Happy New Year

According to the media, this is the time of year to make changes to your life.  The newspapers are ironically bloated with ways to lose weight and undertake other activities designed to better you in a socially improved manner.  Brave indeed would be the glossy magazine that proclaimed ‘fuck it, 2014 is the year when it’s OK to spend the entire day in your pyjamas - you can combine a lie-in with an early night so you only really have to rationalise the late morning early afternoon hump’ or, ‘want to de-clutter?  Throw out those cook books – takeaway leaflets use up so much less space’.

Other ideas revolve around walking, cycling and fresh air.  Handy if you live within walking distance of a coastal path, not so great otherwise.  Often there are walking routes which culminate in a charming country pub.  The reality is that for most of us our walking route is the shortest route to the nearest pub, where charm is balanced against convenience.  The only time the gym is mentioned in 2014 is in the money pages, where the advice is to quit your membership as studies show that when you did go last year, you spent most of your time in the hot tub.  Fatty.

Unlike a landmark birthday, which often prompts one to consider starting to do something and stopping doing other things (starting to make old man noises when rising or sitting for instance, or stopping being able to tolerate Radio 1), the New Year is a collective experience and so there is much greater support for starting juggling and stopping smoking.

Last year, I rested the blog.  Not the result of a resolution or even really an active consideration.  I could write that like a farmer I wanted to leave the area of my musings a fallow year to recover and come back more fertile than ever.  But that’s bollocks.

Anyway, unsurprisingly, the world continued to produce events that were worthy of comment.  Popes retired, former Prime Ministers and Presidents passed away and oh my suffering Christ Operation Yewtree caused the greatest amount of retrospective damage to cherished childhood memories since the release of Star Wars Episode I.

At times like this, Twitter just doesn’t cut it.  The problem with tweeting is that you can’t build up a full head of steaming rant in 140 characters including spaces and grammar.  If you read Twitter posts about events, it’s like watching a conversation between people learning a language at elementary level: ‘The Pope has resigned and it is a shock.’  ‘I am shocked that the Pope has resigned, this does not normally happen.’  ‘Has the Pope resigned because of Operation Yewtree?  LOL.’  ‘Don’t say that about the Pope, the Pope is a great man’.  ‘Now he’s not, he wears a dress.’

And so on.

So, time to blog again.  About what, I have no idea, but my New Year prediction is: food, drink, social media, social irrelevances and that firm favourite - minor issues that outrage me to the point of incoherence.

A bloggable offence - kebab couple

So what goes in a blog? Easy, if you have a themed blog, reviewing sandwiches (especially exciting at seasonal holidays when festive flavours and 'special editions' are on offer, who can forget the 'Sandwich Nook' festive offering from Christmas 2008; the 'Lapland loaf' that, when the filling was discovered, became known as the 'red Rudolph' and known to parents as 'the reason my child cried to the point of dehydration'. Ill advised as it was to use an animal that appears on Christmas cards as a sandwich filling, that was as nothing to the fuss their 'Wind in the willows' triple decker caused. That, and the surprising discovery many made that lots of people are allergic to badger, is the reason you don't see any 'Sandwich Nook' shops on the high street any more) or something where your stimulus is supplied on a regular basis. More problematic where the blog is about as focused as a fog bank, but less of a problem if your supply of happy pills has dried up and you can find something to be articulately outraged about on a daily basis and use the blog as a therapeutic rant which doubles as an economic measure, relieving you of the necessity of purchasing a stamp to mail your paranoid ramblings to the Daily Telegraph, or more likely from the stress-inducing deadlines one faces as a columnist on the Daily Mail.

I like themed blogs. I love those blogs that review things, like toilet roll or instant pot meals, and really love the enthusiasm and delight that the writers convey when, having exhausted the supply of martial on the shelves of national chain supermarkets, they discover regional chains and independents selling different brands, then start buying foreign brands on the internet. I'm not sure what I'd like to review least, an instant pot meal from an unlikely country with a GDP measured in goats that hasn't had an election since the British packed up and left, or toilet roll from the sort of place where the President gets driven around in a stretch tractor and the currency is a root vegetable. All I know is, if I had eaten the former, I'd be grateful for a large supply of the latter.

Ultimately, when not blogging about something; a favourite television show, books, films, comics, chocolates, rabbits, hinges, wigs, shoes, ducks, being left handed in a right handed world, having one of those blogs where you record a something-of-the-day like your poo or your kids' paintings or something else that really, really, really, is only of interest to you and even then should not be of that much interest, or if you just post occasional pictures of kittens, then blogging tends to be about nothing. A random thought, experience or image captured forever and recorded for posterity.

Like the other night, in the kebab shop.

