365 Photos - Gallery 1

The Year in View

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

Tied up in knots ..

Dear Chroniclers,

you would think tying a pair of shoes is a pretty easy thing to do, but take a break for a second and have a go.

So now, could you describe how to carry out this apparently simple task to a young boy with learning disabilities who struggles with each and every fine-motor movement ... time and time again ... with endless patience?

That's exactly what one Sea-Scout leader did for our son, reallyfried, over a period of some years. This weekend, reallyfried and I revisited together the place where it all happened and here's his story, or at least part of it. Want to join the two of us as we retrace our steps back in time?

We Heard the News Today ... Oh Boy

We first learned our son was mentally handicapped (as it was called in those less politically correct days) when he was six months old. Dr Phlegm and his wife called round to the House one fateful Saturday evening to break the news.

They told us to sit down and take a deep breath, then we listened as the good doctor told us, as clearly and calmly as he could, there was no guarantee reallyfried would ever walk or talk. A pretty difficult thing for anyone to have to do, and even more so for the Phlegms, who are both our closest friends and reallyfried's God-parents.

I rang the head of the horology factory to tell him why I wouldn't be in for a week, and we sat down to plan. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were to be mrs electrofried's - Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were mine. And then, come Sunday, we would both cry.

A Smiling Face

There are many things we remember so vividly from that first week as we began the grieving process for the son who never was. We went shopping, determined to keep life as normal as possible, and ended up in Laura Ashley choosing some new wallpaper for reallyfried's room.

An elderly couple came up to us and bent down to peer at reallyfried in his buggie.

"Isn't he beautiful!" said the old lady.

Fortunately, it was my day. I got to leave the shop and sob my heart out. Poor mrs electrofried got to choose the wallpaper - a refreshing shade of blue, as I am reminded by my dear wife.

It's in the Eyes

One of the hardest things we had to do early on was to establish eye-contact with reallyfried. He had some autistic tendencies, but we knew these must be overcome if he was to make any progress.

The Health Visitor brought it round one day - it looked, to all intents and purposes, like a miniature electric chair, complete with padding and straps. She showed us how to secure him safely within this strange and threatening contraption and then how to hold his head so he had no choice but to look at us. The young man was having none of this. My, how he howled and screamed and struggled! But we persevered and, bit by bit, there was progress.

One fleeting and precious second of eye-contact eventually turned into two, then three. And after a while reallyfried could look us in the eyes without flinching. He discovered eye-contact, while mrs electrofried and I discovered the profound power of"tough love".

One Small Step

Our next task was to work on the walking.

Reallyfried had the most amazing footwear, courtesy of the National Health Service. They built him "Piedro Boots", leather-tooled and hand-sewn in the coolest shade of blue. Were it not for the fact he could barely manage a single step without falling down, he cut a fine picture in the Piedro's - a kind of up-market Doc Martens with a twist.

Watching him struggle to his feet, long after all his contemporaries had passed him by, was a salutary experience. I remember in particular one bright summer's day, sitting in the shade of a cherry tree in the middle of some Botanical Gardens, as reallyfried made his way, slowly and painfully to the bottom of a long lawn where a brass-band had just set up to play. He was accompanied on his journey by maximouse, our eldest daughter, and two years his senior.

Reallyfried left the safety of the shade and struck out in his own inimitable fashion. With much effort he got to his feet, took but one step, wobbled then collapsed in a heap. And again he rose, and again and again ... until. There was a group of young boys gathered by the bandstand who had spotted his faltering passage. As reallyfried neared them we could hear their taunts.

It has to be said, maximouse has not always seen eye-to-eye with reallyfried in the intervening years, but this day she made a stand for him we shall never forget. Summoning up the full height of her five year old frame she marched across to the group of jeering boys, planted her hands on her hips and yelled,

"He's MY brother ... what do you think you're laughing at???"

