Monday, October 31, 2016


The word Spooky all over the place suggests a chocolate eating festival of some sort that might even exist beyond the Technical Device. My own current view on the festival has to with the Celtic traditions which for several thousand years were under the care of Druids, who I'm sure were they still around would by now have magically returned all technical devices to the simple beauty of Window 98, second edition. However, I'd have to agree that it's good time of year in the northern hemisphere to give the Dead a Festival. What happens in Australia, Cortina won't tell me, and if he or she did, I wouldn't believe a word of it, but have to think it must be Spring time in the more southern places, Daffodils maybe, Apple Blossom perhaps and rutting Koala Bears.

I believe Cortina is or was the name of a popular car. But the name Cortina also has one of its origins in the many Spanish Dialects. In Catalonia which is in the North East of Spain, on the Mediterranean, beaches, holiday makers and so on, the word Cortina means Farmyard. In Asturias, on the North West coast, rugged, steep hills and valleys, Cortina means an Unfenced Field. In Spanish Galicia, which is a little west of the Unfenced Field and which is not to be mistaken with Polish Galicia, Cortina means "Vegetable Garden."  The other other thing about the word Cortina is it can be found in Latin, where it means Curtain. It's used as an anatomical description of Mushroom parts. And there's a suggestion that Cortina might have been the daughter of Greek God.

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Shovels and stuff

The shovel is good and shiny, it can produce a glint in sun light that stabs the eye. Nor has it actually rained in any respectable way for what feels like over a month. Always nice to have a shiny shovel, makes a person feel responsible and organized, as well as physically fit, hardworking and independent of engine driven machines. But a little rust on the shovel would be welcome. It's far too dry and far too hot for the tapestry of plants to manage a sensible transition into frost, possibly ice, maybe snow drifts, a polar vortex or whatever winter nightmare might be in store for us.

The other area of deep concern is something or someone called Cortina. He, she or it seems to exist inside the technical device and is constantly offering ridiculous suggestions and asking truly irritating questions like whether I've ever thought about investing in a microphone. Apparently Cortina can tell me how to install one. Who or what it is, I don't know, but it's kind of like having an overly enthusiastic house guest who's constantly getting excited in their determination to be helpful and do stuff. All I can think of is that in a moment of reverie I must have clicked on something.

Saturday, October 29, 2016


Things change, I suppose. Glavni Kolodvor, a massive railway station, is emerging from a swamp of past ideas, most of which were gross errors rather then being cleverly thought out through schemata, carefully arranged upon graph paper, a whole plan laid out, right down to the sixteenth of an inch, each part wisely named according to predetermined standards. So it's probably just as well this venture into N scale is not a Mars Mission, where a few misplaced decimal points, an incorrect use of grammar, might result in a massive waste of apparently precious resources.

 A person can hardly open a newspaper before the eye is drawn to this or that expression of a determination that our species was destined not to mind its own business, and naturally enough the obvious way to continue the tradition is through some kind of colonization of Mars. It's our next Giant Leap, I have been reliably informed. The Moon has clearly lost its appeal, has a gravity that makes a person look stupid and just not big enough for boldly going where no one has gone before. But on the positive side, it's the getting there that counts, other wise as the first Martians will probably remind us, much of what we do is in fact totally nuts.

Friday, October 28, 2016

General Election Days

Ten or eleven days until the twenty four month Presidential Election comes to its long drawn out conclusion. As I understand it Canadians manage the election of their Prime Minister in something like seven weeks of public discourse, but who knows what might be happening in Canada in the twenty two months leading up to the election day.

Most countries that have a general voting of the populace chose Sunday to hold the election, which does sort of make sense.  Australians, Latvians and Maldive Islanders turn up to the voting booth on Saturdays, which also makes sense. Here in the United States we have our general election on Tuesday, but don't get snippy about it because so does Denmark.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Blue Jay Season

Nut Collecting Blue Jays are quietly getting along with their tasks before the freeze arrives. Of the Blue Jays, those who choose to collect nuts are a peaceful, hardworking, silent band and joy to be around. The Travelling Blue Jays, those who fly either North or South, sometimes East or West, sometimes round and round, are raucous, they are unruly and their call can shatter the calm of pretty much anytime of day, not just once or twice, but incessantly from around nine in the morning until well after teatime. It's one of the more irritating, nerve grating-noises heard in the tapestry. It's the Avian equivalent to barking dogs, chain saw operators, weed eaters, balling three year olds and on reflection it's quite a long list.

