Help!!! I'm off to Glasgow for the weekend and I'm needing some advice, where is great to visit. I'm going to the Country Living fair of course, however I need some more suggestions!
Monday, 17 November 2008
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
I promise that isn't what it looks like... it is what we are currently describing as worms or sausgages to add onto the pot!
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
90 years ago today on armistice day, families were still finding out their sons had fallen, including the family of the man who wrote the following. He received the Military Cross for bravery at Amiens and was killed on the 4th of November when attempting to lead men across the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors where he is now buried.
To all currently caught up in conflicts worldwide, may you return home safely so no more families have to face such news.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen (18th March 1893 - 4th November 1918)
Posted by Everything Stops for Tea at 09:32
Friday, 7 November 2008
I am now the possessor of the filthiest hands in all the world. I tried "throwing" for the first time on Tuesday and my hands are yet to recover. The wheel managed to grind the clay in good and proper and despite scrubbing with a nailbrush there are still bits of it left even now, so much so it looks like I've been at the fake tan (well apart from the fact that the rest of me is milk bottle). If there is anyone out there that knows how to get rid of it, I'd welcome the tips, thank you!