It would have been easy at any time during reallyfried's perilous journey to the bandstand to have walked over, scooped him up in our arms and carried him back to the safety of the cherry tree. But then he wouldn't have learned how far he could really travel. He wouldn't have experienced the feeling of success after so many falls, bumps and bruises. He wouldn't have lived to his full potential.

Just maybe, we could all celebrate our own falls, bumps and bruises as we pass by this way ...

Enter "Blue"

Back to the walking, and watching reallyfried, we'd spotted that if a dog came into the room he would track it intently. We reasoned that where his eyes went, his feet might follow - so enter, "Blue" the Retriever, conceivably the densest dog ever to have padded the lanes of Little Wittering. He arrived as a not inconsiderable bundle of white puppy fluff and was to leave his mark indelibly on our family.

Whilst Blue was undoubtedly toward the back end of the queue when the brains were being handed out, he had many qualities in his favour. Steadfast loyalty, patience and focused determination were amongst them; if there was the slightest crumb of discarded food within a half-mile radius he would set-off in search of it, usually with reallyfried in tow.

Over the years, Blue tolerated much at the hands of his small friend. In his time, he was used as a canine step-ladder, a hot-water bottle and, most bizarrely of all, as a canvas for a piece of experimental art. Reallyfried had discovered a free sample of lipstick attached to one of mrs electrofried's magazines, and whilst her back was turned, had decided to apply a series of dazzling pink stripes to the side of his white-coated chum.

By the end of his ordeal poor Blue looked, for all the world, as if he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Commendably, he bore his new found make-up with much stoic dignity, even though the lipstick in question was of the water-proof variety and proved impossible to remove. We had no choice but to wait for it to fade. In the meantime we were reduced to taking Blue for his daily constitutional during the hours of darkness for fear of a dawn-raid by the massed ranks of the RSPCA.

Sadly, Blue passed away some years ago, but not before his young charge had grown tall and confident enough to take him out for walks around the block. The circle had come full turn as we watched reallyfried disappear proudly onto the streets of Little Wittering, Blue padding patiently behind. He who once had followed, now took the lead.

The School of Life

At long last reallyfried was up and on his feet, so our thoughts turned to schooling. We had decided early on to do whatever we could to help our son make his own way in the mainstream of life, to attain as much independence as possible. With this in mind we approached the well-respected CofE school attended by maximouse to see if they would accept him, despite his pronounced learning difficulties.

At first, he was received with a warm welcome into the Infants Class, but increasingly it became clear this was not the right place for reallyfried. The school was fine for academic high-fliers like maximouse, but not for those who lagged behind. And our son fell, with increasing frustration for both the school and he, further and further behind.

Christmas Tears

The low-point came during the performance of the school Christmas play. Tea-towel secured firmly in place about his head, reallyfried was so much looking forward to taking part. As the audience assembled, a teacher chose foolishly to seat him at the very front of the stage with the other "extras". We watched, horrified, as the inevitable happened. Reallyfried lost his balance and went head over heels, crashing onto the hard wooden floor beneath.

The Headmistress took charge immediately. She leapt to her feet, swept him up firmly in her arms, placed a hand across his mouth so no-one could hear him crying and took him back-stage. Reallyfried was to take no further part in the proceedings. Whilst the Headmistress made sure no-one else would see his tears, we could feel them.

Everyone's Special Here!

The next few months were spent scouring the area for another school that would take reallyfried, and we found it at last, right under our very noses!

What a contrast. At his first school it was all well-to-do, high-flying families in an affluent and largely middle-class area, and now we were stepping through the gates of an iron-railed comprehensive-feeder in the middle of a Council estate. Only this time there was something rather special that shone out - the love of a dedicated teaching staff and the support of families who really wanted to make a difference for their children.

Reallyfried fitted in perfectly from day one, because at this school every child was special, no matter what their circumstances or background. He, and we, were welcomed in with a warm embrace and a healthy dose of reality. We have so many stories of joy to illustrate the difference, and here's just one.

