Harp in Leicester

Harp in Bedford.

Cannabis scratch and sniff cards. Or should that be scraff and snitch!

                             

Hilarious!

I read today in the Guardian that the charity 'Crimestoppers' is to circulate cannabis scented scratch and sniff cards in order to help the public identify pot farms for the police. Full article HERE

Phineus T, Fat Freddy and Freewheelin Franklin must be laughing their heads off at this, not to mention Fat Freddy's cat who likes nothing more than a snaff and scritch.

Potheads around the country will be eyeing little old ladies (handbags stuffed with the cards) with a new sense of amazement.

And a new term is coined: the scraff and snitch card!

Notting Hill to have 'Literary Festival'.

According to an article in the standard Notting hill is about to have its own literary festival over the weekend of the 10th - 12th of april.

My inner cynic is screaming at me that it will probably consist of estate agents reading from their brochures, yummy mummies reading from menus and bankers bigging up their bonus reports.

The organiser is literary agent Laetitia rutherford so my inner cynic may be slightly off the mark.

We'll see.

Baby Pigeons.

It is often said that you never see baby pigeons in London.

This is what they look like!

The Notting Hill Promise.

Sea horse found in Iceland fish burgers!

Oi vey!

Scientists have discovered traces of sea horse in Icelandic fish products including burgers, steaks and fingers.

Ford anglia. Portobello Road.

Dolphins with icicles.

Morgan Le Faythful, Marianne and memories.

Back in the 60's this is the kind of thing I spent my pocket money on. It was commissioned by the Sunday Times from Peter Blake and it is of course Marianne Faithful. I sent off my postal order for 2 shillings and sixpence  and from then on this poster hung above my bed.

Jake Emlyn. NEW DAY.

I met Jake a couple of years ago, he did a show at the Tabernacle.

It is good to see someone move on in such an original way.

He will be big!

Boiling Water.

I walked away from it and headed north.

Towards evening on the second day the snow came, 
two hours later I was seeking shelter. 
Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  
I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; 
a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow 
from someone coming from the north; 
small footprints, 
a woman or a child.

The cave was lit only by the fire 
enough for me to see the woman, 
dressed in grey, 
sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, 
a woman from an unknown tribe, 
sitting, 

heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony 
laid out on a rock.

Startled but unafraid she silently watched 
I found myself a place to rest opposite her, 
the fire between us. 
In perfect English she said: 
'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.
A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 
'Then you must leave'.

We sat in silence but for the fire 
as something foreign to us both crept into the cave 
settled within us. 

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. 
We sat on in silence.

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. 
we sat on in silence.

Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. 
Finally, having covered me in a blanket, 
she lay nearby. 
We slept.

I awoke to find her making coffee. 
We talked; 
each to the other brought magic.

On the second morning we departed, 
heading South.

In the cave on the fire rested the pot of water. 

Singing as it boiled.

Dead Tutus.

As the ballerina grows she sheds her tutu to grow anew
and as she ages the tutu changes colour
from the gaudy candy floss pink of youth
to the white of her prime.

Quite often these discarded tutus
can be found at night
in the lanes and alleys of Covent Garden
especially after an arduous Swan Lake!