Fortunately Travelling Blue Jays are few and their absence does grant the Bird Enthusiast his opportunity to attempt an unbiased appraisal of what exactly it is the Nut Collectors are up to. My own view has always been that all Blue Jays are inclined toward obsessive behaviors. As the winter bares down no Blue Jay has any idea what to do, but a compulsion drives them to do something and whatever it is, it has to be done as diligently as possible. It's a statement as much as it is anything else, a form of display, it's a "look how busy I am." Over the generations a schism has developed in the Blue Jay Community and toward the end of October each Blue Jay has to chose sides. Generally the younger a Blue Jay the more likely he or she is to chose Travelling. The Old Farts collect nuts. It's as simple as that.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016


A time comes when a person has to admit they're afraid of sixteenth's of inches. Almost preferable to think in terms of tenth's of inches. Eighth's of inches, despite the spelling, are manageable for me, but the thing about a sixteenth of an inch it represents about nine inches in N Scale. An eighth of in inch is about a foot and a half, I think. The Big Pyramid at Giza, two hundred foot to the top, in N Scale would be about fifteen feet to the top. Either way, the time has come to do away with the official Saint Barbara measuring system and reach into the horizons of measuring where finer detail and more accurate proportions might be achieved and this would mean a magnificent 2-6-4 with headlight wouldn't be dwarfed by a Station Master's opulent domicile.

To add to the burden, after goodness knows how long, I'm having trouble conceptualizing Saint Barbara's Tower. The mind has wondered a little from the idea of it being windowless. Thinking more in terms of a Saint Barbara's Tower apr├Ęs the lightning strike that so rightly reduced Saint Barbara's horrible father to ashes. Also reckon it has to be a round tower, sort of mud and wattle, though how mud and wattle would manage the fifty two inches of rain Saint Barbara's county can anticipate during the course of a twelve month period, I've no idea. In other news, the County's Militia still pine for a U-Boat, which are about ten inches from tail to bow, the boys and girls of the County's Militia are between quarter of an inch and half an inch from boot heel to eyelet.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016


There was a time when a person just had a birthday, maybe ten minutes in the morning and some kind of boiled meat product in the evening. But that sort of casual  acknowledgement has become a thing of the past and birthdays are up there with a total eclipse of the Sun.

 Officially, I'm all for this sort of rampant indulgence devoted to celebrating a moment from the past which I've heard was probably a very painful and messy affair. Unofficially I'm inclined to believe it one more symptom of decline into a reliance upon consumption that will bring us all to a sticky end.

Monday, October 24, 2016

English Language and Gender

For those who may be in interested in the gender of words, both the French and German Languages have concluded that Brexit is a masculine word. An excellent decision in my view. Also worth recalling recent explorations into the origins of the English Language. For years and years it was assumed that Angles and Saxons from the German part of Europe invaded the New Jerusalem, laid waste to the gentle Celts and the round table Arthurian type Romano Britons. They ravaged, pillaged and generally behaved like Vikings in their total disregard for the ethnic values of indigenous peoples. The result of course was a Dark Age, more than likely Satanic in nature, full of grief and horribleness. Sadly for this opinion, there's no actual evidence, outside of propaganda from the likes of Bede and Victorian Gentleman scholars to support the idea. More likely, newer theories suggest, the Anglo Saxon Invasion was a slow process of assimilation.