The Crowd Cheers!

It was another blisteringly hot summer-afternoon, the perfect setting for school Sports Day, and reallyfried, like all the other children was going to be taking part.

The time came for his race and he took his position in the middle of the starting line, along with nine others from his class. The objective was to negotiate the length of a short grass-track whilst propelling a soft-ball with a hockey stick.

The starter's gun went off and the race began. Unsurprisingly, reallyfried was left stranded as the others set off in hot pursuit of the finishing tape. But then a strange thing happened. The girl leading the race suddenly slowed, then came to a halt. The boy next to her did likewise, and one by one all the others followed suit.

It was like the parting of the Red Sea. Slowly but surely, reallyfried made his way along the course, through the line of waiting children and towards the finish. The parents got to their feet as one and cheered him on to victory. I doubt there was a dry eye in the school that afternoon.

Mrs electrofried spoke to one of reallyfried's class-mates after the race was over. She told her it had all been their idea. They wanted reallyfried to win something for once in his life, and they were determined to help him do it. Just one small example of why this school shone out like a beacon to those around.

A Cub Begins

So now you know some more of reallyfried, where does a Scout-troup and the tying of shoe-laces fit into all this?

We need to trace our steps back again to his early childhood and the desire to give our son as many normal experiences of life as we could. Reallyfried joined his local troup as a cub, just in time to take part in the annual Scout Gang-Show. Like all the others in his pack, he donned the grease-paint and a spotted outfit to take to the stage as part of the "Ugly Bugs' Ball", but this time accompanied by one of the cub-leaders. There was to be no repeat fall from grace!

Seated comfortably in the audience, we watched the cubs twirl and dance to the music, reallyfried doing his very best to keep in time. As the song came to an end the cubs headed for the wings and the curtain drew behind, leaving reallyfried and his leader alone on stage. He looked out into the spotlights, a tiny dot surveying an unfamiliar crowd. And then a big beam came across his face and he raised a hand to wave.

"Aaah!!!", went the audience, and we knew instantly that once again reallyfried had found his place.

The Adventures of a Lifetime

Over the years, reallyfried learned so much from his experiences with the Scout-troup. They taught him the value of exercise, gave him a love of the outdoors, built his confidence, and more than anything else, valued him for who he was.

They weren't afraid to take chances with him, either. I remember vividly collecting reallyfried from his first Scout-camp away from home and being told all about his exploits chopping wood with an axe. Given his difficulties with fine-motor movement, that was one mighty act of courage by a nameless Scout-leader - but reallyfried repaid the trust and showed he could do it just like all the others!

That wasn't the only skill he learned. Reallyfried mastered the art of marching and took part in the Annual Scout Parade, he learned to paddle a canoe and steer a boat, he cooked and bird-spotted, and with each fresh victory another scout-badge was sewn onto the sleeve of his shirt. In his last term with them, he won the Scout of the Year trophy, awarded on the votes of all the troup. A fantastic end to his time there.

There was, however, one thing he struggled with throughout. At the time he enrolled we'd nearly given up hope of reallyfried wearing anything but shoes with Velcroe fastening. But we continued to work on it, now with the able of assistance of a lovely Scout leader who had taken a particular shine to reallyfried. Evening after evening the two of them sat together in the Scout-hall practicing knots.

A Celebration

If you care to return to the photograph that introduces this meandering tale, you will see a young man having his shoe-laces tied. That young boy is .... not reallyfried! Our son is the one doing the tying.

This year reallyfried celebrated his twenty-first birthday and organised his own party with the help of his support-workers, one of whom brought his three year old along with him. When the boy's shoe-lace came loose, it was reallyfried who sprang into action and I couldn't resist the opportunity to take a quick snap as he bent down to tie it tight. All those years practicing had finally paid off!

