journal entitled,"Tap, tap, tap .... ping!!" and hidden amongst the comments is a brief, but highly revealing entry.

Thrown off the scent

It was the reference in that pasting to West Country lineage which threw me off the scent. I automatically associated it with my dear Cousin Frazzle, a Bristolian emigre, mother of two and fellow imbiber of strong continental lagers.

Imagine my surprise, when I discovered the true identity behind this cunningly titled nom-de-plume. Earlier this afternoon, during discussions on the telephone with my elder brother, it became clear Lagerfried, was not a she, but a he.

Step forward then, elder brother. Pray remove your Circus mask, take a bow and lay claim to your rightful title as Lagerfried!

"Nip and Tuck"

Were this to be a Shakespearean opus I would doubtless stand accused of being a gorbellied tickle-brained scut for making such a simple error of judgement. Fortunately, my immediate family are of a more forgiving nature.

Accordingly, I have been able, during the course of the day, to make a number of "nip-and-tuck" operations to the blog to ensure Lagerfried does not have to pass himself off as yet another transgendered electrofried.

Will the real slim frazzle ...

Which just leaves Cousin Frazzle to lay claim to a comment on my blog. She has expert assistance readily to hand in the shape of her gamine like daughters - once suitably rubbed down and oiled with a can of the old super-strength, she too may be tempted into placing finger to keyboard in response.

Should she do so, I feel sure regular Visitors to the House will make her comfortable. Be careful though. Once she's thrown off her tartan blanket and matching bed-socks she's a force to be reckoned with.

A different perspective

So as you leave the House once more, did you guess who was who?

The portly horologist on the right was responsible for the Gallery of Tinctured Abstractions, just a scroll away downstairs. Do call by and have a look - there's a special prize for visitors who guess correctly the subject matter of the photographs.

And as for the imposter on the left, all that remains to be said is, "Ne hodi po travi," or, "Keep off the grass", as the Slovenian/English dictionary would have it.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

The Gallery of Tinctured Abstractions

A Climb to the Viewing Room

There are some thirty three irregular steps that make up the Tower stairway - they lead to a small, flagged corridor at the end of which is the Viewing Room. Shall we ascend together?

The Eastern Approach

The Tower lies east of the House and to reach it we must walk a gravelled path that leads from the kitchen garden. Let us leave behind the licquorice scent of Florentine fennel and make our way across.

Tread carefully as you go - the gravel will incise sharp reminders of the passage into our well-worn soles!

Gargoyles and butterflies

As we near the entrance to the Tower, we notice its Gothic stonework loom up to greet us. A flying buttress supports the outer wall and a party of silhouetted gargoyles hangs languidly from a mooring-point close to the apex.

They point toward a strange stone tableaux a little further up the buttress. This depicts a bleach of butterflies in pursuit of a stout gentleman. His arms flail wildly as he seeks to avoid their deathly white embrace - two of their number have already taken hold of his eyes.

Another Portal

We recommence our walk.

At the end of the gravelled drive lies a single lancet opening to the Tower. Our way is now barred by an oak door on which is mounted an elaborate metalled door-knocker. It's in the shape of a gargoyle head, similar to those which adorn the buttress overhead. Two white butterflies partially obscure the face - they look, for all the world, like a pair of albino sunglasses.

As we reach out for the door-knocker the butterflies take to the air, leaving two vacant eye-sockets to greet us. These blink, and the door swings open to reveal a high-vaulted Hall within. The Tower bids us enter.

A decision to make

Shall we go in? You look so apprehensive standing by the portal, but there's really nothing to fear - many have travelled this way before.

I can sense you're unsure. I'll leave you a while to decide what to do. If you want to go back, just retrace your steps along the gravel path, no-one need ever know you left the kitchen garden. But if you do decide to go further, then step through the portal and join me.

In the meantime, please excuse me. There's a gentleman who's been waiting patiently outside this door for some time now and I must speak to him for a moment.

A decision made

I'm so glad you chose to venture on. If I were to be honest, there are times when it's quite lonely waiting for someone to enter the Tower. Did you pass my friend on the way in? He says he knows you from way back, but then again, he says that of all my visitors!

So take a good look around while I check if the stairwell is clear.

The Hall of Flowers

The far wall of the Entrance Hall is pierced by a series of mullioned windows - their crossing trefoils and quatrefoils dissect the sunlight into a series of intricate patterns on the floor in front of you. Look up and see the dog-rose motif that decorates the lintel to each window.

