attention to



again. Everything is politics


have a couple of ‘Pages’ attached.

One of them, (in a form anyone can read) is written more or less as child-lit. Kid-lit, call it what you will. I first drafted it before the great J K Rowling hit the shelves so although you may find similarities there’s no plagiarism involved. She made a bundle, I flubbed, but that’s the way of it and I won’t (can’t~!) complain. Dammit …


tale I encapsulated a lifetime’s observations with a few bits of cynical thought. But the premises are valid and I challenge anyone to dispute them:


—and for anyone not au fait with the British way of English, Swindleham isn’t pronounced “Swindle Ham”.  It’s actually “Swindle ’em” …

falls off a pale horse





have wot? Oh, yes—seen photographs that on face value carry one message but on closer persus perussa  look make you think more deeper.

Like these from Pinterest. I hate/loathe/detest Pinterest ‘cos I slightly dislike their method—baited hooks indeed.

Fie on them!

Oops … rant finished, where were we? Oh yes—

Screen Shot 2017-08-30 at 21.30.19.png

—a bit dated in appearance, but still also a bit amusing.

Obviously ‘trick’ photography in the apparent day, or tweaked Photoshoppery of our own day; or (horrors!) genuine. Brrr.


that one is no longer permitted to clamber all over the pyramids. It makes good sense—ever since that tourist fell off one that time and his life expectancy shrank from years to milliseconds on the way down.


obviously too dangerous for the modern adventurer, hence the ban. Even for wimmin. Okay, girls can do anything—play golf too, it seems—now take a closer look at the right side image: very attractive smile, but did she really climb all the way to the top of the GP of E in that tight skirt?

Did she tuck it into her knickers, or take it off completely, replacing it for the photo once on the summit? Maidenly modesty is history?

Were they delivered by helicopter for a publicity shot? Did she carry her own sack of clubs up there, or did the Araby caddy guy carry them for her?*

Questions, questions, always blasted questions … being of waning interest I asked The Oracle (Google) and the first try brought forth into the world this—

Screen Shot 2017-08-30 at 21.59.07.png

—and feeling the heat of a low doppler fox I tried again, scoring this—

Screen Shot 2017-08-30 at 21.59.47.png

—at which point I decided I’d had enough of this silly game and will go back to researching the Serapeum (that isn’t a load of bull) …


* Wow~! Four consecutive words ending with a ‘y’. Hah~!



AKA BB D 2.png

“Beam me up, Scotty—


—there’s not a great deal of intelligent life down here~!”


our little idiosyncrasies. Some of us even dedicate our lives to idiot-syncrasies, which is more than doubleplus ungood.

Like wee cutie, here   ——>

who seems to have slipped the leash back in chapter 1. I no longer trust anything I read in modern media, it could be simple typos (nothing wrong with that if no wars are started because of them) or even the deplorable state of modern journalism. By way of anticipating rebuttitive squawks I offer this verbatim snippet —

Though her eyes are naturally large, she wears contact lenses to enhance them, boosting the size of her iris from 13.5cm to 16.2cm …

—and leave it for you to make any decisions (although I am reminded of a sketch in a Billy Connolley show where he convinces his short-sighted Dad that ‘prescription windscreens’ would obviate the need to wear glasses when driving—

“…but can you imagine the effect on a driver coming the other way? …

‘Eek! What the f**k is that~!?

Damn. He tells it much better than I. Perhaps it really is just a proofing error, the mind would boggle otherwise. Anyway, here’s your link:  CLICK HERE

And if you do go there be prepared to gast your flabbers …


BB D 3.png

And now, with a set precedent preceding me: I wonder how much it would cost to have my own visage enhanced …





President Trump invited the Pope for lunch on his mega yacht – the Pope accepted and during lunch a puff of wind blew the Pontiff’s hat off, right into deep water.

It floated off about 50 feet, then the wind died down and it just floated in place. The crew and the secret service were scrambling to launch a boat to go get it, when Trump waved them off, saying “Never mind, boys, I’ll get it.”

The Donald climbed over the side of the yacht, walked over to the hat, picked it up, strolled back, climbed into the yacht and handed the Pope his hat.

The crew was speechless. The security team and the Pope’s entourage were speechless.

No one knew what to say, not even the Pope.

