The Chronicles of electrofried

We've moved ....

2010-01-24T23:08:00.002Z

Dear Chroniclers,

in these torrid times of Credit Crunch and banking bonuses, needs must prevail. A tightening of collective belts sees the electrofrieds relocate from their ancient seat in the House to a smaller, humbler domain.

Well actually, the House of electrofried now takes so long to load we've decided to downsize and move into the shed next door. You can access the new blog via the link opposite.

If you're a seasoned follower of our family adventures, please do take out a subscription. We very much look forward to seeing you in our new abode, and Fetlock the Butler has a small glass of turnip hooch awaiting your arrival.

with very best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Waves

2009-12-20T19:32:00.006Z

Portraits

2009-10-11T22:37:00.007+01:00

In a Secret Place

2009-10-11T21:56:00.022+01:00

True Colours

2009-10-11T19:31:00.005+01:00

Random House

2009-10-11T14:53:00.010+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

the nights begin to cut in once more, as we approach yet another Autumn in the House of electrofried.

You find me bunkered down in the more remote reaches of the West Wing, tapping away at the trusty Victrola, with little plan as to what will unfold below. So we travel together for just a few precious moments, you and I - the writer and the reader, joined in a transient electronic synapse. What currents will pass between us both?

A week of reflection. Two operations undergone by our eldest daughter, the unstaunched flow of blood within an unseen hospital room, rising up in platelets of iron-starved cells. Crying out, "Feed, me!"

The sound of joyous, innocent laughter spilling down an early morning telephone - our five month old grandson, dear Little Lamper. Visits in the night. The haunting silence of a twilight fading. It calls to me, "Be still, rest ... "

Each day I wake next to my dear, precious wife there's a new prayer of thanks to be said. For life, fresh and as long as the new-born. And whilst there is breath in me to be taken, I will say it. I am alive. I am dancing in these words, smiling from these ill-snapped photographs of life.

Come dance, too. While there's still precious time.

yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

Photographs from the long dead endless dance

2009-09-12T22:39:00.022+01:00

The dance

2009-09-12T22:13:00.008+01:00

Past the trembling tower and to the back of a brick monolith. We sneak the two of us. The screws in soft rotted wood will not hold us back.

The entry point.

A room of white cadaver skin, peeling. It floats down in thin veins, tracing out a deathly pall on the floor beneath. What was butchered here? We float deeper into the heart of this sad building. So cold.

Cast a shadow down the long corridor, dogged in the heat of an English summer when all is rotting wood. Mirrored shadows floating up between us. We hear ghostly music.

Room 7 is haunted. We open the door, and a sad pilot rises from his seat to greet us. A hurricane blowing that never, ever returned. Dog-tagged and rooted to the spot, we watch him spin round in his seat. There is nothing. But air. Floating beneath an angel wing.

The door closes as we trip. Ballroom carpet folded back and the glimpses of parted wonder ever spinning on the dance-floor of a thousand dreams as the leaves fall. Fall. For ever. And the door closes shut. Behind.

Budapest Gallery - No 7

2009-08-31T22:16:00.022+01:00

Budapest Walks - Midnight Blue

2009-08-31T21:26:00.004+01:00

We embrace in the dusk,
water-shimmered patterns flowing
beneath us.

As together we walk the length of a bridge
toward the flotilla.

Cutting downriver in the dying day,
a history of souls,
swimming in dark waters.

We embrace again,
the Danube floating us silently,
so silently,
nearer home.

Budapest Gallery - No 6

2009-08-29T23:37:00.015+01:00

Budapest Gallery - No 5

2009-08-29T22:06:00.015+01:00

Budapest Gallery - No 4

2009-08-20T22:05:00.018+01:00

Budapest Walks - The Horror

2009-08-20T21:51:00.004+01:00

Five hundred and fifty thousand souls walked ...

The heat pursues our steps toward the mausoleum still of the Holocaust Museum. Five hundred and fifty thousand souls walk this way too. A silent procession. They have names, you know ... I read one on the glass-framed chair at the exit of the empty Synagogue room. Her name was Susa, she was seven, and she stood no chance.

Stripped of rights, stripped of assets, stripped of dignity ... stripped of life. We stand in the penultimate room, trembling as the images flash before us. And then the ghostly sound of Zycklon B released.

Why?

Budapest Gallery - No 3

2009-08-20T21:10:00.019+01:00

Budapest Walks - Thirty Steps

2009-08-17T13:36:00.011+01:00

A Wedding Anniversary ...

Our eyes look out across the Danube, thoughts washed downstream some thirty years past. A walk along the salt-licked beach with little hard cash in our pockets, but lots of love cherished softly in our hearts. We ate fish and chips on the way back, my new bride and me.

And so it is we celebrate each fresh year together. We set off to the subway and catch the line toward the Jewish Quarter of Budapest. Blinking into the light, we skirt past the Synagogue and down a gloomy side-street in search of a special place to eat. We find it tucked in the shadows, down shuttered stairs to a secret place.

We order. A kosher feast of fish and potatoes. Celebrating thirty precious steps in our walk together.

Budapest Gallery - No 2

2009-08-16T16:48:00.013+01:00

Budapest Walks - The Dreaming Castle

2009-08-16T16:30:00.005+01:00

We descend, deeper and deeper into the Castle. Bottle-glass window eyes flood green light into the cellars below. It is cool here in the womb.

We climb up once more. A room of square-paned pastels cut up the landscape of Budapest, a glimpse of the azure-topped tower in the distance. And across the cold stone floor toward the Chapel. A simple crucifix streamed onto the blood-red carpet beneath.

There is a secret place here, and we burst out into sunshine and a silent courtyard leading off to the left. A glorious, deep fig-tree green, its leaves like hands reaching out to catch us. We flee toward the beckoning spiral staircase and climb, climb, climb from their grasp, emerging into the circle-topped eaves of the watch-tower and a view to the Danube. The ships glide serene, and we hold each other close. Lovers, still.

Striding the ramparts, and a lizard crosses our path, in search of sun-warmed walls. And then, all too soon, the walk is over.

Budapest Gallery - No 1

2009-08-16T00:46:00.013+01:00

Budapest Walks - Terraced Boots

2009-08-15T22:10:00.004+01:00

We walk hand-in-hand, treading down the dusty heat of a Budapest summer evening past. Across a bridge where streaming traffic now lies stilled.

The shimmering Danube and a terrace of silent iron-boots hammered into the bank outside Parliament. They were shot here, their bodies disappearing beneath the thick, black night-waters. We watch the sun disappear.

Reflections on a Budapest Sunday.

To be Part

2009-07-05T17:34:00.011+01:00

]

Two hundred and forty miles ...

2009-07-05T17:23:00.002+01:00

Dear Little Lamper,

we travelled two hundred and forty miles.

A cross-country trip, and the sun dripping hot, molten tarmac. It burnt our eyes. We chased down tractors and joined the queue, a motorway becalmed. But we travelled two hundred and forty miles.

We played music along the way - contemplative, loud. A soundtrack to our journey.

Little Lamper, we got lost along the way. Followed the down-load, but strayed in a country side-road too soon. Pulled up and called. Your mum answered, your dad spoke. We pulled into a sun-baked car-park and waited. For family.

You came, all three and met us in the dying sun. Your mum carried you so proudly across. And placed you in the loving arms of your grandmother. How can we ever forget the way she smiled?

Two hundred and forty miles. To be with you all.

love from Grumps

Weeks .....

2009-05-30T22:44:00.012+01:00

Dear Little Lamper ...

2009-05-30T22:35:00.006+01:00

Dear Little Lamper,

you look so small and vulnerable, perched precariously on my chest. I can feel your heart beat. Can you feel mine, calling down the generations?

You look so like your father. You bring so much joy to your mother. I picture you running through sun-charred fields with dogs and hawks beside. Hunting.

Let me run next to you for a second, and share this race together. Hopes and dreams and tears and joy flow inter-mingled as we hunt out meaning. Life is so precious, and you are so precious too, dear Little Lamper!

with love from Grumps

xxx

New Life

2009-04-29T23:57:00.009+01:00

Seven Pounds Three and a Half Sugars

2009-04-29T23:26:00.005+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

it's hard to know just what to say. But perhaps reallyfried, our learning disabled son, best puts his finger on the pulse.

"Seven pounds, three and a half sugars ..."

The calls come thick and fast throughout Thursday night. And then around 10:45, maximouse, our eldest daughter, calls to announce her waters have broken. We hear the voice of her partner, Chief Lamper, in the background. Panic would not put too fine a point on it.

Mrs electrofried springs straight into action. Her overnight bag, packed and waiting this last week or so, is thrown hurriedly into the back of the charabanc and off she heads into the midnight air. Two and half hours later she arrives safely at the hospital, and six and a half hours after that, "Little Lamper" arrives safely into the world.

I travel down with teenygoth at the weekend to greet this new family, and the day passes in a joyful cavalcade of laughter, hugs, photos and tears. How new life moves us so! Teenygoth sleeps most of the way back, inevitably.

The next day we visit reallyfried to take him some pictures of his newly born nephew. His excitement knows no bounds, as he announces proudly,

"Seven pounds and three and a half sugars!"

Slowly, light dawns. Maximouse has telephoned her brother to bring the good news, and in explaining the weight of Little Lamper has drawn comparison to the humble bag of sugar.

