My mother-in-law is a serious gardener. Honestly, she has an amazing garden and is ther person to ask about where to plant what (so that, for instance, my lavender is a container because the clay of the soil would make it so unhappy). But she doesn't like cherry trees. She thinks they are showy and only for a brief period of time. This from a woman who grows asparagus for decorative purposes!

Well, I haven't done the current meme with the whole National Poetry Month (possible because I don't think it is national poetry month here) but as the gale force winds were buffeting the car, I thought of this poem. And I do like Cherry Trees.

Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now. of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

-- A.E. Housman (1859-1936)

Alas, of my years, threescore and ten, almost twoscore will not come again. And a pick hat tip to the woman who introduced me to this poem a good quarter of a century ago, once again in spring.

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I know, I know, I promised a post on snooker. And I will post on snooker. And John Virgo and Matthew's pink hair and well back to my Gimme a Break fantasy. I also am suffering the urge to blog about how the Girl's Brigade is undermining my life. But I felt as I had asked what my ideal question for interview would be, I should give you the model answer, which came from the person who used to perform the job...

Yes and the model answer would have been:-
"He is indeed cool in an off hand, cynical, bored with life kind of way
but in my opinion Warrick is still the coolest whilst Grissom proves
again he is the best CSI supervisor (followed by Mack Taylor"

And for extra, extra points state - "Det Aiden Burn NYPD CSI is the
hottest!!!"
I now love her...

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I really want to blog about snooker. Yes, its that time of year again. And I know, I am not the fan I used to be. I don't approve of the fashion of not wearing white shirts. I am amazed that Steve Davis is still playing (and so well, and not so dully, is this an alternative universe?). I am pleased that Ronnie has cut his hair and no longer looks like a Big Girl's Blouse. And of course I hope that Paul Hunter's chemo treatments go well. But, alas this is not the post about Stevens or Higgins, how I always wanted to be on Gimme a Break!, or even what Greenwood said to me last night. Instead I am forced to blog about my family.

My sisters are evil. And not in a grand style. Or an entertaining style. No, they are evil in a little tiny annoying but still evil way. Went to Wales last week. Long weekend. Get away from work. Relax a bit. Drink too much red wine. Etc. Etc. Did have a lovely meal in Conway and not in the fish and chip place I usually go to. No, went to a place I read a review about in the Saturday Guardian. I would definitely recommend the side of broccoli with Welsh rarebit. But then I would recommend anything there. But halfway through the trip, the older sister had a major falling out with her live-in partner that involved possible abuse against a child and some truly horrible verbal abuse and lots of drama. Which I am slowly dealing with. Upset me in all sorts of ways for all sorts of reasons. Anyway, that was more pathetic than completely evilness. But Roberta was supposed to be flying back to France last Friday. She couldn't because she needed to look after sister's three four children as the older sister had to go to England to help out the younger sister. I thought it was something to do with presenting a business plan to a bank manager to set up a business. No, I have just discovered, as did Roberta that actually the younger sister needed the older sister to pick her up from hospital because she had just had liposuction done on her knees. Oh and her thighs. I am not sure what surprises me more. That the three (two sisters and Barry) had to keep the secret from their mother. That the younger sister had tried to get her dad to fly over from France to pick her up. That she managed to completely disrupt her sister's life to get her to pick her up. Or even, and I the lonely person I am, am taken aback by this, that the younger sister didn't have anyone else, a friend, or something living closer than five hours driving away that could pick her up, take her home and feed her oranges and antibiotics for a few days. I don't know, maybe I am unreasonable. But I prefer to think that my sisters are evil. I think it has also managed to turn what was actually quite a horrible, awful situation, into a farce. Won't be going back to Wales anytime soon.

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Yesterday I was going to blog about a quiz that said I should vote for labour. But this is better.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: The Nail Gun of Compassion.

Get yours.

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So My Mother worries about Me
Years ago my mother bought me one of these for Christmas but before she gave it to me, she took it out of the box, looked at it, and decided it was too dangerous (and let's get a little crazy American persepctive on this, my little brother when he turned 12, was given a semi-automatic rifle by his boy scoutmaster). She boxed it up and returned it. She just had visions of me slicing my fingers off. Still, spending too much time in kitchen shops, looking for potential gifts, she came across a green plastic version and decided as it was green and plastic and called neon! it couldn't possibly be as dangerous as the one she had before. I let it sit in its box for years. I took it out last night to cut a cucumber into thin strips. It was fantastic! I can't believed I waited so long to try out such a useful piece of silly chef equipment. No, I didn't lose any fingers. But those blades, forget the plastic, those blades are still dangerous. I just won't tell my mother.

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I'll admit that I have had the occasional good-natured argument in the office lately about whether or not there was too much pope. I didn't mind the funeral or indeed the retrospectives after his death before the funeral and I have a major soft spot for the college of cardinals and the whole white smoke business. But I did think the deathwatch of the pope in the last few days of the pope's life was a little overboard. Anyway, I am home Friday, recovering from the whole interviewing experience (don't ask) and well the H opines that surely the popes can't trace themselves back to the original Peter and I think, well yes, I suspect they can and well out came google and a lovely place where you can get a poster of all the popes but even more exciting was the wikipedia entry. I love Pope Formosus. Presbyterians really suck at alll the interesting bit of religion. They never have a Cadaver Synod.

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Happy Blogiversary to me! No, really I know no one reads this blog but I am amazed that I am still at it a year on. And well if we think back to what inspired me...

So, I am over at Crooked Timber, taking a quiz that means nothing to me, and it appears I am Tyrion Lannister, not Ned Stark. And I suppose I can live with being a clever evil dwarf but what are these books? Am I missing something? Should this go on the summer reading list (lot of time in airplanes, who knows how much time in airports)? Who knows.

And well, I am a bit stressed. Lots of work. Again. We are actually interviewing for a couple of posts today and tomorrow and while going over the questions and the model answers (here's a hint, the Review of Public Administration is really, really important) I realise that this wouldn't really test candidates in a way that would indicate approbriateness to wrok with me. I feel quite strongly that a good interview question would be, "How cool is Brass?" I, of course, think he is way cool, even cooler than Warrick but I could be open to alternative beliefs. I am open-minded. Well, as long as we aren't discussing the genius of Elvis.

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Because DeLong is sublime on the beauty of books (and well, he quotes nicci too!)

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I hate my oven. No, really I do. It is fan-assisted and I can not come to grips with it. I keep burning things. Now, maybe this is my fault because I don't cook enough with it to figure out why it burns things and how to compensate. Though, I think those well overdone vegetables at the week-end were partly the fault of the guests who were a good hour later than I expected. There I was, in post-lent mode, trying to entertain and thought I would roast the vegetables and have them all prepared ahead of time so that I could sit down and talk to my guests. Be civilised so to speak. Instead, little black squishy things and overdone pita breads too. Good thing we had all those tortilla chips and the ben and jerry's ice cream. But it means I think I must well and truly give up on my dreams of trying out for masterchef. And this last edition of masterchef? Well, it scared me silly. Though I am also the person who wanted to grow up and be Lloyd Grossman. Be employed to taste food and poke around people's house? Sign me up please. And a pony too!

If you are trying to keep track, topics of conversation:
pre-destination, ghosts and does god really exist.
drinks: vanilla diet coke, champagne cocktails and vodka sours (and I always had a bit of a soft spot for Kid Creole).

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