As your eyes focus on this motif you're drawn back to a dim memory from an earlier visit to the House - the memory of a walk across a beach. A bitter scent pours from the dog-rose vine, and time becomes a loop as you float into a foaming sea next to the thin bearded man who plays with a laughing baby. He wears a stethoscope around his neck.

And now you're rising up into the air. The dog-rose carries you to the very height of the vaulted ceiling then lets you down in a fall of Autumnal leaves.

The stairway is clear

Please forgive me, I should have warned you about the Hall.

It's a long story involving experiments under the tutelage of Eudor. Unfortunately things went rather badly wrong with the regrettable consequence that time has become a little tangled in there. Best just to step through it and ignore the mess - I'll sort it all out one of these days.

So, if you're ready to proceed - I've checked, and the stairway is now clear.

Vestigial stumps

Four easy steps to begin with. They're so well worn they've become little more than vestigial stumps, but nonetheless they ease our way up to the first level of the Tower.

It's here the staircase begins to turn. Do watch your step; one foot in the wrong place and you may find yourself back in the Hall of Flowers. And we both know what happens there, don't we?!

Round the bend

Easy as you go, now. There are five more steps to negotiate, each one curving a little further into a loose cork-screw.

Do you notice how smooth the walls are? This part of the staircase has been decorated in the finest Penteli marble. The craftsmen who set it in place have done a superb job, don't you think? The marble joins are so close you could be forgiven for thinking the whole thing's been fused together into one enormous slab.

May I suggest we press on - there's still some way to go and I do find this part of the Tower rather chilly.

Catching hold

Five more steps to climb and these are much more substantial fare. You may need to grab hold of the cord that runs the length of the staircase - you'll find it over there.

Now follow me up to ...

The Cage

It's much lighter in this section. There are twelve steps to mount and each is illuminated by a small barred window.

"The Cage", as it's known in the House, is guarded by twelve stained-glass watchmen. They oversee the approach to the final part of the staircase.

Almost there!

Shaken in transit

I must warn you about the last seven steps. Don't rush on ...

Oh dear, too late! Hang on tight, I'm just behind. You see, the last seven steps have an alarming tendency to move quite without warning, especially if there's someone in the Viewing Room.

I do hope you're not too alarmed. Just wait for a second or two and the staircase should stop shaking.

Jolly good! So, now we're almost at the top, would you like to go and see who's there?

TW3

Dear Chums,

so how has your week been?

Visitors from the Flatlands

Another Friday evening arrives in the House of Electrofried, bringing with it a visit by maximouse (our eldest daughter) and her husband, His Imperial Hirsutelessness. The extended Hounds are, of course, in tow.

The younger of them, a sturdy creature of some uncertain parentage, seems intent on nefarious pleasures with sundry items of furniture, Fetlock's right leg and our own dear Dylanne - simulaneously, if at all possible.

Canine Shenanigans

Fortunately, young teenygoth is currently attending the local youth-club for persistent ASBO offenders, so her blushes are accordingly spared. Mrs electrofried does, however, observe that our youngest fruit's increasing interest in the opposite sex might mean she has more than a passing interest in the finer mechanics of these high-spirited canine shenanigans.

One hopes, therefore, all will have cooled on the dog/furniture/Fetlock front, come teenygoth's return to the House.

Downtown Little Wittering

In the meantime, yours truly and His Imperial Hirsutelessness are currently half way through a demi-john of the finest strong continental lager, laid down in the cellar just a few hours ago following a flying visit to Mrs Mills' 24/7 Kebab-bar and Licensed Victullers Emporium in downtown Little Wittering.

There are glasses to be drained and waxy platters to be spun on the faithful Victrola, so I will not dally long tonight.

Enter Lagerfried

And so finally, to the cryptic photograph that introduces this latest pasting on "The Chronicles". Grey-haired and bearing a slightly bemused expression, it brings to my mind my dear brother, Lagerfried, a wise old bird if ever there was one.

The observant may already have spotted a brief exchange of comments in the Visitors' Book at the very start of the blog that bears his name.

Joys to Come

If time permits, I will tell more of the mighty Lagerfried in pastings to follow - his is a story that defies description. Fortunately.

And with that thought in mind, I must take my leave.

yours as always,

electrofried (mr)

In a Secret Place

Many visitors have arrived at these portals via the Mojo Music Board, the place where the author of this meandering blog first began his fledgling pasting career.

One of the regular contributors to that Board is "foxontherocks", who is shortly to marry. This pasting is a wedding present from the House of Electrofried to him and to his bride-to-be.

with all best wishes from the House.