I like my kebab shop. I know the chaps, the chaps know me. We grunt our greetings and at Christmas exchange mumbled compliments of the season. I don't go to the kebab shop for social intercourse, I go to the kebab shop for a kebab, or occasionally a burger, and for chips. The kebabs really are excellent and I should clarify that they are not purchased when I'm drunk or consumed when weaving down the street leaving a trail of dropped onion slices, the snail trail of the kebab consuming inebriated, but rather provide a delightful alternative to cooking ones own dinner and, importantly, bring a touch of that 'going out for dinner' sensation but with the added bonus that one can eat dinner at home (and my idea, Dragons, is for a restaurant chain where the seating is not the traditional table and chair set up, but rather a sofa, a telly and a couple of trays, and which will serve customers who wish to wear pyjama bottoms).

This night the couple ahead of me in the kebab shop looked young, groomed, and in that stage of their relationship where personality kinks are endearing rather than bloody irritating. Giggling like freshly medicated loons and touching each other like a pair of grooming monkeys, they eventually made their choice of supper.

A kebab.

To share.

It was, I think, difficult to decide what it was about their behaviour that I found most contemptible, hence the blog entry, to order my thoughts.

That a man would share his kebab is bad. That any self-respect woman would be seen with a man who would share his kebab is bad. That when faced with the 'let's just order one portion and two spoons' challenge, the bloke folded, is bad - but understandable, he will learn later that it's better to put a stop to that kind of behaviour early on rather than have to explain at some later date that he ordered the cheesecake because he wants a slice of cheesecake, and that if she also wants cheesecake, then please tell the nice man with the order pad that she wants cheesecake, not an extra spoon, unless she intends to help herself from food from a neighbouring table, because she sure as hell isn't getting any cheesecake and...why are you crying?

Written down, I realise that my thoughts were as mean as they were unnecessary. On balance it's better that young couples touch each other in kebab shops and, presumably, feed each other morsels of kebab once home. I expect to find kebabs, burgers, chips, a warm welcome and slightly shameful fellow customers at the kebab shop, I don't expect to find romance. So maybe my reaction was shock.

But I maintain that it's a bad idea to share your kebab.

Guest blogger - Merry Christmas from the cook

Christmas – a time of good food, good cheer, letting out the belt one more notch and trying out novelty hangover cures in the desperate hope that something, anything, will work, even if it involves using half a bottle of very-out-of-date tabasco.

The big event at the big house is the Christmas Feast on Boxing Day. Looking round at the kitchen following the Christmas Feast at the big house, one cannot help but feel an odd combination of pride and disquiet.

The Christmas Feast is not exactly what one would call a comfortable environment for vegetarians, or nutters as they are known locally, as the remains of the carcasses (or ‘off cuts’) of various beasts lay strewn about the place, and cauldrons, pots, pans, glazing tins, scrapers, prongs, tongs, prodders, pokers, chafing dishes, warming pans, peelings, leavings, doings, makings, letfovers, plates, side plates, adjacent plates, ladles, bowls, and platters lie variously stacked, scattered and slumped around the place.

The atmosphere though can be said to be one of mellow contentment as the kitchen staff rest in the knowledge that the guests have just consumed the last course and there is nothing more to do for the next two hours, when a cold buffet and sandwich platters have to be prepared, and I as head cook have no chore other than drink an entire bottle of cooking sherry and reflect on a job well done.

Christmas is always a very big occasion at the house and hence requires a great deal of preparation in the kitchen. Luckily the Master does not believe in vegetarianism or any other form of faddy eating, to the extent that he simply refuses to acknowledge their existence. Thus he has decreed that the only ‘special request’ that may be made of the kitchen is for second helpings, which eases things tremendously.

This still leaves a huge amount of work to be done, not just in the securing of the produce, including those things only ever consumed at Christmas, like sprouts, Christmas pudding or emu, but ensuring that the various pots, vats and cauldrons necessary are all ready for us and not, as was discovered one Christmas, being used by the second under-gardener to distil his illegal (though delicious) holly berry gin.

And of course one has to set the traps. It’s all very well for a house guest to think it terribly amusing to wander down into the kitchen in the wee small hours and help himself to something tasty from the fridge in the form of a midnight snack, but that can also be described as a pissed up pest helping themselves to the last of the brandy cream to be had in three counties in the mistaken belief it’s very soft cheese. Nothing discourages midnight snacking quite like an enraged badger being launched by a small compressed-air catapult across a room at a now screaming reveller who has just activated a pressure sensor at the kitchen door.


Luckily, as well as the vegetables coming from the kitchen garden and the more ‘exotic’ herbs from the greenhouse, the Master insists that the Feast consist as much as possible of animals killed on the estate. Unfortunately, given the Gamekeeper’s drinking, perverse sense of humour and almost psychopathic hatred of any animal that might either dig a flower bed, give another animal TB or go through his bins, this has meant scouring the internet for festive recipes for fox, badger and, on one desperate occasion, rambler.

The Christmas feast is, by tradition, twelve courses, all of them featuring some sort of meat – something of a challenge when it comes to the cheese platter but the sort of challenge I relish, which coincidently also forms part of the cheese platter. It would take too long, and probably be incriminating, to describe all the dishes in full, but suffice to say that this year not only were guests required to use the usual assortment of knives, forks and spoons, but also had to employ a small lance for one course, a tiny fishing rod for the fish course described as ‘so fresh it’s frisky’ and, the most talked about cutlery of the night; the table trebuchet.