So this is where we came in. Reallyfried has just attended a 60th birthday party for one of his old Scout-leaders at the Hall where all this took place. His knot-tying friend was there, and how proud he was to learn just how far reallyfried has travelled since the Gang-Show all those years ago!

There is much more still to tell, but for now I leave you with the picture of a young man leaning down to tie a simple knot. What price this memory!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Brummie Jolly Up - Gallery 2

Through the Doors of the Sunflower Lounge

Dear Chroniclers,

oh what a day! A celebration of shared greetings in time and space, a gathering of the clans that still reverberates mightily as I settle down once again into the bath-chair to tap out yet more incoherent ramblings on the keys of the trusty Remington Noiseless.

A Virtual Meeting-place

Many of our honoured guests here at the House enter through the well-worn portals of the Mojo Forum. It's a cyber-playground of some strange delights, and a popular destination of your host as I while away the hours in penitence, banished to the Tower and waiting in vain for an early re-admission to the warmly-padded bosom of the familial TV room.

In case you've not encountered the Mojo Forum before, I've asked Fetlock the Butler to paste a link to it below. Given his literal interpretation of even the most basic of commands, chances are the pasting will take the form of a clumsy hand-written note secured to the screen with a liberal splattering of Solvite. Apologies in advance, should it gum up the works of your personal computerette.

The link is, however, worthy of your investigation, as tucked away in one of its dustier corners you'll find a thread entitled "Praise the Lord, it's the Awesome Brummie Jolly-Up!" And jolly jolly it was too!

The Invitation Arrives

It seems like an age ago, but it all began way back in February. The very first entry on the "Jolly-Up" thread says it all and I quote from the source-text ...

Aim: To gather as many sad, music-fixated, under-achievers into one room as is humanly possible.

Mission accomplished ... in some style!

Voice of the Cynic

Perhaps I should have expected better.

Much to my surprise, I awoke on Saturday morning to find teenygoth, youngest fruit of the electrofried loins, perched at the end of the four-poster. Not accustomed to seeing her pallid form during the hours of sunlight, I imagined, fondly but mistakenly, that she had risen early to share some tender words of endearment with her dear father before he embarked on the "Big Adventure", as it had by then become known in the House. Sadly, this was to prove well short of the mark.

"Dad, are you all going to be wearing matching anoraks???"

Mrs electrofried giggled beneath the duvet as I summoned Fetlock to ready my outfit for the day. How cruel family can be!

Clothes that Maketh the Man

Much to my chagrin, when Fetlock slid back the bolts on the electrofried wardrobe my favourite smoking-jacket and matching carpet slippers were nowhere to be seen. The finger of suspicion currently points in the direction of Cook, following the subsequent discovery in her garret hideaway of a small crate of Buckfast medicinal wine and a crumpled ticket bearing the name of the local pawnbrokers.

Denuded of my first-choice attire and running short on time, I had little option but to instruct Fetlock to select items at random from my extensive collection of XXXXL-sized black costumiery.

Meanwhile, my dear lady had descended to the kitchen to summon up a little light refreshment for the journey. I eschewed her kind offer to prepare a warming flask of Horlicks and some fish-paste sandwiches and instead, went in search of my mackintosh and top-hat. Suitably attired, I made ready to leave the electrofried ancestral seat. By now, a small throng of well-wishers had gathered by the gates to the estate, the inevitable Fetlock lurking suspiciously at the back.

A Parting Gift

As I strode out toward the pot-holed lanes of Little Wittering to hail down a passing charabanc, he dashed out from the crowd and thrust into my hand a garishly-coloured matchbox of Slovenian origin. Cautiously, I opened it to examine the contents within.

At first sight, the matchbox appeared to contain a small selection of that curious confectionery delight more mature readers may recollect fondly as "Revels - the box of chocolates in a bag". A somewhat bold assertion to make, as the average contents of said bag usually comprised a sad assortment of chocolate-coated raisins, a random bullet or two of indigestible toffee and sundry fruit-cream concoctions that owed their existence primarily to a frothy vat of ill-mixed E-numbers.