How very precious is dear "seven pounds and three and a half sugars"!

with best regards,

electrofried(mr)

A Very Special Day

2009-04-26T00:25:00.019+01:00

They've Scored!

2009-03-08T13:10:00.009Z

Growing and Shrinking

2009-03-08T13:00:00.001Z

Dear Chroniclers,

whilst one member of the electrofried clan grows bigger by the day, two others continue to shrink.

It is, perhaps, a metaphor for life. The baton is being readied to pass onto the next generation, and so yours truly and dear mrs electrofried have decided it's time to get fit, not fat. Grand-parenting is, after all, a role worthy of some considerable investment.

Cook has received suitable instruction from the lady of the house. No longer does the electrofried dining-table groan under the weight of her prodigious largess. Gone are the deep-fat fried spam sandwiches, the triple-larded mashed turnip entrees, the stuffed tripe charcuterie. Even Cook's infamous chocolate surprise (with export-strength whipped lager topping) has been banished. Our stomachs groan; conceivably with a collective sigh of relief.

Teenygoth has not taken the news well. Indeed, she has now girded her fast dwindling stockpile of Mrs Patel's own label fruit'n'nut with a substantial chain and padlock combo, all the better to repulse midnight raids from her father. But the results of this abrupt regime change are there to be seen already. Since Christmas I've lost two stone of ugly fat which, for the avoidance of doubt, did not entail a premature severing of electrofried head from torso.

I was reminded visibly of the impact of my continuing weight loss just this morning. On opening a kitchen cupboard in search of the teabag for mrs electrofried's morning "cuppa" a pack of surplus marzipan, discarded from Cook's annual excuse for a family Christmas cake, fell into my lap. Weighing it in my hand, I observed I had lost the equivalent of twenty eight similar packs - sufficient to mould a life-size figurine of Mollie, our beloved Collie/spaniel mongrel.

Chroniclers, I fear there is some way still to go, but we've made a start and we're sticking to it!

And the reason for this is illustrated graphically in the photograph above. There sits our eldest, her bump prodded tentatively by darling teenygoth. A subcutaneous electrofried grand-child grows ever stronger within, readying his/herself for the fast approaching birthing day. Unless, of course, our eldest has eaten all the marzipan...!

yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

A Strange Journey

2009-02-21T19:28:00.009Z

Desktops

2009-02-21T19:10:00.001Z

Deserted Cricket Pitch

2009-02-21T19:05:00.007Z

Loose Thread - A Dream

2009-02-07T15:35:00.005Z

I watch the traffic race. On the motorway once more, driving a long curve as a lorry hurtles toward me in the fast lane, and on the wrong side of the road. It passes within a hair's breadth, and then another, and then another still. Why does the traffic all head in the opposite direction? Just what do these drivers know that I don't?

I seize the wheel and spin the car round, desperate to avoid being swallowed in the oncoming rush, and a mile or two down the road I pull into a service station.

The cleansing relief of a shower. I strip and enter a warm square room, red walls pulsing in time, skeined and translucent. I trace the arterial flow and the water feels good against my skin. I'm cleansed. Emerging into nakedness I find my carelessly discarded clothing amiss. The money's gone too, a leather wallet displaced.

So why are these ladies lying in a flotsam wave of jettisoned clothing? I return through a curtained bedroom in search of some scant covering, but try as I might, there is none to be found. Only the discarded garmentry of three betousled ladies. They gaze at me as I lose all interest in being reunited with either my missing clothes or my missing wallet. This state of being will suffice.

Out again, and this time into the light of a service station restaurant area. I join the wending queue, snaking between ropes ever closer toward the metalled breakfast tureens that stretch away ever further into the distance. The sweet burnt incense of cooking bacon. A man taps softly on my shoulder. I turn and see he cradles a 'phone loosely in the angle of his neck, his head contorted to trap it in place.

"I hear you had some problems back there, " he says, conducting a simultaneous conversation down the 'phone to a distant colleague.

"I'll ring ahead and clear the way for you, shall I?"

Sensing this as a threat, not a promise, I beat a hasty retreat before the troops arrive.

Now transported to an overgrown garden, I spy an archway at the end of a long neglected lawn. It is but a skeletal wooden frame to a door that hangs here no more. I admire the view. A smooth verdant pasture across which several walkers pass quietly on their way. This view is most calming.

My eyes are drawn inexorably to a familiar figure in the foreground. There she is, rooting, as ever, in the grass for some delicate morsel of discarded food. A white-as-snow Retriever. I call her name, and her head rises momentarily from her food-fuelled reverie. She sees me, and heads off languidly across the pasture. I pass through the garden-arch and follow.

Try as I may to catch her, she maintains an even distance between us. Other walkers pass by in the opposite direction as the pursuit continues. One couple hold a brace of dogs straining at the leash. A white Retriever too, but it's not the one I'm seeking. She's disappeared from the scene, and now before me lies a white building. I enter.

The interior of the building is lit dimly. There are no windows, but the yellowing artificial light betrays hints of decaying opulence - an abandoned Victorian mansion shuttered from time. I look down, and there are stirrings of recognition as my eyes trace the snaking patterns of an intricately woven carpet. I crawled this way once as a baby, and the patterns are stamped indelibly in my mind. I remember it now. I was in search of a spinning top lodged beneath the curlicued feet of an imposing wooden dresser. My first moves to freedom, I would have been no more than a few months old at the time.

My thoughts are disrupted by the appearance of a maid in a long black dress. She floats down the hall, and I follow her along a corridor that takes us further and further into the building. We pass two symmetrical flights of descending stairs, one on either side, then the maid disappears from view leaving me on my own. What's this before me? Another white door. I reach for the handle. At first it seems locked, then the handle turns and the door falls open. I enter.

This strange annex appears cut off from the rest of the building. It's a house in its own right, a holiday home by the seaside, but it's a long time since it's been used as such. The stale air inside is musty and becalmed; there's a thick, grey patina of dust coating every surface.

As my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I see a figure lying on the bench that runs the full circumference of the room. The figure rises up, ancient cob-webs and dust falling away to reveal her form. An elderly lady who indignantly demands to know just what I think I'm doing here. I make my apologies, back out carefully through the door and close it behind me. The lady sinks down again on the bench, but not to sleep. She resumes her vigilant watch as I make out the shape of two slumbering children on the bench beside her. This room is a dead end.

Shaking my head, I retrace my steps back along the corridor. As I return, I see the maid once more. She disappears down the set of stairs to my left-hand side, then re-emerges a moment later. She's aged seven years during that time, and her hair has turned grey. I watch her again as she makes her way across to the stairs on my right-hand side, and now I follow her down.

As we descend, I notice the air here is hot,turgid and acidic to the taste. The maid reaches a large landing area, and passes a thick-set man with horns on his head. She turns to go down a further set of stairs, and once again disappears from view. My path is blocked by the man, so I can follow her no further

"Do you really want to go down there?" he asks.

The answer is obvious. I turn back the way I came, and mount the stairs as quickly as I can before he has the opportunity to seize me and throw me down to the basement below. My heart pounds. I have to get out, and quick. I emerge back in the long corridor and race down it as fast as I can. As I flee, I spot a huge glass case on my left-hand side, divided into three segments.

My blood runs cold. Each segment of the case contains a cadaverous Gothic tableau. The one closest to me contains a corpse with a whitened face, a blood-red cross marked on his forehead. The next is filled with two skeletons. The final segment, the one furthest away, features two posed bodies - the first, dressed as a doctor, stands to the back of the case; the second, his patient, sits waiting.

As I run past this macabre exhibit, the lamps illuminating the corridor start to spin and pulse, changing colour from purple to green and back, casting a ghostly glow over the proceedings. I see a lady bathed in ethereal light hovering before me. She's cross-legged, Buddha-like, and exerts a calming presence. And then, at last, I reach the end of the corridor and the door to the pasture surrounding the mansion.

Before I have the chance to exit, I find a book thrust into my hands. I open it, and reading from back to front I see the writing toward the end is scribbled and erratic. It reminds me of the entries I used to make in my Journal of Dreams so many years ago. The writing at the front is, however, neat and tidy. And then the penny drops. I wrote those words in the book right back at the service station. I put them there deliberately to leave a trail to my thoughts.

A loose thread ....

Watch this Space!

2009-01-17T21:21:00.006Z

Dear Chroniclers,

the New Year lies before us, pregnant with possibility. Another traveller in time and space hidden within the mother's womb.

Sometimes when I look closely at this picture I see a mass of swirling stars, or an eye that looks straight back at me, or again, a brief flash of light in the dark world.

Do you think baby looks like grandfather? Only time will tell, so better watch this space .... !

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Christmas Past

2009-01-17T21:11:00.011Z

Ten Memories

2009-01-01T15:58:00.005Z

Dear Chroniclers,

around two years ago, I wrote a short piece entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the Dirt-Kneed Schoolboy", all about my late father. So with a New Year just begun, I thought it might be an appropriate time to capture some precious memories of childhood. There are ten in all ... count 'em as you go!

1. Diving deep into the bathwater with the Captain as a very young child, then swimming up into a plastic wash-basket floating on the surface of the water.