Approaching the House

Past birdsfoot trefoil, black knapweed, the ribwort plantain, white campion and yarrow - all tumbled and rolling into a rich kaleidoscopic meadow. The northern approach to the House.

There is a secret path here; it treads the yellow-buttercupped length of an ancient celandine route through the undergrowth. A secret path known only to the lovers who tryst between its grassy blanket. We come here tracing steps.

Seated

We pause by ox-eye daisies scattered carelessly around a green cast-iron bench. As we sit here for a while and rest we sense the recent presence of the couple - their memories returning to the day they first sat together by the grey water of the Thames.

Surrounded, yet gloriously alone; becoming one in time with the flow.

The Northern Door opens

Just ahead lies the Northern Door, its sun-blanched oak and thick black ironwork barring the way to those who seek sanctuary within.

We hear music calling from within, and as we rise from the bench to investigate, the portal opens.

Spinning in Time

Our eyes grow slowly accustomed to the dark and we see once more into the House.

The hall beyond the Northern Door is dressed with wild-flowers plucked fresh from the meadow. Plaited strings of sorrel and salad burnet garnish the table by the doorway, their sharp scent cutting through the gloom.

The couple dances within - deep in embrace, the swirling music is their inspiration. Etched in the stonework above the Door we read this fragment from an ancient Jewish psalm:

"Sing a new song to Him, play the harp with skill and shout for joy!"

Tweaked and Fettled

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

here at the House we've had one of those tidying-up days that are from time to time necessary if one is to avoid disappearing under a pile of rusting armour.

Fetlock the Butler has been hardest at work - he's barely paused to draw breath, let alone consult the latest supplement to his Slovenian/English dictionary. This arrived earlier in the week in a brown-paper parcel and we await its unwrapping with some trepidation.

Dusted Down

Whilst the changes are small, Fetlock and I have been "fettling" the blog all day long to improve its overall appearance. I've oiled and greased a number of the pastings and Fetlock has dusted each one down with his customary zeal.

At the same time, I've also taken the opportunity to sort out the on-line equivalent of the sock drawer by responding to comments kindly left by readers during previous visits.

Spot the difference

We hope the minor tweaks and fettles enhance the enjoyment of your visit. Please do spend a moment or two looking around the blog to see if you spot any differences.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

p.s. a few minutes ago Fetlock opened the brown-paper package with a triumphant yell that was heard the length and breadth of the House. Accordingly, we now know we should not be unduly alarmed when we hear him say "S smetano?", which is, apparently, an invitation to partake in whipped cream.

Mrs electrofried has already taken the sensible precaution of telephoning the fishmongers, just in case they should be confused when Fetlock places the usual weekly order on Monday morning.

Pictures at an Exhibition - the Horologist's Cut

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

one of our regulars to the House left a comment in the Visitors' Book yesterday concerning the possible inclusion of a "Gallerie Photographique", and who am I to spurn such request. Accordingly, earlier this morning I instructed Fetlock to suspend dusting temporarily and fetch me down an album from the Library shelves.

The results are duly exhibited further down the page.

Flights of fancy

Before I provide a little more detail concerning the pictures, I must first bring you up to speed with the exploits of my late Great Uncle Electrofried.

Following his ill-timed and disasterous punt on the malted beverages futures-market, Great Uncle struck upon a brilliant idea to restore the fortunes of the House - namely, the construction of an airport on the outskirts of Little Wittering in order to relieve the congested air-ways above our over-crowded capital City.

Terminal Velocity

Heathrow and its ilk are well known to collectors of frequent-flyer awards, but few will be aware of the existence of Gnatwyke, a once-bustling terminal located just three miles drive from the House. You pass it on the left-hand side as you travel north toward Eudor's horology factory.

Constructed initially to receive light passenger traffic, it was not long before Great Uncle was tempted to extend the activities of the airport to commercial cargo. Work accordingly commenced on the construction of a second runway and plans were put in motion for a grand Opening Ceremony.

Special Delivery

It will come as a little surprise that Great Uncle insisted the first cargo to be delivered to the new facility should be a bulk load of a well-known bedtime beverage from the Slough HQ of Horlicks.

To add to the fun of the occasion, it was to arrive not by airplane but on board a huge dirigible, constructed especially for the purpose, in the shape of an Indian elephant - said country being, at the time, the number one market for the beverage in question.

Excitement approached fever-pitch in the village as the Big Day loomed. Bunting was duly bunted and the local Womens' Institute set about work to bake the biggest scone in cream-tea history.

First sightings

At long last, the time arrived for the grand Opening Ceremony. Great Uncle Electrofried, accompanied by representatives from the WI and the entire Parish Council of Little Wittering, stood waiting by the newly constructed runway, heads craned sky-ward to catch sight of the approaching dirigible.

