The Walk

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

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365 Photos - Gallery 14

Why don't we do it in the road?

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)

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Tales from the Flatland

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

My Chains Fell Off ...

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)