2. The thick nicotine-stained finger-tips of my father, tobacco-brown and smoke-curled.

3. Running free through a field of sun-baked grass in search of leaping grasshoppers, with the Captain close behind.

4. The rich smell of frying bacon as he cooks family breakfast on a Saturday.

5. Sunday's out, and a metal-tray of pub-drinks we consume in the car en route to a picnic. A pint of best for the Captain, a "Cherry B" for the Black Dowager, shandy for eldest brother, two glasses of warm lemonade, one each for electrofried and baby brother ... and soggy crisps for all, with magic blue-bagged salt!

6. The Captain sitting at our breakfast-room table with richly coloured feathers, a line and hook, delicately tying the fly for fishing the next day.

7. A drive down to Bishop Stortford to see the house we never moved into. He died in a lay-by a few months later.

8. Visiting the Captain's offices at the weekend. Inter-coms and slide-rules, a week of smoke sinking deep into the fabric of the place.

9. Big-band jazz played loud on the radio in the car, whilst a strange coloured speedometer thread moves to red as we speed the length of a motorway.

10. Buying fish and chips for a group of visiting Americans, our food smothered in vinegar and wrapped tight in newspaper.

And here's a photo of the man ...

Hope you have a great New Year!

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

The Slow Encroachment of Autumn

2008-11-17T23:28:00.021Z

Sign O' The Times

2008-11-17T23:11:00.001Z

A Show

2008-11-08T20:56:00.021Z

Hawk-eyes

2008-11-08T20:50:00.004Z

Stories from the Apocalypse - Buried

2008-11-08T20:15:00.005Z

This cellar is cold-comfort concrete, shuttered windows to keep out. Keep out, what?, he wonders.

The splayed vision of a blackened TV carcass, playing out grainy loops. Batten down the hatches as the ball is launched in slo-mo from one end of the screen to the other. The waiting batsman pauses, winks to the child on the sofa and strokes away the ball. It trickles out from the screen, and as it spins slowly into this world it gains colour. Ox-blood red and oozing grassy stains. It's stitched, this ball.

The flaxen-haired boy gets to his feet. The room is silent, and he bends down to retrieve the bloodied sphere as it rolls toward him. The boy glances back to the stiffening paunch of the figure on the sofa. A bristle-moustached Captain. A silent capped cadaver. And behind him hums a black-lace pall-bearer, her winter veil draped across her face as it turns crevasses in frozen time. It brings to mind the ghost of Christmas past, a widow's band placed upon her finger.

Hearing the footsteps approach, he knows what must be done. A knife plunged deep into the fast solidifying tissue, cracking open his rib-cage like the sparking timbre of an iced-red fire. He lifts the beating heart, crimson-stitched ball and places into the cavity. Waiting for the beat.

He has no time to spare. The glacial cold envelops the cellar, calling to him to surrender. To be dragged deep into her chilly hold until all life drains, like the colour from the staccato television playing doom loops in the corner of the room. The boy scrabbles desperately at the shuttered window as the electric hum moves ever closer. Will he? WILL HE!!!

The Jury's Out

2008-10-19T22:00:00.005+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

I've served my time, and now at last I'm free! What a fascinating fortnight I've spent in the company of many others, keeping the streets of the UK safe.

It was seemingly a cast of thousands as our names were read out at in the Jury Room, a collection of ne'er do wells, teachers, housewives, retirees and one faintly puzzled horologist.

Regrettably, I'm sworn to secrecy, so like much in life (and indeed these feeble, groaning Chronicles) all must remain mystery.

Yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

Deserted

2008-10-14T22:17:00.009+01:00

Van the Man

2008-10-04T22:14:00.002+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

Van the Man hit the boards of Birmingham's esteemed Symphony Hall last night, watched from aloft by yours truly and dear mrs electrofried. Complementary oxygen masks were supplied with our seats on the Uppermost Circle, which had it been any higher would surely have necessitated entry by helicopter.

Nonetheless, we had an excellent view of proceedings. And this, despite the regular dribble of latecomers whose arrival caused a series of geriatric Mexican waves as seats were duly raised to allow them ingress.

Van took to the stage bang on 8:00, as advertised, and for the next ninety minutes opened up to us his magical world of love, yearning and mysticism. He said barely a word the whole time, his sole utterance being a short aside about George Formby when a recalcitrant roadie brought his mandolin on stage. He didn't need to say anything in truth, for his music said it all.

It is said good wine improves with age, and Van's voice brought forth images of vintage Chateau Latour - rich, red and full-bodied, with subtle hints of seasons past. The hits blended seamlessly with more recent work as the talented ensemble of musicians and vocalists drew us ever further into rheumy reflection.

And then the finale. "Gloria" and in excelsis! A song so familiar, yet still so jubilant. Van the Man sent us roaring to the night as he departed stage left, his ninety minutes done.

John Steinbeck once observed, "... all the sterile wonders of movies and television and radio will fail to wipe it out - a living man in communication with a living audience." And all this, with barely a word exchanged.

yours as ever,

electrofried(mr)

Iceland - Gallery 6

2008-09-14T20:43:00.022+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - Three Faces

2008-09-14T20:30:00.004+01:00

Reflections on three forms.

The tireless, all-powerful waves of water carving swathes through history. All is borne before. Cascading from on high to fill us, we tremble at the lion's roar. A whirlpool current in time.

The ice. A form made solid, cracking open the very rocks, and yet smoothing gouged surfaces beneath until all flows as one. Silently. Majestically. Melting our hearts with pure crystal waters. Borne through centuries to us still.

The mist. Penetrating deep within, yet coating all that surrounds. We see the bride's floating veil, borne white to fresh christening robes then cold to the ground in frosty shrouds. The mist reveals.

And so is Iceland. Gazing on the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.

Iceland - Gallery 5

2008-09-06T15:44:00.020+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - In Vapour

2008-09-06T15:13:00.011+01:00

It explodes into sulphate spume, coughed up from deep within some rock-bound heaving molten mass. Watch it dissolve into the air, falling as rain to wet the rusted ground. The bubbling waters surrounding the blow-hole draw a brief laced-veil across the catacomb beneath as we gather round once more. There she blows!

The earth cannot contain it. Vapoury ghosts trail the roads, seeking out the weak points to puncture hillside and bog alike. In places it drags the sky down, forms evil-smelling curdled pools of copper-blue. And everywhere, the thick paste-like mud cakes our boots, reminding us we stand on no more than feet of clay.

It is here in the mist, too. Flitting across the landscape, drawing near to silence our steps as it dances around us only to disappear as fast it came. In the mist our tour-bus climbs in the watery light of passing head-lights.

Where are we going ... in time?

Iceland - Gallery 4

2008-08-25T21:54:00.017+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - Frozen

2008-08-24T20:16:00.011+01:00

Ice - the second form of water. Solid, yet for ever moving, a form so deep its blue-fissured crevices threaten to engulf us.

We catch sight of it at first in the distance, a faint calling as we speed toward it in the tour bus. Late morning sun reflects from the ice-peaked crown of the mountainous volcano, and the temperature drops in time. Will the ice creak and groan its deep secrets? We are no more than a brief speck on a narrow, twisting path as the glacier stares down impassively upon us.

This immense power, frozen in place. When the volcano erupts the ice will melt and sweep all before it. A huge iron bridge, twisted and torn, bears testimony to the raging waters just a little time away. Will it blow today?

Ice. We venture to the height of the glacier, wrapped baby-like in swathes of thick cushioned material and clinging precariously to the frame of a battered 4x4. This landscape is alien, blackened and unforgiving. A ford, wheels slipping as the vehicle bounces across safe to the other side, and there beneath us a surreal motorised parking lot laid out in neat formation.

We pair and mount the skidoos, gliding across the ice-melt as we crawl in line toward the glacier. All we hear is the roar of the engines as we draw deeper into the white, trailing lines behind us as we pass. Over in the distance a sled of huskies pulls off to the left, and then we are alone in the midday sun. On top of the world.

Ice. We visit its mysterious depth once more, this time pushed out in an amphibious duck that skims across a water of eerie, blue silence. We see shapes form before us - whale-tail, castillations, some deep ocean monster rearing up to greet us. Then a guide-boat pulls close. We hold ice formed fifteen hundred years ago, suckling on its time-chilled freshness.

Alone in this lake of calm, we watch time melt ...

Iceland - Gallery 3

2008-08-20T21:44:00.015+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - Running Waters

2008-08-20T20:54:00.007+01:00

Three forms of water carve out this place, and one comes tumbling and cascaded in bright shards of glittering moment, carrying all before it.

We race from the coach to catch first sight of the opal blue jewel beneath us. Faxi streams wide and elegant, carving a swathe between two verdant banks that disappear across the horizon. Look! There, in the mist, can you see him? A fisherman pulls home fresh salmon, gleaming in the morning air.

But nothing can prepare us for what follows. The deafening roar of Gullfoss, just a little way down route 35. It fills the lowing sky, beaten out in misty patterns that sink deep into our skin. You don't see it at first, you feel it. Icy fingers of moisture borne in luminous rising clouds from the heart of its twin-tiered falls. Gullfoss penetrates to the very core, taking hold to clothe us in a watery shroud. We hear its roar and halt in our tracks, a deafening reminder of mortal insignificance in this alien place.

We walk on, further toward its heart, drawn by its call...

Water flowing. Descended from on high, ice-curtain showered past slippy mossed rocks. We spend the week chasing it the length of the Southern seaboard - Svartifoss and black columned basalt, a flowing wave of hexagonal rock that clings to its lip. Hundafoss but a short walk away, thundering down the abyss. Seljalandsfoss, and a portal glimpse behind its white-sheeted waters. And then sweet Skógafoss, in whose dandelioned-skirted fields we pause a while, contemplating time.