She was first spotted by a small child who leapt up and down pointing to an indistinct, vacillating dot in the far distance. Parish records disclose her name as "Preteeny Goth", but one suspects this may have been a pseudonym.

Suffice to say, her cries of, "It's going to crash, it's going to crash!!", were roundly ignored by all except her mother, who wisely picked up the child in her arms and carried her off in the general direction of the cake-stall.

Crash, bang, wallop!

The rest, of course, is history. The dirigible duly hove into sight, cutting an eccentric path toward Runway No. 2 and with a marked lean to the portside. Understandably, the assembled crowd below fled for their very lives, leaving the air-borne wanderer to lurch to a premature and resounding halt in the cream-tea tent.

All hope of beating the WI scone record came instantly to naught as the dirigible discharged its cargo of Horlicks-bearing elephants into the very heart of the mix. The contents were duly splattered to the four corners of the runway, but fortunately no elephant perished in the bake.

Black Box Recorder

We now know the cause of this unfortunate scone-base debacle. The black box recorder, subsequently recovered from the smouldering hull of the dirigible, revealed all.

Apparently, the constituent members of a small herd of Indian elephants hired especially for the day by Great Uncle from a local circus, had chosen simultaneously to look over at the view on the portside of the wicker basket - with disasterous consequences for all concerned.

Depressing Coverage

The "Little Wittering Bugle" expressed little sympathy. Its report of the events of the day appeared under the banner:

"Elephants in dirigible strike fear into the heart of Little Wittering's Womens' Institute at newly opened Gnatwyke Runway No 2."

A snappy headline, if ever there was one, but sufficient to promote a wave of cancellations from prospective incoming airlines. The inevitable closure of the entire airport facility followed shortly after, leaving Great Uncle Electrofried to lick his wounds and scrape the remainder of the well-dispersed scone mix from Runway No. 2.

Little Wittering - the Annual Quilting Exhibition

Of course, the story doesn't end there!

When we inherited the House some years ago, title to the estate at Gnatwyke passed with it. Mrs electrofried was determined to put to good use the disused aircraft hangar at the end of Runway No 2. Accordingly, shortly after we took up residence, she launched the first of Little Wittering's now legendary Annual Quilting Exhibitions under its freshly dusted rafters.

The latest took place just a few weeks ago and, as Photographer-in-Chief, I was duly charged with the task of covering the day. A few sample snaps appear in the pasting immediately below.

Remembering our fore-bears

Notwithstanding the disasterous events of the Opening Ceremony, mrs electrofried still insists, to this day, on celebrating the work of Great Uncle.

Should you ever choose to join us at a future Exhibition, you will find tucked around the corner of the quilting stands a small kiosk staffed by representatives of the local WI. They serve, as you may well have guessed by now, elephant-shaped scones.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Pictures at an Exhibition

Autumn Leaves

Dear Browsers and Browserettes,

it's been somewhat of a "Red Letter" day in the House.

At the end of the week it's my customary practice to pack up a Gladstone-bagged load from the in-tray at the horology factory and work from home.

By starting early morning, sufficient seconds can be captured, bound together and hung up to dry on-line to permit a stolen walk in the Grounds with dear mrs electrofried - accompanied, of course, by the good Hounds.

And that's just what we've done today.

Waiting for the fall

At this time of year, there's something especially poignant about the woods at the far end of the estate. Shortly the leaves will start to turn and everything above us will be flamed and glowing. Every season bears fresh treasure but, as for the House of Electrofried, Autumn will ever be our favourite.

As one might suspect, the years are now clinging to the collective electrofried frames more tightly than a bag of drying seconds in Eudor's horology factory. Accordingly, our journey through life is in so many ways reflected in the Autumnal shades from above - a time of fruit and harvest celebration, with the bite of chill Winter winds still just a little over the horizon.

Thus we hold hands and walk together into the deep heart of the wood.

On the pleasures of hand-holding

Indeed, what greater joy can there be than to take firm hold of the hand of the one you love?

To this day, I still remember that very first occasion I held hands with the dear lady of the House - I can even recall the sweet citrus-note of her teenage daubed perfume. Oh how the memories flood back!

Disappearing figures in the wood

And with that, I will take my leave tonight. A short pasting it may be, but a "Red Letter" day requires no more than a brief fleeting moment of intimacy beneath the bowers of an Autumnal tree. So look deep and long into the picture above and you may just catch sight of two lovers still dancing in time before the Autumn leaves.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)