Certainly there were disagreements, some cattle and sheep raiding, but nothing that qualified as a Barbarian Invasion, slaughtering of the innocents and enslaving the survivors. One area of evidence for these newer ideas is in the English Language. We don't devote time to the gender of words, we don't make a big point out of the gender of words, we don't know that a Tomato is Feminine, and if we do, we don't make make an issue out of it. And the thing is had the English Language of today arrived to us as a result of conquest it would have retained the more Germanic devotion to the gender of nouns. Die Tomate in German is female. Now Welsh nouns do have gender, but in Welsh the softness of the distinction between boy and girl words are basically too damn subtle for the average foreigner. In the process of assimilation, the argument is, the English Language in a matter of fact and rather boring way just gave up on the whole idea of nouns having gender.

Sunday, October 23, 2016


No Cat in his or her right mind will greet a stiff breeze with anything other than disdain, and this is especially the case if the breeze contains a suggestion of chill. They'll peer from a warm doorway, rightly cast blame at the two legged for upsetting the elements, then they'll return with what remains of their dignity to one or other of many day beds where they'll sleep in glades of blanket until supper time. But the Girl Cat doesn't do this. She's either fascinated by the change of season or she might not actually be a properly adjusted Felis Catus Domestica and could indeed still have an inner Felis Sylvestris coursing through her veins, a demon just waiting to break every last rule in the Domestica book.

But I guess in our own species there are also both anomalous and eccentric behaviors. Take for example, an English Boarding School Rugby Master, or Coach in charge of character building. They are, or were, very fond of making people get half naked, yelling something about the Fields of Waterloo, then dragging everyone into the frigid outdoors and forcing them to run around in mud chasing oval shaped leather balls. It wouldn't have been so bad had the authority in question not seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the experience of risking hypothermia. In the end a person just has to accept the fact that creatures will follow their muse and if they do get stuck up a tree, or in the belly of a wolf, or mistaken for a Rabbit by Barred Owl, or roll around in Barn Dust then Kismet can be the only solace.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Winter Ground Cover

Rain, a little under three quarters of an inch of it, did the work of raising the late ground cover to leaf. There's a cold weather Oat, a Pea of some sort and Crimson Clover. It's the Oat that raises suspicion, it looks far too happy. An early ground cover of Turnip is already well established, it's got that kind of green that looks delicious, but the plants are very close together, no tribute to the gardener's capacity to broadcast daintily.

For a long time there's been an idea of planting Daikon Radish as a ground cover. It's not much in the area of nutrition for a person, it does offer Vitamin C. It's an East Asian cold weather Radish that has a good long root, kind of Carrot like. The point being that a good long root is useful in a ground cover and Radish, like Turnip melt down quickly after being dug in. Not sure what might happen to the Oat if digging weather resumes sometime next March.

Friday, October 21, 2016


Have to think Democracy is essentially about one thing, and that one thing is an agreement between the powerful that suggests rousing the populace then raising armies and laying waste to an opponent's territories is expensive and wasteful. Much better to avoid risking confiscation of property, imprisonment, and possible lynching by accepting the possibility of defeat and agreeing to do battle for votes. Mind you when King Alfred defeated Guthrum the Dane in battle, he didn't remove Guthrum's head, instead once the dead and been mourned Alfred gave Guthrum the flatter parts of East Anglia.

No doubt for Alfred there was an element of Obama-esque compromise in his sporting generosity, better the Dane you know in East Anglia than a brand new Fire Breathing Dane from Denmark with a real low opinion of Islanders being horrible to Saxons. Whatever the means to victory, and putting aside all attempts to analyze the issues and viewing the upcoming US Presidential Election as a particularly sectarian tribal gathering designed to chose the Paramount Kahuna, an Hawaiian word for a priest, a sorceress, or any general diviner of the tea leaves, interesting to speculate which of the current Presidential Candidates would be wisest in victory. Oddly I can see Donald giving Hillary something like Long Island or New Hampshire, and I can see Hillary telling Trump to go sit in a corner for the remainder of his days.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Rakia and Zena

"Glavni Kolodvor" is "Central Railway Station" in Croatian. "Rakia" of course is Brandy in Croatian, and woman is "Zena." Oddly enough in the Greek, the name Zena means Born of Zeus, god of sky and thunder.  Which does have certain "I don't know what." How or why your correspondent remembers these things rather than something useful, like his telephone number or the whereabouts of his Phillips Head Screw Driver, is far too depressing to contemplate.