I was just about to sample one when Fetlock gesticulated to me wildly,

Magic Moments

"No, meister electrofried ... box is lucky turnip charms, yes!"

After ten minutes of close-combat interrogation I wrestled the chilling truth from our anglophilically-challenged man-servant.

Apparently the objects in question were the partially digested remains of a turnip planted in a field whose carefully guarded location rests somewhere on the outskirts of the south-eastern region of Dolenjsko. Having passed relatively unscathed through the alimentary system of a mountain-goat (the coating from which still adorned these iconic fossilised offerings) the turnip-pieces had assumed magical qualities. A Slovenian lucky-charm perhaps, but never had chocolate-coating possessed such little appeal.

Hurriedly closing up the matchbox and secreting it deep within the cavernous pockets of my mackintosh-noir I strode out in search of an early-morning charabanc.

The Natives are Restless

Fortunately, it was not too long before one arrived. Proffering my Senior Citizen bus-pass on entry, I made my way to the rear, only to fall blissfully asleep as the miles sped by.

It was the loud "kerpfffff" of a ring-pull that brought me rudely to my senses as we neared the chosen destination for the Jolly-Up. A merry native had boarded the charabanc with a twinkle in his eye and a freshly chilled can of branded super-strength Continental lager clasped firmly in his hand.

Yow, babs ... fancy a supp??

An omen of things to come, I declined his kind offer.

One Small Step

Eventually the charabanc coughed its diesel-smoked way to the the very heart of Birmingham, whence its occupants were discharged, kicking and spluttering, onto the streets. Declining a supplementary invitation from my new-found friend to crack open a fresh bottle of"zoider" in celebration, I pulled out the directions to a rough coaching-inn that plied its trade under the unlikely name of "The Sunflower Lounge".

I found it eventually behind the Bull Ring, sandwiched handily between the Holiday Inn (flop-house of choice to the discerning Mojoer) and a variety of "adult" themed outlets of dubious origin. Pausing only to purchase a small glass of some strangely bucolic wheat-beer, I took a seat by the window, brushed down the pile on my top-hat, pulled tight the lapels of the mackintosh-noir and adjusted my Predator sun-glasses. Remaining incognito has always been a great gifting of the electrofrieds!

A Pleasant Diversion

As I awaited the arrival of sundry Forumers, my attention was drawn inexorably to a muted TV screen mounted on the wall just in front of me.

The FA Cup Final was due to kick off in a little over an hour's time and I was treated to the spectacle of a silent commentary from the Grandstand team, accompanied by a bizarre stream of sub-titles which I assume were being typed either by a deranged lunatic profoundly under the influence of illicit substances or a software programme that was barely out of its beta-nappies.

I cite, by way of illustration this glorious malapropism ...

"What a fantastic line-up Manchester United have - you've got to get past the likes of Ronaldo, Skol and cakes ..."

The Clans Gather

Fortunately, it was not too long before a group of tousled strangers entered the watering hole, some members of the entourage clearly looking a mite worse for wear than others. Beers were purchased at the bar, and as they claimed a table in the middle of the room I got to my feet and sidled up to the leader of this motley crew.

"The eagle has landed ... ", I whispered cryptically, conscious that loose words cost lives.

Yow what, babs ... ow, it's 'fryed lads, it's fryed!!

And so I was welcomed, with a warm embrace and a cold pint of the Sunflower's finest, to the world of Brummie Jolliedom. Within a few precious moments I was introduced in person to fellow on-liners who previously I had encountered only as a series of virtual messages displayed on a flickering screen in my darkened study. Yes indeed, they were for real!