That afternoon, NBC, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, CNN reported:








or wotever. On my favourite blogs some interesting philosophical viewpoints are exchanged. This being WordPress, exchanged in a seemly manner …


touched obliquely on the topic of immortality. I was reminded of a short story I bombed out with in 2003, and after much rabbiting about in the deeper regions of my hard drive tonight eventually I found it.


and anyone who can be bothered (not many make it through to the end, I tells ya) it is. Read it and ponder—



He called me a vindictive witch just once too often.

Vindictive? No … possessed of a well-developed sense of justice, maybe, but hardly vindictive.

All I ever want from life is a fair shake of the dice. Cheats always make my stomach hurt. Seeing a rat like him pervert the system to fleece the innocent made me want to spit. Having him use the system against me was even worse.

The biggest mistake of my life was marrying him.

The second biggest mistake was expecting a fair deal in the divorce, he is a lawyer. Sure, I fought tooth and nail for my rights, and fell completely. There was nothing I could do — the final ruling wrapped me so tight I squeaked and left me with nothing. I had to go to him, cap-in-hand, and beg. It’s hard to be vindictive when you’re humble.

Vindictive? No, definitely no.


Oh, yes.

I’m a witch.

Not your traditional ‘black cat and broomstick’ witch, more your 20th century witch—high tech and hold the eye of newt.

I do have a cat, though. She is my beloved familiar and has been with me since I was a little girl; she is my family, my darling, and now my whole world.

As far as witches go I am successful despite the choice of husband (even witches can be blind sometimes.)

He knew, of course — the slimeball knew I was a witch, right from our wedding night. Some things had to be explained, and of course he wanted proof.

Well, one thing led to another, and his wealth multiplied as a result. Not that I minded. What witch wouldn’t want to be married to a highly successful lawyer, top of his field?

But as time went by his demands grew, and grew, taking over until he was utterly obsessed by his own ambitions. The more he prospered by my efforts the more I saw what he really was, and the more I grew to despise him.

But there was one thing I always denied him, one thing he coveted above all else. There was this one thing he craved, for which he pleaded, threatened, bullied and begged. This I would never grant, no matter how much he groveled or blustered. Sure, it was within my power, and his desperate efforts to force it became the final nails in our marital coffin.

So, just as he’d planned, I went to him on my knees, begging.

He was munificence itself. Sure, I could have access to the house. Sure, I could take my things away—my Book of Shadows, my waxes, my herbs, my robes and iron dagger. Sure, I could even have the house itself, if I wanted. I could have the house and pool, the garages and buildings, the trees and gardens, the stables and fields and woods and beach. Sure, I could have the cars and bank accounts and investments, he would relinquish all claims to everything … if only …  if only I would make him immortal.

Of course I said no.

So he called me a vindictive witch.

Vindictive I have never been. But I, too, have a limit, and can be pushed just so far. He pushed me too far with those words on top of everything else.

So I gave him what he wanted.

He was over the moon with my decision. Overcome with emotion, tears streaming down his face, blabbering with gratitude — gave me everything. Lock, stock, barrel and bolt.

The fool!

Sure, it cleaned him out. But he knew, and I knew, that even if it took a lifetime he would recoup his losses. In three lifetimes he could be the richest man in the world. In four lifetimes he might be ruling the world. We both knew that.

The imbecile!

He’d thought that by withholding immortality I was being vindictive. But vindictive didn’t come into it — not until he pushed me a little bit too far. Vindictive only began once I’d given him what he wanted.

He wanted immortality, “the same as you witches”. 

Immortal? I’m not immortal. No witch is immortal. Sure, we could be, we can choose to live for hundreds, sometimes thousands of years, but no witch would ever be immortal. Given the choice of immortality or instant death, every witch in the world would opt for death at once, without hesitation.

Immortality, that ancient dream of mankind—and this oaf thought I’d withheld it from spite! Hell, I wouldn’t wish that dream on my worst enemy. Not even on him. Not until he threatened to let my cat starve slowly to death, locked in his house … and then I saw red.

So I granted his wish.

Certainly, he will prosper.

He is too clever to fall in love.

He will enjoy thousands of years of affairs and adventures, but will never be fool enough to love. In a hundred years, lonely or otherwise, he will be one of the wealthiest men on earth. His personal accounts will rival those of sovereign nations; and centuries of endless success and adulation will never tire him.