But the point is, N scale is crying out for a Grand Central Railway Station. I picture a Transport Hub possessed by all the Victorian Virtues, and to give purpose to some of the more unnecessary things lodged inside me I'm going to call this magnificent edifice, with shunting yards and possibly a turntable, Glavni Kolodvor. Might even be spelled Kolodvar, three O's in a word is one too many, and for me at least the '..var' part make's it easier to remember.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016


We went to town today. Never easy for either of us. The Pick-up was fatalistic, I guess. Not really his problem should he suffer a mechanical failure, he just sits there in a most unashamed manner sneering at the younger ones, tries to appear rugged rather than unwashed when something sporty flits by. Then when that doesn't work he drops the odd hint about how important it is for a vehicle to thoroughly vet the Title Holder before embarking upon a relationship. For any one who might be curious a Title is proof of ownership in the more regimented parts of the world, it's a piece of paper basically and nowhere upon it is written The Charter of Vehicle Rights, which if there was such a thing could include "Wash my surfaces at least once every ten years."

When we reached town, we got nearly twelve gallons of gasoline for his tank and we got eight gallons for those internal combustion engines that spend much of their year sheltering from the elements inside the barn, a very wimpy lifestyle, but as I have explained, what with the Mice and stuff it's kind of scary in there and no one really wants to endure the ordeal of being forced to raise someone else's children in their manifold. On the trip home we both suddenly found ourselves possessed by some kind of demonic force. The straight road was empty of fellow road users and the next thing we both knew we were doing fifty eight miles an hour. And I can tell you this much, if I'd had a camera I'd have taken a photograph to document the moment. Fortunately Better Angels prevailed and we quickly returned to that civilized pace which so often irritates the more satanic of my fellow Title Holders.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Pick-Up Truck

Not certain where the greatest joys and sadness belong in the wide tapestry, but one thing which could belong somewhere in that exalted arena of human experience is turning a key in the ignition of a vehicle. The Angel of Greed had watched my numerous and sometimes clumsy efforts at the work of repair, he's ever critical, and from the beginning he's been keenly anticipating the prospect of this reach for heroism ending in yet another puddle of ennui that precedes an episode of terminal foot stamping followed by a dramatic decline into blob-like wretchedness. It's a facet of humanity the Angel of Greed is familiar with and he's very fond of witnessing, Bless him.

Having reconnected the battery, I sat in driver's seat, allowed myself a brief glimpse of a future that might include cheerfully taking the trash to the end of the lane. The pick-up truck sighed, he mentioned something about a slightly wider horizon, ice cream from the Grocery Store and he reminded me of the pleasure he gets from the parking area of the Hardware Store, a box of nails for old times sake. Then without anything that might be described as confidence he said "Give it a go." The Angel of Greed was gleeful from the doorway, and The Artist, recognizing elevated levels of tension in her house mate, was trying to pretend that she wasn't actually there. Either way, after a bit of a lie down I feel about ten years younger.

Monday, October 17, 2016


 Solace in the change of the Moon, it's a good time to plant root vegetables. A more immediate question is the relevance of Moon Phase in the fuel line repair business. This fuel line pretty much runs across the horizon, it doesn't go up toward the stars nor down toward the Inner Core.

Mind you, I have been told there's a way to slice Turnips if you want to keep them from going pink. From crown to root. Interesting, but no much help. Maybe I'll see a shooting star in the night sky, and I'll call that a beneficial augury for tomorrow's adventure into Quick Fit Couplings and Nylon fuel line.

Sunday, October 16, 2016


The Girl Cat is Princess-Like in her generosity. Donating to the larder in an often rather cavalier manner she'll leave her contribution where it may or may not be found by her Subjects.