The Downing of Sherbets

Before long, the table before us was strewn with a miscellany of drinking vessels - half-emptied flagons of strong sherbet and the odd schooner or two of cooking sherry (there being ladies present). I have it from a good source that our afternoon at "The Sunflower" resulted in their best takings ever in a single afternoon. An excellent example of exactly what international rapprochement can do for the economy of the country. And truly, it was an world-wide gathering of the clans. They came from Ireland, Wales, Finland, Greece, Canada, the United States of America ... and Bourneville!

Not only were the nations richly represented, our select gathering boasted a huge range of talents including chocolatiers (two), carpenters (two), an overseas student, a baker, a lorry driver, the manager of an advertising agency, an expert in procurement, a star of "YouTube" and a practitioner of the sublime and dark art of public company proxy voting.

Oh, and two Scotsmen arrived half-way through the afternoon!

Light Chat and Dark Chocolate

And so the hours flew past in merry banter. Sherbets were refreshed at regular intervals, and one of our chocolatiers circulated a red octagonal box containing a selection of foil-wrapped goodies freshly made by his own fair hand.

Regrettably, some of us misunderstood the precise nature of Kaspar's "stash", but doubtless somewhere there's a market out there for, ahem, "smoking-chocolate".

Oh What a Picture .. What a Lovely Picture!"

You may have guessed I had come prepared for the Jolly, a Box Brownie loaded with freshly-emulsioned glassy plates secreted carefully about my person. It lay hidden beneath the capacious folds of my mackintosh-noir ready to spring into action, and now was the time to release the shutter!

The Mojo folk were a most patient lot. They were flashed and snapped at regular intervals, then shepherded into position for a series of mildly perplexing group and individual shots. Not once did they complain. Even the young couple sitting opposite our table were very understanding. Mind you, I did have to pass myself off as a Social Worker leading a Care-in-the-Community Programme. Unsurprisingly, they took little convincing.

Some of the fruits of my work adorn this miserable and meandering corridor. Should you wish to see more, may I suggest a visit to Mojo-world courtesy of the link pasted by Fetlock below. I advise you to take ear-muffs - some of the language is a little rich, but beneath it lies hearts of gold. I think!

In Search of Sustenance

Whilst the FA Cup-Final was played out silently on the screen above us, stomachs began to rumble - one more than others, as we were to discover subsequently. The match reached its muted conclusion and it was time to set out in search of food.

The cab-rank was but a hundred yards or so away and most of the party was still capable of negotiating a relatively straight path. Accordingly, our Birmingham hosts assembled us at random in an increasingly jolly school-crocodile and despatched us en-taxi, four at a time, in the general direction of Ladypool Road, home to some of the best Balti houses in the country.

The back-streets of Birmingham flashed past as our handsome cabs picked up speed, a miasma of charity outlets, cornershops and Indian textile-emporia. Before we knew it, we were there. Taxis duly decanted, we set up trough in a fine specimen of Balti-house called, "Shaleems", along opposite sides of an exceptionally long table. We even managed a small overflow trestle.

A Meal to Remember

I had the good fortune to be seated at the end of the long table, directly on the "red-run" to the small, but pleasingly hygienic, toilet facilities. Accordingly I encountered much passing trade during our extended wait for sustenance.

I fear the size and general hilarity of our party rather threw the catering staff of Shaleems, for it was some considerable time until the first whiff of Poppadum. It so impressed my neighbour, a quietly-spoken and delightful American gentleman who goes by the on-line name of Ipecucci, that he was quite overcome with emotion. Or conceivably the vast quantities of Stella with which he had been thoughtfully force-fed by our Brummie hosts throughout the course of the day.

By the time our meal was at an end, young Ipecucci had become well acquainted with the "red-run" - a meal he is likely to remember for some time to come!

The Canals of Birmingham

With stomachs refreshed, or emptied as the case may be, we returned to the delights of Birmingham city centre, travelling in convoy despite the attempts of one Mojoer to leave the handsome cab whilst still in transit.

This time we hit the "Mailbox", home to that rare breed, the trendy Brummie. You may not know this, but Birmingham is home to more canals than Venice. Regrettably, little if any of its architecture, ambience or general culture comes anywhere close to its more famous water-wayed competitor.