He will be enjoying the fruits of my labours aeons after I am gratefully dust myself. Millennia after I have shuffled off this mortal coil he will be drinking the finest wines and sleeping with the cream of the world’s women. Long after my atoms have dispersed on the winds of time and change he will be fearlessly conquering anything anyone can throw at him. And why not?

He is immortal.

As part of the package I made him invulnerable as well. Nothing in the universe can harm him. He stands at the very peak of development, too, physical and mental. His brain is razor sharp, perceptive, brilliant; and he is the perfect specimen of manhood. He has it all.

The idiot. 

He won’t begin to see the cracks until several million years have passed. By then he won’t even remember my name, but my atoms will be laughing, laughing, laughing.

Laughing as the sun slows down, expanding as it cools. Laughing as our friendly little star becomes a swollen red giant, drying up the waters of this planet, killing off all life.

All life-forms, that is, except one.

The surviving perfect specimen of Homo Sapiens will be able to reach out his lonely arm from the seared surface of our planet and touch the face of the sun itself, so obscenely large will it have grown as it dies.

His agonies will last for billions of years more, then billions of aeons, until in about three trillion trillion years the universe collapses inwards upon itself in a reversal of the Big Bang from whence it sprang.

Eventually it will collapse into a singularity, a dimensionless point of infinite mass. Somewhere in that nowhere will be a demented yet perfectly formed human being, alone and endlessly screaming in the midst of an eternal non-existence.

Vindictive witch, he’d called me.


But vindictive … … ?

— END —

—or not. Your call …



for the wonky perspectives (you just try taking a better one of the old church~!). Here, have a nice motto too—

Screen Shot 2017-01-23 at 20.37.40.png

—snapped by moi when the church was being repaired after (wait for it~!) a wee fire. Hang around, the tale gets better …


 to set the scene. My Latin is a bit rusty so I googlised the motto and Google came up with more or less what I thought anyway, so let’s hear it—


“Yet it was not consumed”


—which sadly for the padre and his faithful flocks isn’t exactly accurate.  But first, again, to further set the scene—

Windsor churcg, was.png

—this shot was taken of the attractive wee shack when it still existed.

Before the fire.

Before the ‘repairs’

Before the plug was finally pulled and the patient taken off life support because it was ‘earthquake prone’.


lost, the site (still empty) was utilised this year for Windsor’s very own Christmas tree—


—which Google Maps if applied will show us where we are, thus:

Screen Shot 2017-01-23 at 23.38.50.png

image from Google Maps

devil-1—and it all gets a bit complicated. Being a dum’ ol’ dog I’m easily confused by apparent contradictions, as in the now completely disappeared (gone, but not forgotten) motto stating that “despite the flames nothing was destroyed” versus the damaged-by-fire (and now completely gone) building that so proudly hosted that very sign.

Never mind, the tree looked nice …

… and I’m pretty sure it must be fire and earthquake proof.




WPC: Path


is as good as arrest. But stay on the right path—


—and you are in line to be creamed. Even better then to get off the path and keep clear of the beaten track … at least then you don’t become part of someone’s tyres. Or as they say in America “You won’t get tired.”


you may have seen before but at Christmas we all get our chance to recycle. Today’s gorgeous wrappings are tomorrow’s bin fodder, no?

Moving on—


—the theme of the Challenge is ‘path’. Here we have the path traced by a crittur quite some time ago, a track left by a sea snail of some kind about a hundred million years back. I found it at Gemstone Beach and snaffled it from the many oodles just like it and identified it from a tourist guide book specialising in such. The piece is actually quite hard and a lot more robust than you might think.

Moving on—

test the path.png

The Spouse of the species, knowing that somewhere around here lies—

(a) a path (yes, please) and

(b) a wee creek (glug, glug and no, thanks) …

—but she can’t remember which is where, exactly.

Moving on—

road to infinity.png

A path to infinity. I remember from many years ago something to the effect that parallel lines never meet. And in another place some philosophically minded berk mathematician boldly stating that parallel lines meet at infinity. Ergo: Path to the infinite.

And now, for them wot likes ducks—


—have a nice duck.

He was making his own path through the waters when I shot him. Blame Maria (Bess) for bringing to my notice that a rotated (duck) can resemble a monstrous monster, so it’s all her fault. (Until then I was innocent, now I can’t see ducks without seeing monsters.)