Then if we're very lucky a dazed and distraught meat product will be left to wander around inside the domicile in order to extend its Eat By date. It gives her subjects something to do I suppose.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Monastic Order

Alright Guys! While under a recalcitrant pick-up truck admiring the incomprehensible nature of the mechanic's task your correspondent had what might be called a moment of inspiration. Saint Barbara is the Patron Saint of Artillery Men, so it's no wonder The Saint Barbara County Militia are so stubborn around their demand for a U-Boat in exchange for their cooperation in the ongoing NSTIP project (N Scale Track Improvement Program.) What we need is a balancing force and Saint Teresa, The Patron Saint of Headaches and Chess, just leapt into my mind. It was like a bright shiny star through the fog of morning and the fumes of gasoline. The answer, A Carmelite Monastery on the hill behind the New Red Bridge. Sadly, this could present a problem of authenticity for those of us who are reaching our limits of compromise and who are almost ready to address the horrible problem of picking up a telephone to ask a question of a Wrecker's Yard.

It's well known in certain quarters that all Saints after around 1066 are pretty much in the category of Modern Saint, they're not true saints, they are wishy-washy, dogma ridden, power hungry lunatics. And unlike a genuine and true Medieval Saint such as Saint Barbara who died in 306, Saint Teresa met her savior in the October of 1582. Some purists might say rude things about the assertion that Saint Teresa isn't a genuine saint. And they may well have a point. Certainly at a tender age Teresa ran away from home to find Martyrdom amongst the Moors, which many will consider a characteristic of Modern Saints, but the key words here are "at a tender age." And, I'd argue, there's no way a Carmelite Nun can be considered as "Trending Toward the Modern." Pretty certain Saint Barbara would be draped in I Pods, but certainly not Saint Teresa. Nor can you really see the Patron Saint of Headaches and Chess getting as worked up about having a U-Boat in the Gorge as someone like a Patron Saint of Artillery Men. A win-win, I think.

Thursday, October 13, 2016


There's "Waiting On A Part" currently occurring. It's a fairly restless experience accompanied by the sort of wild "Make Do" alternatives that end up causing even more damage. The only solution is intense diversionary activity.

 Nothing serious because two of the more noticeable symptoms of "Waiting On A Part" is an inability to concentrate and a dramatic reduction of the short term memory. It's down to about two minutes at the moment.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Moral Dilemma

One of the versions of Saint George slew a Dragon, or he might even have slayed a Dragon. The Dragon in question had made a home around a fresh water spring which was the source of water for a village. Every time a villager went with his pail to fetch water the Dragon would either chase the villager away or eat the villager. An impasse Saint George was able to solve with his lance. And the thing about Dragons is that in some imaginations they were wicked and inspired by the Devil to do evil things and anyone who chose a Dragon as their emblem had to be up to no good.

Well, I'm one of those sissies who never has been able to think killing Dragons an act worthy of Sainthood. It just never seemed right, but it really does add complexity to the problem of understanding what it takes to become a Saint. The Rabbit, in his own quest to be recognized as a Medieval Saint in one of his past lives upon earth has had a word in your writer of pulp's ear. He's mentioned Saint George's Dragon slaying incident in an attempt to level the playing field, he goes on a bit about forgiveness of sins and "for the good of the whole." Nor is it that easy for a writer of pulp to move away from his own bias in the interest in narrative.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Rear Wheel Removal

Some tension which required rear wheel removal. It's those compressed air impact wrenches, the kind that make men feel like men around lug nuts. Those of us who have elegant wrists and a Serbian capacity to cast down scorn upon impact wrench uses, always do find that a lug nut that's been visited by an impact wrench something of an effort to loosen.

On the darker side lie the manufacturers of fuel connectors. About them I have very little good to say. Some fuel connectors are basically little bits of perished plastic that require special tools to unloosen, so are probably easier to replace, which means cutting the fuel line. Nor do the manufacturers of motor vehicles grant any vehicle any more fuel line than is absolutely necessary at the point of manufacture. I call that uncaring.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Bed Removal

Pick-up Truck Bed Removal. Pretty technical term but we who live on the edge are not afraid of taking the Torx T55, a can of PB Blaster and beating up on a Pick-up truck.