It streams away ....

Iceland - Gallery 2

2008-08-11T21:32:00.005+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - A Clearing in the Mist

2008-08-11T13:40:00.008+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

after a long absence, we open a new series of postings to capture a few, fleeting memories from our recent visit to Iceland. A place which is, quite simply, stunning.

Testing Times

Our journey begins with the outward flight to Keflavik - three hours and a following wind, then the clouds clear as we head down to land. The auspices are not good. On arrival the weather is misty, everyone appears to have gone home early for the day and we're seated on the transfer bus unsettlingly close to Miss Grumpy of Grumpyville, a middle-aged lady who positively oozes funereal doom from her every pore.

The road out of Keflavic proves equally unpromising. Several miles of bleak, flat land punctuated by the occasional lump of unyielding foundation-concrete that presages yet another featureless building in gestation.

Celebrations

As the wheels on the transfer bus go round and round, so we begin to question why we've just expended a sum not unadjacent to the Gross Domestic Product of a fledgling East European republic on the holiday of a lifetime. You see, electrofried(mr) is celebrating his half-century in style, accompanied by the good lady and young teenygoth.

My favourite top-hat and spats ensemble has been duly packed (together with the infamous electrofried thermals) and now it's eight days in the wilds of Iceland to look forward to.

A Turn for the Better

Our fortunes take a turn for the better as we change buses and join our tour party for the week ahead. I say a silent prayer of thanks as Miss Grumpy is ushered, still muttering under her breath, onto another coach, allowing us to settle down and savour the trip to our hotel. We are not to be disappointed. As we head out of Rekjavik the road narrows and we climb into cloud-skimmed heights.

And then the mist thins. There below us lies a small settlement, glinting in the early evening sun, our hotel just a mile or two down the road. We've arrived, and what adventures we're about to enjoy!

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Iceland - Gallery 1

2008-08-10T21:56:00.007+01:00

The Icelandic Sagas - Prelude

2008-08-10T20:57:00.011+01:00

A deep, timeless pool of still water. Horsemen pass by.

First, a group of out-riders, dusty and blackened. They pause to look, and there's no reflection. Silence as time passes in a green valley.

The second riders. Novices rub shoulder with the experienced in the warmth of a sinking sun. One man looks up as he passes the pool and waves.

The final rider, a flaxen haired boy seated on the mount lead by his mother. He smiles, absorbed in the passing of time.

Iceland.

Skeleton

2008-06-14T00:56:00.008+01:00

Tripping ...

2008-06-14T00:31:00.014+01:00

The Eye of the Beholder

2008-06-14T00:06:00.008+01:00

Tight-trousered Revelry

2008-06-13T00:15:00.002+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

it seems but a moment since the coming together of Robert Plant, Alison Krauss, several thousand music fans and the denuded electrofried clan (namely yours truly, dear mrs electrofried and the darling teenygoth) at Birmingham's NIA. It's nare but a flipper's stroke or two from the adjacent Sea Life Centre. The attraction we've all come to see is, however, far from fishy.

In a surprisingly intimate setting, two blocks of seats having been curtained off and the mandatory Kashmiri carpets scattered loosely on stage by a dyslexic rug-roadie, we're greeted by the sight of a curiously tousled and somewhat subdued crowd. Picture if you will, a geriatric convention of leonine-bobbed perms punctuated by the odd scowling youngster (teenygoth again), all sipping mortgage-busting plastic bottles of tepid water. Such are the excesses of the average Plant fan these days.

Mrs electrofried is duly despatched in search of some illicit Sanatogen and an accompanying bucket of over-priced ice-creamery whilst teenygoth and I mount a full-frontal assault on the giddy heights of the NIA upper-circle. Donning oxygen masks and crampons we make heady progress and reach the summit but a moment before the opening turn peeks its way past the stage-curtain. We're greeted by the sight of sundry top-row activists gasping for breath and clutching free bus-passes tight to their mackintoshed breasts. I swear at least one of them is packing a warm Thermos and cling-filmed cheese sandwiches.

No matter, the opening act, young Master Scott Matthews, is an affecting performer - especially with a rather dashing acoustic slide bottleneck number toward the end of a short but enjoyable set. I'm lead to understand he appears later this year at the Moseley Folk Festival (a contradiction in terms) and I may be tempted to investigate further.

A short interval, lights dimmed and two shadowy figures make their way onto opposing sides of the stage. One is dressed in improbably pointed cowboy boots, a black jacket and trousers that leave little room for a decent sized leatherette pension-book - the other carries a fiddle. Birmingham welcomes Robert and Alison!

Two hours pass in a dream. The music defies categorisation and the trousers defy the passing years - all is indeed well with the world! Much of the recent "Raising Sand" album is played, and jolly well too. The biggest surprise, however, is the unveiling of three numbers from the legendary fourth Zeppelin album. Who would ever expect Americana versions of "Black Dog", "Battle of Evermore" and "When the Levee Breaks"?! The decidely tasty band eschew conventional interpretation on two of these numbers, and instead weave a mesmeric, elegiac reprise. "Battle of Evermore" is, however, the sublime triumph as Robert's still dulcet tones lock intimately with the younger voice of Krauss, born the year the original was recorded. Sandy Denny would smile so ....

The standing ovation says it all - three sweet encore numbers later and the lights go up. We return to the reality of grey, rain-specked streets of Birmingham late on a Bank Holiday Monday. But wasn't the journey worth it!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Departing

2008-04-19T20:30:00.000+01:00

More than Just a Game

2008-04-19T20:00:00.007+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

I have little doubt 27th August 1994 is not an auspicious date that features prominently in your personal calendars. However, in the annals of the electrofried family it is a day of some momentous import.

Picture, if you will, a shabby but laden motor of uncertain Italian vintage, its driver a freckled and bespectacled youth adorned with the insignia of a certain Midlands football team. Up front in the passenger seat is yours truly, and behind us an excited eight year old who can but manage a few faltering words and some equally faltering steps - the young reallyfried. We're on a mission, reallyfried's introduction to the magical world of football.

It took my friend Neil and I some little time to get reallyfried safely into the ground, but once ensconced, he was a young man enraptured, his beaming face and a torrent of incoherent but excited sounds telling us all we needed to know.

The arcane recesses of the offside rule lay far beyond his limited comprehension, but even then reallyfried knew a goal when he saw one. Bang on the stroke of halftime, Steve Staunton rose majestically above a crowd of Crystal Palace defenders to head home his first of the season. My son rose falteringly to his feet, yelled in excitement and promptly toppled over the seat. And so a Villa fan was born!

Of Mascots and Men

The first few seasons we followed the great game, young reallyfried paid almost as much attention to the two Club Mascots, the lion-costumed and improbably padded "Bella" and "Hercules, than to the team itself. But as time went on his understanding of the great game grew - as did his ability to shout loudly in support of his beloved Villa.

We used to park about half a mile away from the ground and walk down together, reallyfried with his still shambling gait and myself gently easing him past sundry obstructions of varying danger en route, but we always made it safely in time. Reallyfried made sure of it, for his favourite ritual was to queue up on arrival to visit the Villa Shop, and then onward to the nearest Burger Bar for some greasy comestibles and a bottle of luke-warm Coca-Cola.

And so the boy became the man. We celebrated reallyfried's twenty first birthday last year in the Corner Restaurant overlooking the hallowed turf of Villa Park and never have I seen him so pleased. His god-parents, Doctor Phlegm and Debs the Artiste, accompanied us and we all raised a glass to toast our son. Greasy burgers were most decidedly not on the menu.

More than a Game

Right from the start it's been so much more than just a game of football for the two of us. The regular walks up and down to the ground helped strengthen reallyfried's legs and straighten his gait. So much so, I now struggle to keep up with him once the final whistle blows and we join the throng streaming out from the gates.

Reallyfried's learned an appreciation of money too, much of which has been spent over the years in the Villa Shop. He's developed so much confidence he can find his own way back to his seat through a milling crowd of supporters once the half-time pie has been despatched with customary gusto. And he's made real friends too in the fellow season-ticket holders who sit next to him - accepted for who he is, a fellow fan in search of victory come kick-off time.

I've learned something so precious too. Each walk down to the ground, each goal we celebrate, each loss we mourn on the way home brings us closer together. How far we've travelled since that sad Saturday evening Dr Phlegm broke the news to us of our son's handicap. This is indeed the great game.

Oh, and for the record, Villa drew one all with Crystal Palace that very first match. Reallyfried could tell you that for himself - he may not be able to count to a hundred, but who needs to when you can remember the score in every game you've attended!

best regards,

electrofried (mr)

Slinger

2008-04-19T19:30:00.000+01:00

A Forest

2008-04-12T22:06:00.007+01:00

Ten Easy Pieces

2008-04-12T13:15:00.004+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

so who knows where time goes ... ?

It seems like just a few moments ago I was celebrating the arrival of my half-century, but so much has happened since then. Not for the electrofried's the slowing waters of middle-age - everything in our lives right now appears to have been turned upside down, and you find us spinning like some Pooh-sticked flotsam and jetsam well out from the left bank of humanity's torrid and ever-hurrying stream.

