Jones is home. She made a flying visit to the UK at the weekend to see three art exhibitions of particular interest. Here she is with Lucia, entering the portals of Tate Britain.
The gallery is staging an exhibition of the works of David Hockney, an artist whose pictures she's been admiring since the 70s. The other two exhibitions were mounted at the Royal Academy, one entitled America after the Fall and the other Russian Art 1917 - 1932. She thought it the the best. So, she says, did Llewellyn.
As I don't have much to say this week, I'll leave it mainly to the pictures. Here's Jones in her garden, taking a close-up shot of a flower. Note (below) the bird feeder on a stump behind her and the bird bath a little further to the right, both popular stops with the local avian community.
I had taken the picture from inside the house.
As you see, it's well framed. We've been listening to the latest revelations of CIA monitoring. These days one never knows who's watching, listening or recording.
While my wife was absent the wind did a lot of vigorous blowing and the skies did a lot of raining, along with some flashing and thundering. Although the garden was grateful, the dogs didn't like it at all (nor did I particularly). So the bed got a bit crowded at night. Jones says it's a good thing she was away.
The rain paused long enough each day for us to get out of the house; if the skies were menacing, we confined ourselves to the park, within easy reach of shelter. The park is our extended wild garden, an enclosed acre of rocks, trees and scrub. Bobby poses for a picture. He's a handsome fellow and he knows it.
During one of these outings I was delighted to come across this fine Early Purple orchid in the park. Some of the orchids are difficult to identify. Jones's advice is not to name them lest more knowledgeable people correct us. Fortunately, Early Purples are distinctive.
In my English class on Monday we discussed proposals to further soften Portuguese legislation on the use of cannabis. Most of my pupils hesitated to express a view, pleading lack of information, but one fellow was firmly opposed to it - and to anything that might become an open door for vice. He didn't even approve of the consumption of alcohol (because all drugs led to people staggering around out of control). If he became President, I told him, I was emigrating.
This clever Jones photo is not of a hill, as might seem at first glance, but of the late afternoon shadow of our hill across the valley. Ten out of ten!
THE BABES AT THE COMMUNITY CENTRE GO FOR A WALK IN THE FIELDSOn Tuesday Peter arrived to set up speakers and an amp, with a view to improving our TV sound. It is certainly a much more impressive sound for his efforts and our outlay, especially when we are listening to music. However, it becomes clear to us that the quality of sound depends at least as much on the recording as one's audio equipment.
FIXING ANOTHER CHEWED PILLOW
On Wednesday, summer arrived in a rush. For the first time this year we went walking in shirtsleeves (in a manner of speaking). We had to persuade ourselves of the benefits of lighting a fire that evening. Ditto on Thursday evening. Afternoon temperatures are reaching into the upper 20s. Already the air conditioner in the car is earning its summer living.
Friday morning: We are back from a warm walk, a newly-extended 5 km hike through the hills. At one point a bee got tangled in Jones's hair and when I chased it out, it gave me a hard time. You can't reason with bees. The walk takes (me) a sweaty hour. Afterwards, I hang my damp shirt and vest on the line and put on yesterday's shirt and vest, both well dried in the sun. Mini has not yet returned. Jonesy, who cannot bear the tension of her absence, has gone up the hill to look for her.
An hour after the rest of us, Mini comes bursting through the gate and up the stairs, demanding a treat. (She gets one.) Now she's lying exhausted on the floor. Only she knows where she's been. I tell Jones that if we leave them alone, they'll come home (dragging their tails behind them). It's a philosophy she'd like to adopt but she's not capable.
And then there's the rigmarole of feeding Barri twice a day. As much as she still loves her walks, she shows no interest in food. Ever more delicious treats are produced in an effort to persuade her to eat. One wonders whether there is method in her madness.
No comments:
Post a Comment