More exciting of course is the Fuel Filler part of the Fuel Tank. It's an explosive mix in there, the home owner risks becoming embroiled in a Spontaneous Combustion. So it's all very exciting.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Henry VIII

Henry VIII, the second Tudor King, was a charismatic man, he affirmed and believed in an idea of the divine right of Kings, he reckoned he should also have been king of France, he put himself at the head of the Church of the Island Nation, he made a habit of accusing his closest advisors and some of his wives of treason, then executing them, he was always up to his neck in debt, he was very popular with the common people and he had no luck producing a male heir.

 His own vision was such that he had difficulty controlling his impulses. The road map for him was how best to suit his own interests, and confident he was in his ability to be correct despite a great many arguments to the contrary. Unintended consequences of his rule included a long reformation of ideas, some of them good, some of them not so good.  Henry VIII liked his food, he liked his stuff, and in the end he probably died of obesity. My own personal view of the Second Tudor king is that he was totally out of control and he reminds me of someone.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Pick-up Truck

It could well be a fuel pump, but it might not be a fuel pump. It could be any number of things. It could the nest of a Mud Dauber. I just don't think it's a fuse. Where to start, I do not know.

This is one of the many the complexities faced by the more recent iterations of the species I belong to. DC, DCC there's a whole range of them. It's a modern miracle any of us get out of bed in the morning.

Friday, October 7, 2016


A part of me firmly believes that I was correct about Latin. It seemed pointless, and arguments in support of learning to read and write Latin in the 1960's seemed equally pointless. It was almost like a sacred thing and to question the utility or purpose of learning Latin was sacrilegious, especially from the back of the class. Stranger still was the enthusiasm with which those proficient in Latin greeted Caesar's account of his Invasion of Gaul, soon followed by Caesar's account of his invasion of Britannia. In the back of the class we rooted for any Frenchman whose name ended in -rix and our own Caratacus might just as well have been Montgomery.

A person does get older, accepts the defeats of the ancient heroes, learns why roads have to be straight, is kind of grateful that he doesn't have to write in Phoenician Script, tries to avoid the error of assuming that Roman's were worse than the Normans. He makes compromises, attempts to be objective around Constantine's deathbed conversion to Christianity and then something wonderful happens. He reads that in 1993 a man called John Kenny, a Gaelic name if ever I heard one, became the first person to play the Carnyx in 2,000 years. It's a long Celtic war trumpet, the horn part looks like a dragon. Even better, in 2003 Kenny gave a solo performance of the Carnyx to 63,000 people in Paris. All I can say is what goes round comes round Julius.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Ancestors and the Dream World

There's often a jingoism amongst those who investigate the ancestors. Yet you can understand the discipline of men and women determined to approach the area academically, stand outside, search for an objective criteria, an obsession with artifacts, rather than just make stuff up in an effort to demonstrate a predetermined point. And oh the excitement following the dating of a particular kind of sword that might suggest the Island Celts were not simply an outlier of Continental Celts, they might just have been more innovative, better organized and so on.

Fortunately in the Sabean Genre there's no messing around with waiting for the discovery of an artifact, it's all in the Dream World that goes so far back it touches those days when our Ancestors first stared into the savannah. The majority of us in this day and age are reluctant to believe that Dreams are real, and I don't mean picket fences, ambition or possession of foreign investments, I mean the thing that sometimes happens when a person is asleep. In this day an age there are suggestions that dreams are interpretable and best to lie on couch discuss it endless in the hopes of a cure. But our ancestors believed that dreams were another place, as real as here and now. Can't prove it of course.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Druids, Witches and Wizards

A person can think of them as Priests if they wish to, it's an easy word to put into a context, but prior to the Roman invasion of the Islands inhabited by the clans of the Britons, Druids were an influential class that likely crossed the boundaries between tribes by owing their allegiance not to the earthly passions of Paramount Chiefs but to a set of ideas that dominated the dream world of Island Celts. Druids had no written word, it was down to memory and by some reckoning knowledge sufficient to be considered a Druid required a good twenty years of diligence. The no writing stuff down of course was a problem for future understanding, but it was more likely a union rule for Druids and if I think about it anything this side of a balance sheet when it gets written down can become red faced dogma for the Nitpick.