Downwardly Mobile

If it had been just one thing it would be taken in its stride, but no, change assaults us on all sides as loudly as the competing banshee wails of shop-soiled muzak that assailed our ears this very morn as we made our way though the market-stalls of Little Wittering in search of some new mobile-phonery for my dear mrs. electrofried.

Regrettably, the half-brick that occupied much of her hand-tooled marmoset embroidery bag these years past, had all but given up the ghost. We took teenygoth with us for protection. At least she was sufficiently proficient in the language of the street to interpret the strange guttural grunts and techno-speak that passes loosely for speech these days. Just what is a "mega-pixel" and why does every telephone appear to come ready-equipped with blue dental-wear? Life is just too darned confusing!

A Puzzling Affair

Much to teenygoth's mortification, mrs electrofried seized upon the spottiest of the spotty work-experience shop-assistants who staffed the cacophonous shop we ended up in. Meanwhile, I took up position on the side-lines, pointedly ignoring the entreaties of the strangely pneumatic lady manager who spotted me dawdling in the aisles.

"Can I help you, darling?",

is perhaps not the best of opening lines in life's endlessly amusing catalogue of sales-pitches. I turned the other way, and set to with my Sudoko whilst mrs electrofried and teenygoth merrily pressed buttons and compared memory capacities. Frankly, the whole thing was a complete mystery to me and I contented myself by pencilling in a few random jottings to the squared puzzle before me.

At length, the transaction was completed. Money exchanged hands and mrs electrofried emerged blinking into the daylight from the blackened abyss of "Phones'R'Us" clutching a carrier bag containing the spoils of her foraging.

The swirl of time

I mentioned life has become a spinnying eddy of late.

Family issues spring up like the gaily-coloured daffodils and tulips that currently adorn the grounds of the House. We've moved churches too, and become Methodists, though I've yet to summon up the courage to announce this to the Vintners of Little Wittering who depend so much upon us for their livelihood. The credit-crunch will appear little more than a minor book-keeping blot in the annals of their balance-sheets once the endless stream of alcohol-related orders from the House dries to no more than a trickle. And time in the horology factory is ticking slightly faster than the norm.

But even amongst all this chaos, there is hope. Teenygoth has taken to purchasing the NME at regular intervals and in a recent, unguarded moment confessed a passing interest in the contents of the electrofried music-library. At last, a scion of electrofried who may be fit to inherit her father's burgeoning collection! So tonight, as I sit in my bath-chair sipping a restorative glass of the finest triple-strength Chimay (yet another sin to be confessed come the morn) I've set my mind to ""Ten Easy Pieces", a short catalogue of electrofried's life to date, as set to music.

This posting is accordingly dedicated to my youngest ... and I shall await, with no little trepidation, to see if she deigns post a comment in response. Welcome then, darling teenygoth, to the music of your father - the rhythm that has restored, enthused and enthralled me through a half-century and more.

And so here it is "Pop-pickers"!

10. Fresh in at no. 10, the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees live at the Tynemouth Plaza, on their very first UK tour. I won two tickets on a (non-mobile) phone-in by spelling, "Siouxsie" correctly - not a particularly difficult task given my infatuation with her kohl-stained cheek-bones. Your mother, no more than a teenager herself, was embraced tenderly to the cascading feedback of "Mittageisen"!

9. The theme to "Midnight Cowboy", a sound tracked memory of a film that even now reduces me to tears just thinking about it. Is the reverberating harmonica of life just a last post to a sad existence, or the turning point to a bright new future in the sun? Discuss. Alternatively, you could watch the DVD once you're old enough to satisfy the British Board of Film Censors.

8. "I'm only sleeping". There has to be a Beatles song in there, somewhere. And what could be more apposite for a somnambulant father whose cat-napped existence is punctuated by the most piercing of snores?!

7. A non-mover at no. 7, the chiming guitars of "The Byrds" with, "Chestnut Mare", a particular favourite of your mother.

6. When I was but a teenager myself, I stole on occasion into my elder brother's bedroom in search of a particular album that still thrills me to this day. As you practice guitar up in the East Wing of the House, dear teenygoth, reflect on the genius that is Jimi Hendrix, and his stunning debut, "Are You Experienced".

5. "T Rex", is, I'm afraid, yet another sound of my youth. My very first foray into the purchase of music involved an off-line transaction behind the school bicycle-sheds, in which money changed hands and your father acquired a second-hand copy of the inaugural album of the freshly abbreviated, "Tyrannosaurus Rex". I sense an imminent negotiation with Master Amazon to acquire this afresh once I've finished with my tawdry list of musicology.

4. Over the last few months you have borne stoically the depletion of an ever-dwindling inheritance as yet more Miles Davis box-sets have made their way to the tradesman's entrance of the House. When you are much older yourself, spin "Kind of Blue" in memory of your father, for he found much peace amongst the space of these crystalline modal forms.

3. David Bowie, much like Miles Davis, mastered many a transformation in his time. "Heroes" is, forever, a favourite of your mother and I.

2. Sometimes life has shades of darkness, and in "Joy Division's", "Love will tear us apart", there is no finer.

1. But, as always, there is hope too! I think it unlikely you will ever chance upon the full King Tubby extended mix of this glittering jewel, but you will find the original version of "Love is a Treasure" on a Pressure Sounds' Carlton Patterson compilation called, "Psalms of Drums". It's secreted deep within the electrofried music library - enjoy, for love is indeed a treasure ...

... and much love to you, darly teenygoth!

as ever,

electrofried (mr)

p.s. mrs electrofried has passed by briefly to view my random jottings en route to the bed chamber and a relaxing infusion of Horlicks. Ears have been soundly boxed concerning the omission of anything by the Doors, the Clash and many others besides. Anyone for an extended electrofried Top Twenty?

365 Photos - Gallery 19

2008-02-08T20:20:00.000Z

Stories from the Apocalypse - The Fourth Death

2008-01-28T21:24:00.000Z

Sometimes I dance, spinning. Cradling a white dress and just turning endlessly in circles until the blood drains. Catch my feet awhile. Walk.

To Sleep

"Under normal conditions, humans cannot store much oxygen in the body. Apnea of more than approximately one minute's duration therefore leads to severe lack of oxygen in the blood circulation. Permanent brain damage can occur after as little as three minutes and death will inevitably ensue after a few more minutes unless ventilation is restored."

They come to me, from time to time - in the dark. Not for a while now, but one day they will come. Again. I lie paralysed in bed, and the door opens. There is no way to avert the gaze as they look at me.

A girl in a white dress, an Army Captain, a thinly veiled beating heart. They line up beside my bed and gaze down. Calling. I want to cry out, but no words come. Just endless terrored coldness freezing me to the spot as they reach out .... they're touching me!!! They're touching me!!!!!!!!

It comes from deep within, this hollow death-bed screech and now I feel the dig in my ribs and I can move and breathe and where are they? Where have they gone? I leap to my feet, heart pounding and sucking deep on this liveless oxygen. She leaves ... spinning. And my heart beats time.

365 Photos - Gallery 18

2008-01-19T14:05:00.000Z

365 Photos - Gallery 17

2008-01-03T19:12:00.000Z

Christmas Unwrapped

2007-12-31T08:22:00.000Z

Dear Chroniclers,

the wrapping-paper has all but settled on another Christmas Day, and sundry members of the enlarged electrofried clan now occupy strategic stations around the House.

Yours truly is to be found safely ensconced in the Library, a glass of medicinal port to hand and a copy of the "Penguin Guide to Jazz" to help keep me company through the evening. Or more candidly, the next thousand of so evenings. The thing is unthumbed and immense, and I shall much enjoy exploring its more arcane recesses as the New Year unfolds.

Meanwhile, mrs electrofried is just down the corridor in the TV lounge, feet up and picking her way through a freshly-opened tin of her beloved Quality Street, as she awaits with eager anticipation the Omnibus Edition of "Eastenders". She has, undoubtedly, earned a modicum of well-deserved rest following two months of diligent planning for the Big Day.

So just what were the Christmas highlights for 2007?

Back in the Stable

We'll start where we left off in 2006. Regular visitors to "The Chronicles" will be aware of my previous exploits as Santa Claus - but despite last year's unfortunate endeavours, I still received an invitation from Sally the Flash to reprise my starring role at Flatcaps' School Christmas fete.

This time I'm pleased to report I was spared the indignity of a grand entrance mounted atop a wobbling jalopy that bore scant resemblance to a sleigh. However, as we shall discover shortly, the prospect of shame, penury and an appearance before the local judiciary dogged my every move as I set up stall once more in the make-shift reindeer stable opposite the school-gates.

Having exchanged pleasantries with the two small, but highly voluble elves assigned to assist for the evening, I sat down on Santa's throne. As I lowered myself, statesmanlike, into position, I couldn't help but notice the stable seemed somewhat cooler than last year. And this, despite the presence of a gas-powered heater of uncertain vintage, thoughtfully positioned by the organisers of the event immediately adjacent to the straw-bales that made up the backdrop to my humble abode.

There was a certain draughtiness to be felt, and as I looked down, the dreadful truth dawned. Perhaps it was my increasingly portly frame, or just the general wear and tear one might expect of these things, but the vast Father Christmas pantaloons that made up the lower part of my costume were agape at the most embarrassing of junctures. Crude Taiwanese stitching had given up the ghost, and now the wretched garmentry had taken on the character of a seedy Ann Summers back-catalogue item. Welcome then, the split-crotch Santa look.

