Well, summer is officially here. I'm brimming with story ideas, but as I've been working at the animal sanctuary today, and have a new job to go to tomorrow, I hope you won't mind a few photos.
Finally, I found some linseed in flower. Everywhere has been chock full of that dreadful yellow oil seed stuff this year, but the purple is now here. This is my favourite summer sight, I must confess.
A wary chicken. They say objects in the rear view mirror appear closer than they are, so this lad must have been sitting right on my shoulder. He trashed my car soon after, and stole my credit cards.
I managed to get close to a wind turbine today, and found it framed in floofy clouds. Job done.
This lady donkey was attending a wedding at the local church. I think she'd already eaten her hat. And most of the flowers.
The galaxy's most evil chicken. Maybe I should give J. J. Abrams a call?
The camera loved this magnificent lad. Those horns!
I'm not sure if he's dozing off or enjoying a private joke. We may be related.
A little bokeh before we finish. Yes, linseed again. Lovely stuff.
Mr. Abrams was in agreement. May I present (spoiler alert!)...
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I enter the airport, humming. The air conditioning hits me, a merciful icy blast after the midday furnace outside.
A woman in business dress - her long blonde hair in flight - pushes past me, singing a familiar tune.
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
The Girl from Ipanema? How odd; I was just thinking about that song. I turn to watch her retreating, determined gait and wonder if she’s singing along to something? But I see no earphones on her, and there’s no piped music in the air. I guess she must like singing in public?
Something touches my bare leg, and I glance down and find a five-year-old boy tugging at my knee. He looks up at me enquiringly, perhaps lost, his wide blue eyes twinkling under a mop-top haircut.
And unexpectedly, he begins to sing.
And when she passes each man she passes goes A-a-h!
The statement is clear, his young voice steady and in key. And it’s the next line of the song. Weird. His mother bustles over and tugs him away by the hand, throwing me an apologetic glance. She chastises the boy as they hurry away, and her sharp-but-musical words find my ears.
When she moves it's like a samba
They move away and out of earshot. I turn slowly, bewildered, to find a group of nuns in my path. One carries a guitar - this is an airport I suppose - and they all carry a tune. As the penguined choir divides and sweeps past on either side of me, the Ipanema refrain continues in three-part harmony.
That swings so cool and sways so gently That when she passes Each man she passes goes A-a-h!
There’s a particular delight in the delivery of that last line. My jaw drops. Cheeky nuns? Well, I’d always suspected, to be honest. Good grief, another sane day in Camp Roth. *
[ * Camp Roth is a location, not a rumour. ]
The air is cold on my shoulders as I start to walk forward again; I really should have brought something warmer for this place. Still, onwards.
Now, where was it I was going? As I ponder this, my mind a blank, an old man in a short-trousered military uniform and beret is wheeled towards me in a bathchair. Medals gleam on his chest, but despite the rakish moustache, his eyes are inert and introspective. Behind him, a helper - perhaps a granddaughter - in sensible sandals and a long flowing summer dress, continues the verse while surveying a shop window.
Oh - but he watches so sadly
As I approach, the head of the old man raises and turns my way. His eyes have found a shine to match the medals. He sweetly croons his life story.
How can he tell her he loves her He would just give his heart gladly
They pass from view, and again I focus ahead, my feet squeaking on the polished marble. Was it Arrivals I wanted? Departures?
The thought goes from my head as a beautiful redhead in a dark blue dress strolls my way. Her smiling eyes are upward, her face enjoying the play of sun as she passes beneath the indoors palms of the airport. Her voice fills the air, sultry yet elusive.
But each day when she walks to the sea She looks straight ahead not at he
Well, isn’t that the truth.
Still, she looks Scottish and not Brazilian. Yes, definitely more Inverness than Ipanema. Do I recognise her? She looks like someone I saw on TV, maybe? As if she senses my scrutiny, she turns to look me in the eye. There’s a smile on her lips, but it erupts into laughter as she glances down at my attire.
Waitaminute, what is it I'm wearing exactly?
I look down and realise I’m naked. Well, apart from the Union Jack gathered about my shoulders.
I bend further down and hope it’s long enough. I sigh. It’s not.
The dreamy lady continues to laugh at me. I think it’s at this moment, with those exact words, that I realise I’m dreaming. Yes, it all makes sense; I’m naked in a public place, wrapped in a flag, and the woman of my dreams is laughing at me.
Not for the first time, I curse my subconscious.
It’s definitely out to get me.
I feel the imposing grasp of security guards on my arms. I don’t resist. I could spread my wings and fly out of this place, or sublime into smoke, or open my eyes and find myself in my bed.
But the lilting tune on the lips of the redhead holds my gaze as they drag me away to the cells. As she waves her delicate fingers and blows kisses to the guards, I feel the flag slip from my shoulders.
The tune may be timeless, but the experience is not.
Tall and tanned and young and lovely The girl from Ipanema goes walking And when she passes he smiles But she doesn't see No she doesn't see...
Sunday again. They roll around in circles so quickly. The sun was out, the sky was blue, the clouds were fluffy, and frankly the camera sounded more fun than a keyboard. So there. Enjoy.
I have a soft spot for bees. Well known fact. The little sods refuse to stay still for portraits, however. I tripped over and took this photo by accident. Which only goes to show, etc.
I really like this. It has posts and wires, but the sweep of the tractor trails leads me all the way in. This might make next year's calendar.
I had two versions of this, which are very different. But together, they looked the same. One had to go. This is a prime example of Life imitating Life.
Now, can you tell me this fella is not a VERY cheeky lad? I'm a sucker for a cheeky animal, and it was very hard not to give him the sugar in my pocket. I don't think he would have been able to open the paper sachets, mind.
When he finished being cheeky, he wandered closer and tried being adorable. And, as you can see, he totally nailed it.
One of his friends, in glorious soft focus. Does anyone want to sing "White Horses" with me? Do you not remember the black-and-white children's serial? Click here to hear the theme song. I guarantee you'll be humming it all day and swearing about me. Especially Lesley. You're welcome.
For Alistair. Because he likes this kind of thing.
For me. Because I like this kind of thing.
The sun was behind the church, and very bright. This is problematic. But I switched the high-definition contrast on, and let the camera do the heavy lifting. It's a bit overdone, but the front of the church is clear as day. The quirky angles add a bit of atmosphere, too. Spookeh.
I have no idea. I hope that Diane, Cheryl or Ms. Bobations will be able put me straight on this one. They're absolutely tiny, hence the dodgy purple fringing on the image.
Another purple, for which I apologise. But at least I know what this one is. Well, I'm told this was referred to by my Grandfather as "poor man's geraniums" at any rate. Any takers?
An offbeat one, for my lovely friend Katherine "Kato" Kellesis. Kato and her sister Krista are explorers of urban decay and trespassing to photograph it, the little tinkers. This is a bit more rural, but I thought of you, my dear.
For foreigners. Because they can't get enough of this kind of thing. Red phone boxes are sadly rather rare these days, and one next to a post box was too good to miss. The post box is old. See the "GR" on it? That means "George Regus", and it was installed when one of the Georges was on the throne. Perhaps after a curry.
Finally, this lad. Words fail me. Tho not him perhaps.
