There was a message waiting for me from Google when I came to my blog this morning:
'European Union laws require
you to give European Union visitors information about cookies used on your
blog. In many cases, these laws also require you to obtain consent.
As a courtesy, we have added a notice on your blog to explain Google's use of
certain Blogger and Google cookies, including use of Google Analytics and
AdSense cookies. You are responsible for confirming that this notice actually works for your
blog and that it is displayed.'
mention this because you might have seen a message at the top of this
not following your every move. I have no idea how to
embed tracking software into my words - and I wouldn't even if I could.
Nice use of the phrase 'as a courtesy', don't you think? Thanks, Google.
Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Friday, 24 July 2015
It's been three weeks since I posted a CTST and then it was very hot. Today I went to town in my boots, because it's chucked it down with rain all day and the temperature has dropped accordingly. Mind you, the rain is my first cause for celebration, because my poor allotment is starting to look a bit droopy.
Other things worthy of note today are:
* Having had my creative side prodded by the poetry challenge set by friend Tricia on Monday
* The launch tomorrow of my friend Rachel's bookshop venture 'Not Just Words', which opens with a fundraising day of music in aid of our local hospice
* My sensible mother (she knows why)
Have a good weekend, folks.
Celebrate the Small Things is a blog hop. Visit Lexa's Blog for the rules, and then post every Friday about something you're grateful for that week. Originated by VikLit) and co-hosted by L.G. Keltner @ Writing Off The Edge and Tonja Drecker @ Kidbits Blog
Thursday, 23 July 2015
‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly,
‘’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’
‘I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?’ said the Spider to the Fly.
‘There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, ‘Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome – will you please to take a slice?’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘kind Sir, that cannot be,
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!’
‘Sweet creature!’ said the Spider, ‘you’re witty and you’re wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.’
‘I thank you, gentle sir,’ she said, ‘for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.’
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
‘Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple – there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!’
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue –
Thinking only of her crested head – poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour – but she ne’er came out again!
And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.
Wednesday, 22 July 2015
|Malham Cove, copyright Clive Thorley|
The poem below is in Walking Home and also in his collection Book of Matches. In the unlikely event that Mr Armitage reads this blog, I hope he will excuse my reproducing it here:
I feel I am at the end of my tether
and I don't want to go on any longer.
Not like those climbers on Malham Cove -
dipping backwards for their bags of powder,
reaching upwards for the next hairline fracture,
hauling themselves from my binoculars.
And without enlargement they take on the scale
of last night's stars in Malham Tarn,
inching upstream as the universe tilted, mirrored
till we burst their colours with a fistful of cinders.
I follow a line
from the base to the summit, waiting
for something to give, to lose its footing,
for signs of life on other planets.
Tuesday, 21 July 2015
|'The dropping of the daylight in the West'*|
This is another poem I was introduced to at school under the broad topic of 'poems about people', would you believe. It will be familiar to anyone with even a passing interest in poetry, and some might say it's rather a corny choice, but I really like it. I'm a sucker for a good monologue anyway, but this one is just so sinister. It gives me chills every time I read it:
I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together.
* Photo John Lindsay via morguefile.com
Monday, 20 July 2015
As long as I live
I shall always be
My Self - and no other,
Like a tree -
Or cypress forlorn.
Like a flower,
For its hour -
Primrose, or pink,
Or violet -
Sunned by the sun,
And with dewdrops wet.
Always just me.
Till the day come on
When I leave this body,
It's all then done,
And the spirit within it
Thumbing through this lovely book to find this poem, I was reminded of an occasion when my son was at primary school and he was asked to take his favourite poem into class. He chose one from the same book. It's called 'Oodles of Noodles' by Lucia and James L. Hymes, Jr:
I love noodles. Give me oodles.
Make a mound up to the sun.
Noodles are my favorite foodles.
I eat noodles by the ton.
It's daft, I know, but it earned him a star from his teacher.
Thursday, 16 July 2015
I like a fruit crumble as much as the next woman, but you can have too much of a good thing. There is an entire drawer in my freezer now filled with boxes of blackcurrants nestling in sugar, in anticipation of tarts and cheesecake; I have jars of jams and jellies lined up on my shelves; I have made cordial (which, incidentally, has given me an insight into why Ribena is so expensive); and I am mid-way through making a vat of blackcurrant vinegar. There is the gentle drip-drip-drip of the jelly bag in the front room and the bloop-bloop-bloop of wine fermenting under the stairs. Think of a way to process a currant and I've probably done it.
It looks as though the three or four pounds I still have in the colander will be the last for this year, however. I shall have cleared the fruity decks in time for the courgettes, which are already starting to make their presence felt.