Fearing the possibility of imminent arrest by the "Boys in Blue", I paused to tug down discretely my matching velour jacket, then sprang forth into action. My two helpers, one boy and one girl, were both duly schooled in the art of present-dispensary, then promptly christened a communal, "Bruce" for the night, in order to avoid any potential confusion on the elf-front. With that, the doors to the stable were flung wide. The first quaking child was ushered, sobbing, into my quarters to receive the mandatory "Ho, ho, ho!" from me, a Christmas sticker from Bruce No. 1 and a tawdry gift-wrapped offering from Bruce No. 2.

And so the hours passed with a succession of bemused little-ones and their accompanying elders until at last all presents had been exhausted and the job was duly done. It had been a close-run thing, but I'd managed to perform my civic functions without either setting fire to the reindeer-stable or inviting the attentions of the local constabulary.

A few days later I popped round to Sally's to return the Santa outfit. She was out, so I left the tattered remnants with her husband.

"Something red and split-crotched ... ",

I announced, as I thrust the carrier bag into his hands. Curiously he seemed less than amused, and I fear we may not feature prominently on their Christmas-card list twelve months hence.

A Feast to be Remembered

The second highlight of the season all but defies description.

I have to say, the portents were ominous. We discovered to our horror, late on Christmas Eve, that the generous supplementary allowance issued by mrs electrofried to purchase our festive fare had been squandered by Cook on two barrels of industrial-strength continental lager and a crate of fortified Buckfast wine. Worse still, if the contents of her garret hideaway were to be believed, she had single-handedly consumed half the contents of the latter during the course of the evening.

Cook is, however, nothing if not resourceful - come the morn she was to be found hard at work by the Aga, skillets a flying and her pastry-coated Chef's hat set to a decidedly jaunty angle. Fetlock was not far behind. Pausing only to run off a phrase from his new English/Slovenian dictionary (a thoughtful Christmas present from darling teenygoth), he too grabbed a random selection of kitchen implements and got down to business.

And for those who may be even vaguely interested,

"Svoj tenek svetleč papir življati been pankrt v destilirati gos svinjska mast to stran od Ljubljana.",

roughly translates as,

"My onions have been basted in the finest goose lard this side of Ljubljana".

At length, the dinner-gong was struck and Fetlock ushered us all out of the Drawing Room and down the corridor for our festive fare. Picture the electrofrieds, if you would, seated around the baronial dining-table, our heads crowned with merry paper hats constructed from the back pages of the Little Wittering Bugle, and our plates as yet empty. Despite the consumption of a schooner or two of pre-prandial cooking sherry nothing could dull the mounting sense of trepidation as Cook's faltering footsteps were to be heard in the corridor outside.

A few mumbled curses later the door burst open and in lurched the florid-faced woman, still looking much the worse for wear and clutching a silvered platter somewhat unsteadily to her not insubstantial bosom. The suspense was almost too much to bear as Cook reached for the handle on top of the platter-lid. With a dramatic flourish, she flung her head back and revealed the contents with a loud, if slightly slurred,

"Tirrah ... !!,

before falling backward into Fetlock's waiting arms.

Teenygoth was first to inspect the damage. Venturing forward, she peered down at the now recumbent Cook, and spied some crudely crafted vegetable matter on the silver tray.

"What the .... ???"

Fetlock intervened at this point.

"Eetsa Chreesmaas delicacy all ze way froom Slovenia - ees toorneep horse doovers, teenygoth meess!"

Our youngest looked perplexed, as ever. Cautiously, mrs electrofried advanced to examine the contents of the tray herself. Picking up one of the smaller chiseled pieces, she raised it to her nose, sniffed then pronounced,

"I think he means turnip hors-d'oeuvres, dear. It should be perfectly safe to eat ... albeit a trifle unappetising."

The starters set the culinary bar predictably low for the remainder of the treats to follow, and they didn't fail to disappoint. The imaginatively entitled, "Yuletide Roadkill", was a thing of many splendoured (and in the case of teenygoth's portion, many beaked) beauty. The "Yoghurt Slurp" singularly failed to cleanse the palate, our suspicion being that it had endured a little recycling at some point on its journey from kitchen to dining-room. And frankly no-one had the stomach to attempt, "Cook's Christmas Log".

It was with some relief the meal came to a premature and burped end. Cook had once again excelled herself and now it was time for presents.

We Bear Gifts

Over the years, as our children have begun to achieve an increasing measure of maturity, the pile of presents on the Drawing Room floor has shrunk by equal measure. However, it can be predicted, with a fair degree of certainty, that reallyfried's will contain sundry football shirts and miscellaneous goal-mouth periphery. And so it was this year, too.

Maximouse and His Imperial Hirsutelessness plumped sensibly for the cash option and raised scarce an eyebrow when mrs electrofried tucked into their combined Christmas stocking a complimentary copy of "Mother and Baby". She really could be just a little more subtle about her desire to become grandmother to the next generation of electrofrieds.

Teenygoth, meanwhile, was relieved to discover her father had not put in an order to Master Amazon for, "The Bumper Book of Boys", as originally threatened. Instead, she had to contend with the sharpest wrapped present of the lot, which boasted more layers than the average cooking onion.

After breaking open the paper-seal, unfolding the heavily embossed cardboard box, removing the membranous wrapper, lifting it from the complementary cup and releasing the catch that held it to a circular metallic band ... out popped a "Fatface Watch". I'm told by those who should know, these are highly valued objects of desire in the world of teenydom - though, frankly the rest of the family had quite lost the will to live little more than half-way through the unwrapping process.

Mrs electrofried, however, appeared rather more impressed with the limited edition deep-fat fryer and matching ironing-board set I had thoughtfully purchased for her on-line during a hotly contested E-Bay auction. Indeed, for a short time she was rendered totally speechless. Then the silence was broken ...

"Electrofried ... you SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!"

And that seemed to be something of a threat, rather than an acknowledgement of gratitude. Strange creatures these lady-folk!

So now it was all down to yours truly to commence the unveiling of his present pile. Imagine my surprise when I came to Grandmother's little treat. As was her norm, she had sent some money to my dear wife to purchase a few small tokens of endearment for each member of the family. Regrettably, a last minute trip to Mrs Patel's 24/7 Convenience Store and Haberdashery had found mrs electrofried purse-less, and so my share of the Christmas largesse had been pressed hastily into action.

There can be few men who will have received a gift-wrapped selection of half-price turkey drumsticks, two plastic cartons of semi-skinned milk and the Christmas special of "X-treme Crochet" for their Yuletide box this year, but I was one. Should you be interested in placing a bid, they will shortly be going on-line at E-Bay, doubtless accompanied by a deep-fat fryer and complementary ironing-board combo.

So this brings us to the last, and best Christmas surprise of 2007.

Back in the Stable ... Reloaded

This year my thespian leanings were called upon not once, but twice. The Very Reverend Giblets, Rector to the Church of the Terminally Bewildered Anglican, had approached me a few weeks earlier to enlist my services for the forthcoming annual Crib Service.

"It's the lead role, electrofried - it'll suit you to a 'T'. There's definitely only one man here who could pull this off!",

Well, how could I possibly refuse?

"I see what old Giblets meant, Dad.",

chortled dear teenygoth, a fortnight later, as she lent over my shoulder to read the script I'd just retrieved from the Church pigeon-holes.

"It say's here ... 'ENTER TIRED, GRUMPY INN-KEEPER, STAGE LEFT'!!!"

"Just ignore her, darling,"

interjected the ever-helpful mrs electrofried,

"all you need do is snore a lot and act miserable. It should come quite naturally,"

And so it came to pass. Eschewing the traditional dressing-gown and tea-towel ensemble, I took to the stage in my black Amish field-jacket and matching hat, the closest I could get to the Fagin look I was after. My carefully practiced Gielgudian roar achieved maximum impact - though not quite as I had expected. Half the cast of little ones were reduced to tears, the other half to guffaws of untimely laughter. Perhaps the worst moment of all came when young Joseph did a "runner" down the side aisle of the Church, his hysterical mother in hot pursuit.

But what really made this event so special? My instructions for the end of the nativity play were to kneel before the crib in adoration whilst two praise-songs were played and the collection taken. Half way through the second, one of the youngest members of the cast, a little boy dressed as a shepherd, stood up. He walked over to where I was kneeling and stood by me, his bright young eyes shining in wonder as he surveyed the scene before him.

One day, pray God, I may enter His Kingdom with that very same look of innocence, wonder and awe. And with that, may I wish you all a very happy 2008!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

The Walk

2007-12-23T17:57:00.006Z

And was this just a sign that turned my face to hunt you out, my friend?

Cutting across the bridge over that never-ending stream of traffic; the incandescent, restless roar deafening my ears.

For one precious, fleeting moment, I glimpsed your reflection. I'm sure you looked too, deep into the mirror. A crumbling artifice, brick-built and decaying.

These were intimations of mortality on my way to greet you ...

A hidden glance through the fog-bound reaches of a naked tree - just hanging there.

And then you were in my sights! A call to drink deep.

How long have I waited to find you? Your boundless, seeded energy seeping out from each pierced portal. The green springs of hope.

I stood silent for a second, admiring your beauty before me. And then I called ... did you hear me?

Just waiting for you to knock. Ready to open my door, to let you in.

365 Photos - Gallery 16

2007-12-23T17:38:00.000Z

365 Photos - Gallery 15

2007-12-23T17:32:00.000Z

365 Photos - Gallery 14

2007-12-01T10:06:00.000Z

Why don't we do it in the road?