The Romans, in their wars against the Celts, considered them extraordinarily fearless and after the conquest of Celtic territory the Romans went to extreme lengths to persecute Druids, attempted to obliterate the memory of them. Naturally enough as the world moved on into the Industrial Revolution, the Age of Reason and so on, a certain romanticism grew around the idea of Druids. But Wizards and Witches, good and bad fairies, a oneness with nature perhaps, along with interesting outfits never quite undid a Roman and Christian Church propaganda that had nothing nice to say about Druids. Druids believed that when you died you went underground where you hung around for a bit and you returned again as another person. And if there is a point, the Witch of Ithaca was a Druid. Call her the Last Druid of The Silures, she becomes isolated a lonely, call her a Witch and she has a place in the way we think.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

New Horizon

Slight rearrangement in the room where I sleep. In short it's a new corner for the technical device, and I'll tell you this much, your correspondent is having a little trouble assimilating to the spot. He's got his Cowry Shell, his tooth, his nail clippers, his Wasp but there are no Dust Bunnies and the back drop is of a Sunset the photographer swore was un-embellished that keeps jumping out and saying "I am thoroughly embellished, sucker!"

But at this time of year it's important to be neurotically positive, so change is good, it was about time I swept up the thousands of Lady Bird corpses which had accumulated in the harder to reach interstitial spaces, and during the course of any major rearrangement of place there's always rediscovery of stuff thought lost as well as the odd conundrum. Who knew I had two nail clippers. Where the other pair came from I don't know, but it's very distracting and one of them has to go.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Sweet Potato

Sweet Potato crying out for assistance. All of a sudden it could get wet, very wet and this year Sweet Potato are in a somewhat boggy area. Not talking swamp with reeds and Redwing Blackbird, but there's some kind of flow in the land above the Sweet Potato that permits water to collect a while, develop an anaerobic potential which now that the chills are giving consideration to the empire of winter might not be good for Sweet Potato.

There's something about digging any kind of Potato that gives even the most dour of gardeners a certain thrill. It's like going on a bit of an adventure, and yet any kind of keen anticipation from a gardener is very much in the area of a "No-No." Odds are some Sweet Potato will be well nibbled, especially those nearer the surface, or located near a Mole run. It's not the Moles that do the nibbling you understand, it's those scampering fellows who are often tempted to take to the underground in the hopes of finding a convenience store.

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Politics of N Scale

Braith Bidder, (82) of Wirral Cottage has put a hex on the Commonwealth Railway Company. It's the last straw for those of us who are currently struggling with recalcitrance from Saint Barbara Militia around their U Boat. I've discovered they've been watching reruns of Das Boot and have declared an interest in Frauke Petry of the AFD, and without even asking I guess Petry is a somekind of politician who's making the most of cultural restlessness by the older farts in Germany.

 Meanwhile there is no train service to Saint Barbara, so a little fussing is only to be expected. In interest of wider curves The Gorge is currently undergoing renovation, it'll become more gorge-like. The very feeble Gorge Bridge has been removed and Saint Barbra's Bend has the beginnings of an additional line, this will require a trestle of some sort to take the lines west north west and back toward what might one day be civilization. Sadly this route, dictated by curves, makes a bee-line for the Station Master's vegetable plot, and understandably the Station Master is a little concerned. I would be too.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Last Knell

October isn't a month that lives in any sort of splendor. Just one man's opinion of course, and no doubt there are some who might suggest that there are many wonderful things about October. Nor is November one of those months that jumps off the calendar and says "Look at Me I'm a Sandhill Crane," but again I guess there are some who might think November is a real gem of a month.

 December has its own set of issues but you can't really blame December for them, the Festive Season was sort of foisted upon December by the more agriculture practices of northern dwelling stone age farmers. Then if you think about it in an honest and realistic sort of way, instead of desperately grasping for more positive vibrations, there's not much to be said for any of the next five months and yet we try.