The Mailbox is sited on a confluence of the inner canal system and is home to an ersatz Gondola, the closest the Midlands gets to gaudy Las Vegas-style excess. I shudder at the memory of one of our Scottish friends regaling us with a festive chorus of "Just one Cornetto ... ", whilst wearing an improbably ginger-fringed tam'o'shanter and what I have subsequently heard described as mid-life crisis trousers. Pulling my topper down low, I made haste towards "Penny Black's", a bijou drinkery selling the very finest bottled beers at prices that would have purchased a candle-lit dinner for two with wine at the Sunflower Lounge.

Alas, it was at this point I realised, Cinders-like, that my pumpkin would be arriving soon. Pausing only to down one last farewell drink with my new-found friends I made off into the cool night air, my mackintosh-noir swirling cape-like behind.

Final Thoughts

Darling teenygoth greeted me the next day, keen to inspect my increasingly corporeal form for evidence of fresh tattoos or indelicate piercings. I was a grave disappointment to her, being able to produce only two compilation CDs of the event, an "Awesome Brummie Jolly Up Special" and "The Soonds of Auchterteuchter" (for which many thanks to Panama) together with a curious postcard emblazoned with images of the spandex-clad Kiss in all their pompadoured finery.

In truth, I carried back far more with me from the day. It may seem strange to some for an on-line community with little apparent connection other than a love of music and too much time on their hands, to meet together in person - but for me it summed up perfectly what life should be about. Celebration, companionship and adventure.

Thank you so much to all my friends at the Mojo Forum, you're a great bunch and here's to the next time!

very best regards

electrofried (mr)

Post-script

Oh, and before I forget, did anyone eat those funny little Revel-like sweets mixed in with Kaspar's chocolate stash? I fear they must have fallen into the octagonal box when it was being passed round.

If so, please do let me know. I'm assured by Fetlock they are perfectly safe to eat, though you may find yourself growing mountain-goat ears come the morn.

http://ubb.mojo4music.com/showflat.php?Cat=&Number=437273&page=0&view=collapsed&sb=5&o=&fpart=1

Brummie Jolly Up - Gallery 1

Reflections

Reflections on Easter and the train pulls out to London. Flatland greenery flashes before us, yellow rape and high blue sky - strange, rusting machinery in the fields as we press on toward our destination. There are dark crosses everywhere.



Our train pulls in and we climb sun-cracked pavements from King's Cross. The streets are deserted - has everyone fled Easter? Greasy papers and oozing effluent strew the path before our wheeled and tourist suitcase. The hotel awaits.



A walk in the golden evening warmth - glimpses of St Paul's and we pass across a rushing bridge of people. So many faces, each one a unique creation.



Shards of light greet us on the far side as we pass quietly through a glade of trees, soft-barked and Oriental. A shadowy triage of crossing shadow.



We pause for a moment in the stillness of a tethered bicycle, lashed to the railings of another London Good Friday.



Returning across the bridge and a boat passes beneath. There are hands waving, a bow-wave, passing in time down river. But which boat should we choose to travel?



A night of rest and dawn arrives in stealth, its soft golden glow sheathing the side of distant buildings.



And so to market - cloud cuckoo-land and fluttering period dresses. Where are their owners now? Dead and cloying to still earth, or alive in soft fabric, soaring on the breeze ...







We press deeper into the market. There seems no meaning now, only strange mocking-bird repetition.





Perhaps there is more that lies beneath ...



... some hidden treasure?



We must pass on. And so to a place still at war - the memory of dark shadows across the sky, sat in a corrugated shed as we listen to planes pass overhead and wait for the bomb to fall.



Perhaps we may even catch a fleeting glance of our own reflection in the mirror, as we pass across time.



For in truth, all is but a poor reflection in the glassy windows of Easter London.