2007-11-24T19:37:00.000Z

Dear Chroniclers,

this evening sees me stationed uncomfortably at the Remington Noiseless - propped up in the electrofried bath-chair, a hot-water bottle strapped to my nether-regions and nursing an aching back. I blame it all on Miles Davis ...

In a Silent Way

Regular visitors to the House of electrofried will be aware of my advancing years. As a man begins to face the inevitable truth of middle-age, so his thoughts turn inexorably to thoughts of mortality, tartan blankets, carpet-slippers and a little light jazz. And so it was for yours truly just a month ago.

Whilst browsing the shelves of Little Wittering's finest CD'n'vinyl record emporium I heard the stentorian roar of a trumpet issue forth from the massed boom-boxes mounted overhead. It struck me at once as a thing of beauty, a richly silvered thread of notes shining out from a dark abyss of floppy-haired X-Factored rejects and general pop-frippery. It was music for the soul.

With my meagre weekly allowance from mrs electrofried clutched in my sweaty palm I strode manfully to the counter and enquired as to the origin of this delightful muse.

"Err, dunno mate ..."

was the initial, mumbled reply, but on further examination a sparkling new CD case was duly produced. Moments later I left the emporium, a smile on my face, clutching a copy of "Filles de Kilimanjaro" by the inestimable, Miles Davis.

And so, I was hooked.

Spend,Spend, Spend!

How I wish I had never hot-wired the Remington Noiseless to the interweb!

For many a year I laboured under the sad misapprehension "broadband" was something to do with the rapidly accelerating girth of the electrofried underpants collection, but now I find myself the very image of post-modernity, a pinkie-finger poised tremulously above the "Send" button as I contemplate the purchase of yet another Miles Davis box-set.

You see, the man has an absolutely gargantuan back-catalogue. The fact he departed this mortal coil on 28th September 1991 seems largely to have by-passed his musical publishers. Scarce a month goes by without another addition to his legendary canon - and being a sad, lonely anorak, how can I resist the temptation? And so the pinkie finger descends once more as yet another on-line purchase is made.

You may be forgiven for believing the latest financial crisis gripping the world's investment markets has it origins in the collapse of the American sub-prime mortgage sector. The truth of the matter, however, is to be found far closer to home. I lie awake at night, gripped in a cold sweat as I contemplate the imminent arrival of the electrofried credit-card statement.

Things are getting so bad I've entrusted the card in question to Fetlock the Butler, our Slovenian man-servant. He's under the strictest of instructions not to return the wretched thing to me until the current spending fever in which I am gripped has loosened its wicked hold.

Under My Wheels

It's not just the credit-card that's taken a bashing of late. Twice a day, heavily-laden pantechnicons pull up the unadopted road that bounds the electrofried estate to disgorge the latest delivery of Miles Davis box-sets from Master Amazon and his market-place chums. Needless to say, their burdensome wheels have wreaked havoc on the sub-structure of this historic, but flimsy, highway.

The road, which is bumpy at the best of times, has begun to resemble a derelict Army Assault Course replete with a capacious bunker-system of sufficient size and depth to swallow an average family hatch-back whole. Chroniclers, we talk not of mere pot-holes, these things are veritable caverns.

But praise be, for today has seen community action at Little Wittering on a scale that brings to mind halcyon memories of the war-time spirit.

Hit the Road, Jack

It started at crack of dawn this morning when a delivery lorry emptied its contents into three neat, black piles - one at each end of the road and one in the middle. You see, a jolly burgher who lives but a stones-throw from the electrofried estate had spotted a bulk-order of hardcore going cheap on eBay, sale or return.

The villagers turned out en masse, eschewing the opportunity to linger "en lit". With shovels duly shouldered they formed ranks and began the arduous task of spreading the three piles across the pot-hole strewn remains of the road.

Teas were made, wheel-barrows wheeled and sundry small children extracted from the worst of the triurnal hardcore dust-bowls. And of course, yours truly strode out, clad in his best gardening spats, to supervise affairs.

Beast of Burden

As I look longingly from the Tower window I see below me a freshly restored road, the black spine of hardcore now sewn neatly down its central pull. What a communal effort, but what a price to pay! My back aches, and not even regular infusions of the blessed elixir, Horlicks can assuage the pain.

Worse still, the moment the repairs to the road were completed a cheery red postal-van arrived outside the gates to the House, bearing with it the long dreaded credit-card statement. Mrs electrofried was not amused.

Not only had the purchase of sundry Davis box-sets depleted the already meagre piggy-bank set aside for our Christmas turkey, the last debit was for a monthly subscription to a dubious web-site that goes by the name of "Wanton Wenches of Western Slovenia.com". Fetlock the Butler occupies the Tower cell next to mine as the strains of mrs electrofried's extensive collection of Perry Como Cd's play out on the trusty Victrola.

Spare a thought for us both as we complete our miserable penance "forte et dure".

yours achingly,

electofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 13

2007-11-10T20:51:00.001Z

365 Photos - Gallery 12

2007-11-08T23:23:00.000Z

Tales from the Flatland

2007-10-27T22:38:00.003+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

it's worth it just to see young Teenygoth's jaw hit the ground,

"I do so love your scrag-end, my dearest!"

Mrs electrofried gazes longingly at me across the dining-table,

"You do say the sweetest things, darling!"

Teenygoth makes a rude gesture indicating the imminent disgorge of the scant contents of her stomach-lining then leaves us to it. Oh for the snatched joys of a short break in the countryside! And as for mrs electrofried's scrag-end - all will be revealed in the fullness of time.

Thatched and Dangerous

Today's pasting finds us deep in the heart of Norfolk during the half-term holiday. We occupy a thatched-cottage abutting a dreamy field of "set-aside". Behind us lie the grounds, a veritable pot-pouri of late autumnal decay in all its many-splendoured hues and glory.

Mrs electrofried and I do so love Autumn, a season of fruitfulness and fleeting golden light. But our beautiful cottage retreat conceals hidden dangers, as I discovered to my cost earlier this week.

Indiana Jones and the Walk of Death

Do you remember those scenes from "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" when the gritty, ill-shaven hero encounters a series of traps and snares on the way to fulfillment?

Picture then your intrepid Chronicler as he awakes from sleep on the first night of our stay in the cottage. Nature calls and I stumble from bed, taking care not to disturb the recumbent form of my dearest as she dreams of dew quilted, fairy-tale gardens.

All is starless and bible-black outside, so I advance braille-like toward the corridor that leads to the bathroom. I pass across the first trap - two floor-boards that conceal a long drop to the cellar below. Following a recent rewiring of the cottage they are secured by just four slender screws ... and when I hear them creak beneath my increasingly corporeal form I start to panic!

I press on as quickly as I can, only to encounter the second snare, a delicate filigree rug that slides beneath my feet propelling me inexorably along the polished wooden floor toward the third, and penultimate, trap. It is no more than a small escarpment in the corridor, a step down of but an inch or so to accommodate the sloping floors of this ancient cottage. And I stub the toe of my recently broken foot to the sound of an expletive that will require both repentance and a carefully worded apology to young Teenygoth.

My travails are not yet at an end. Clutching a bruised and throbbing toe I stumble forward until my head meets with the sill of a bathroom door designed for those of an earlier generation who would now be viewed as vertically challenged by any reasonable modern-day standard. Ouch and double ouch!

So with throbbing toe and aching head I reach my destination. It hardly seems worth the effort and I resolve to master better bladder-control come the morn.

In the Naughty Corner

I shouldn't complain - the bruises will heal eventually and we're enjoying a splendid time here in the Flatlands. The highlight to date has been a visit to the school where our eldest daughter, Maximouse, has recently taken up her first teaching post.

Being half-term the school was deserted, so we had the opportunity to see her classroom. Unsurprisingly, the ladies of the family ganged up on me, so I spent much of the time nose to the wall in the "Naughty Corner" reflecting on my not inconsiderable misdeeds in life.

And how quickly life flashes before us. I recall cradling the baby Maximouse in much younger arms and now she's in charge of a class of adolescent senior-schoolers. Autumn time indeed, and such sweet-fruited memories to treasure!

Food for Thought

So this just about brings us full-circle.

Mrs electrofried and I join hands across two freshly-emptied plates that just a few moments ago were home to a rich stew made with scrag-end of lamb and a can of tomato soup. This was a meal we enjoyed regularly so many years ago when we first began our married life together as blushing newly-weds, and as a holiday treat my dearest has prepared it once more.

The cheapest cuts of meat were all we could afford then. How sweet they tasted at the time and how sweet they taste still as Autumn draws close.

And somewhere in the distance you may hear the sound of darling teenygoth retching!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 11

2007-10-05T23:44:00.000+01:00

My Chains Fell Off ...

2007-10-05T23:01:00.002+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

I have to report that, with some marvellous synchronicity, Mollie the Sprollie (favoured hound to the Master of the House) has also fallen prey to injured foot syndrome. The photographic evidence appears above.

Ripped and torn

Yet another frenzied pursuit of a low-scudding canine search'n'return missile has resulted in a doubly painful tear to the nail of her ill-fated dew claw. Doubly painful in the sense it sees both Mollie similarly encased in restrictive foot-protection and our own faltering bank balance depleted by the ravages of yet more veterinary billaging.

Mollie has sulked much of the last week or two, taking refuge beneath the electrofried four-poster only to emerge at infrequent intervals to claim her rations for the day, accompanied by yet another tablet of anti-biotic treatment, the price for which far exceeds its weight in gold.

The Scent of Freedom

There is, however, some good news to report - my own bindings have now been removed. The cast that has dogged my every step these last four weeks has been cut off.

I have to say that it had it stayed in its unwashed condition much longer, chances are it would have slinked off of its own accord bearing its rank odour proudly before it. Frankly, it has quite put me off Stilton, and I now take my nightly glass of port cheese-less.

Return to Horology

I would like to say there is new skip to my step, but I fear this must wait just a little while longer. My first two days back at the Horology Factory have seen me adopting the gait of a septuagenarian. Be warned, however, my pace has quickened such that I am now within touching distance of the odd arthritic tortoise.

I have no doubt my self-imposed diet of good British stout and freshly-pickled autumnal onions will soon restore the muscular wastage of the last month. So watch out for further news as I step out in style accompanied by a tawdry mongrel in blue bandagery.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 10

2007-09-18T17:00:00.000+01:00

Snap!

2007-09-12T13:40:00.002+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

we interrupt the "365 Photo Galleries" series to bring you breaking news. Literally.

A Walk in the Woods

The early morning sun peeps gently through the shuttered windows of the Tower to summon yours truly from the land of slumber. Downstairs, the hounds of electrofried await their early morning constitutional with the usual eager anticipation.

That is, with the notable exception of Daisy the Retriever, conceivably the laziest dog in all of Christendom. Her idea of exercise extends barely beyond the twice daily rush to consume the contents of her feeding bowl, a task normally completed in a little under ten seconds.

But no matter, hounds are to be walked, so off I set through the gates of the House toward the woods that lie to the south of our estate. And what a cheery morning it is too!

Chance Encounters

A little way into my walk, and I chance upon the scented Mrs Bottomley, wife of the very Reverend, whose humble chapel lies to the far end of the estate. Deep in theological discussion we proceed at a brisk pace into the woods, sundry hounds trailing in our not insubstantial wake.

And it is at this point our conversation is rudely interrupted as I find myself, Alice-like, falling down the rabbit-hole. One moment all is civilised discussion, the next I'm tumbling unceremoniously to the ground accompanied by the sound of what, on first hearing, I take to be a twig snapping beneath my feet.

A Fall from Grace

Somewhat bemused, I come to my senses to discover myself nose first in the leafy debris of the woodland floor. This is not entirely a dignified position in which to land, particularly as Daisy has chosen precisely this moment to descend into position for her morning micturations.

Leaping to my feet, I wince ... to put it mildly.

"Are you alright?" enquires the scented Bottomley.

My reply does not bear repetition, and I shall say several penances in consequence during the weeks to come - but being of a certain generation, I bite my lip and stride out manfully, one foot trailing loosely behind in the leafmold like some malfunctioning rudder. My companion gamely sees me safe back to the electrofried charabanc and I chug off down the back-lanes toward the House.

A Strained Breakfast

My return is greeted with customary disdain by young teenygoth. Pausing only to break the thick crust on top of Cook's legendary turnip-flavoured porridge, she turns to enquire about my most recent fall from grace.

"So what've you done this time, Dad???"

I explain my tumble in the woods, much to her merriment.

"Well, I guess you're going to be great for a three-legged race then!"

is the cruel repost as teenygoth packs her bag, ready for school. Mrs electrofried is more sympathetic and suggests a trip to the hospital to get my foot checked out. But no, being a man it's my honour-bound duty to ignore any possible medical intervention - I decide instead to walk it off.

I'm sure it'll be as right as rain come the evening!"

is my somewhat optimistic pronouncement as I hobble toward the charabanc to make my way into the Horology Factory.

On the Joys of Hospital

Mrs electrofried's advice is, as always, absolutely right. I spend twenty minutes or so of my lunch-break negotiating a hundred yard stretch between the Factory and the sandwich shop, and conclude all may not be well.

The sobering moment of realisation comes half-way across a particularly busy stretch of road adjacent to the shop. I reflect, perhaps a little too late in my journey, that things could get interesting should a car appear at short notice from around the corner travelling at any great speed. The prospect of a lame and startled electrofried rooted to the spot and contemplating his imminent demise bears little appeal.

And so, off to hospital we go, family entourage in tow replete with picnic-basket and a plentiful supply of light reading material. I emerge little over an hour and an half later (a testimony, if one is indeed needed, that the NHS is a national treasure whose value we ignore at our peril), duly plastered.

Foot Up!

So you find me, dear Chroniclers, sat uncomfortably in my bath chair, one foot duly elevated so I can enjoy the dubious pleasure of watching my toes turn a variety of shades of rich plum-purple. The cast will be on for at least a month and I have only the comfort of regular infusions of Horlicks to dull the pain.

Trust all is well with you, as I struggle once more to put my best foot forward,

Yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 9

2007-09-08T10:09:00.000+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 8

2007-09-04T22:50:00.000+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 7

2007-08-22T19:48:00.000+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 6

2007-08-10T00:04:00.000+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 5

2007-08-06T23:36:00.000+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 4

2007-08-06T23:17:00.001+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 3

2007-07-27T11:22:00.000+01:00

Through the Wardrobe, Darkly

2007-07-21T14:22:00.000+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

there's a new spring to my step, for mrs electrofried has been rifling through my drawers!

It's that time of year, you see.

Open the Doors

Holiday beckons, and the moths were let loose just the other day when I instructed Fetlock the Butler to prise open the secondary electrofried wardrobe in search of summer outfits. The love of my life was first to venture in ...

"It's a all a bit dark in here, dear.",

was her pithy observation as a shower of assorted black clothing was propelled forcefully through the jemmied doors of the cupboard into the waiting arms of Fetlock.

"Oh please, please - not the black spats!,

I protested feebly.

"I'm sorry darling, they have to go ... all of them. It's like being married to an undertaker."

I knew the game was up.

Ballooning

It happened the day I hit forty, an age that now seems little more than the first daffodiled flush of Spring. It was as if the rip-cord of youth had been yanked mercilessly from life's inflatable body-jacket. My waist-line expanded ... explosively.

I found myself scanning the pages of the "Little Wittering Bugle" in search of classified adverts for male corsetry and news of local Sumo-wrestling classes. An unhealthy combination at the best of times.

And then someone made a passing remark that black was a very slimming colour ...

Funeral Days

Black was the colour, black was the name. Past forty, my new found corporeal bulk took refuge behind a veritable big, black cloud of darkness.

Eschewing only the pallid white-foundation and lumpen mascara so beloved of their kind, I could have been frog-marched into a meeting of Visi-Goths and passed off as Uncle Lard, the mentally defective relative long-imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the West Wing of the House of electrofried.

Before I knew it, I was drawn inexorably toward the "C" section in Little Wittering's very own dodgy DVDs'n'cheapo-music emporium in search of albums by Cash, Johnny (AKA The Man in Black) and The Cure (glumness a speciality).

The funereal shrouds were indeed closing in. Rather than the rejuvenated and slimmed-down electrofried I had sought to emulate, I now looked more like some vast and fatted Victorian wake, complete with its own built-in pie-counter. Not a pretty sight.

March of the Shopping Trolley

And so dear Chroniclers, it was time once more to be taken in hand by mrs electrofried.

Pausing only to deliver instructions to Fetlock for the removal of the remaining black garmentry and its immediate distribution to the needy of Little Wittering, she bundled me into the back of the charabanc and sped off toward a discrete clothing dispensary for the chronically confused just a few miles from the electrofried estate.

There was to be no escape. My person was subjected to an hour's worth of fashionista intrusion as mrs electrofried enlisted the services of a deeply bored Saturday Girl to help pluck items at random from the rails of the dispensary. Resisting the temptation to enquire whether my nether regions looked big in them, I paraded a seemingly endless succession of outfits the length of the store under the watchful eye of mrs electrofried. Saturday Girl, meanwhile, chewed gum.

At length the ordeal was over and serried ranks of in-store man-servantry packed the charabanc with what appeared to be the entire summer-stock of an average sized M&S discount outlet.

Clothes that Maketh the Man

So here I sit in my bath-chair before the Remington Noiseless, resplendent in my new finery. The "vetements noirs et grands" have been banished, replaced with tasteful linen shirts in cream, brown and gold. My feet are shod not in black buckled boots but eazee-fit loafers.

And do you know what, mrs electrofried was right yet again. It feels good - it makes me smile. And with that smile and just a little determination, the world around can be changed!

Don't tell mrs electrofried, though will you ... but I've got the black spats on underneath. Trusty Fetlock smuggled them to me earlier this morning!

best regards

electrofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 2

2007-07-19T20:20:00.001+01:00

365 Photos - Gallery 1

2007-07-13T00:32:00.000+01:00

The Year in View

2007-07-13T00:20:00.001+01:00

Dear Chroniclers,

I suspect this will become a marathon, so please bear with me!

Sometimes we see life in the same old way. What we did yesterday is what we do today, which is what we will do, with the same results, tomorrow. Hence the challenge. See the world a different way.

So a photograph a day? For the next three hundred and sixty five days? I've instructed Fetlock to order in some glassy-plated emulsions. Wish me well, if you would, as the challenge begins.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

After the Deluge

2007-06-30T17:38:00.000+01:00