Happy eating and Happy New Year

Guest blogger – Merry Christmas from the vicar

As the vicar of a small parish church in a picturesque village, my role is, of course, primarily to fleece the tourists who pitch up to look at the world-famous rood screen that graces the church (at least it became world-famous thanks to Wikipedia; did you know that anyone can edit Wikipedia and it becomes a source of authority. This means, for instance that an informed scholar can correct the misconception that the rood screen here at St Barnabus is not in fact a Victorian reproduction but is instead an authentic relic from the Middle Ages. Nobody could have been more delighted than myself at this development and I would like to use this opportunity to thank that anonymous scholar – ‘VIC007’ – for helping to put the church on the tourist map) and then to explain exactly what a screen is, and what a rood is.

The rest of the time is spent writing to publishers of GB travel guides requesting that they include an ecclesiastic glossary to spare overworked clergy from answering basic questions like ‘what’s a trancept exactly?’ and ‘isn’t a font something to do with typing?’ and of course ministering to the parishioners and preparing for the major Christian festivals.

Of which the most important is Easter, but try convincing anyone of that.

Instead, the focus of the Christian calendar in the village is Christmas. Indeed I would say that the entire village considers attending church at Christmas to be a very good idea, and I know that all the villagers are profoundly grateful to the very small proportion that actually did turn up to worship.

Just as I know that the faithful rather enjoy the tradition that has grown up in recent years of the dawn three hour bell pull on Christmas Morning, known as the ‘Hangover Clap’ or the ‘Peal of Thunder’, it brings happy shrieks of misery from all those who have overindulged the night before who live within donging range of the church and are now faced with the awful reality that an enthusiastic collection of campanologists has no snooze setting.

Of course, being an inclusive church, we are quick to welcome those of different faiths who wish to dip a toe in the waters of the font so to speak at Christmas time and see what all the fuss is about. They may have seen clergy on the news, but we are quick to remind folk that we are not of the faith that appears to make a habit out of touching choirboys and appearing some time later leaving the magistrates’ court with a blanket over our heads. No, while many in the church are going to Rome at this troubled time, here in the village we remain of the view firmly held for a few hundred years that ‘catholic’ is just another form of heritic solid fuel.

Still, as I say, all are welcome. Why some young folk even make sulky remarks about becoming pagan and, of course, one has to sit them down and give them a jolly good talking to, explaining that faith really does require devotion and that it takes rather more than some black eyeliner and clanky jewellery to make a decent pagan. Once one explains to them that of course the village has a thriving pagan community and all that is required to join it is to dance round naked all night during the winter solstice, which is in December, while somebody films the whole thing sniggering from the bushes before posting it on Youtube titled ‘world’s smallest cock’, they begin to see the attraction of belting out a psalm in a cosy church of a Sunday.

Modernity and modern fashions have their place, but here in the village we like tradition. That’s why we have ten generations of the same family in the same tomb; tradition. And inbreeding. And inherited genetic disorders. But mostly tradition. But we embrace modernity. Why, we even have women priests here sometimes and the only time there is friction is when there is an insinuation that they look rather better in vestments than I do.

Wishing you all a happy and peaceful New Year.

Guest blogger - Merry Christmas from the Gardener

Christmas is very much a time for reflection, and of course for bathing ones hands in antiseptic after cutting the holly for the Christmas decorations for the Big House and feeling smug about making a small fortune flogging mistletoe to the florist in the village. Most people think that, with the entire estate buried under six inches of snow, the work of the Gardener in winter mostly consists of keeping a very low profile, sitting in the potting shed with the paraffin heater on full blast, smoking a pipe filled with the more socially unacceptable sort of tobacco, drinking home brew and browsing pornography.

And indeed I can assure you that at this time of year, that’s exactly how I would spend my time if I had the choice. Some folk associate the smell of roast turkey with the Yule season, some the smell of Christmas pudding, but for me the smell of midwinter is a pungent mix of loam, shag, heating oil and parsnip wine (which can substitute for heating oil in an emergency).

The reality is somewhat different. The plants may be sleeping but nature is positively insomniac and this is the time of year when the Gardener, with time on his hands, is able to address certain matters.

Foxes, mostly.

By the time the gentry in the Boxing Day hunt have finished crashing through every hedge and fence in the county in pursuit of a single fox, commoners lacking horses but possessed of common sense pack a sturdy shovel, and follow the paw prints to track the little buggers down.

Foxes are not the only pests abroad in the deep midwinter. There’s badgers, stoats, weasles and so on. In fact most of the cast of ‘Wind in the Willows’ are out and about, except they don’t all wander around being fey, wearing waistcoats and generally acting like Edwardian toffs, unless the upper classes of that bygone era made a habit of crapping in the flower beds, digging up the bulbs and savaging raw chickens.

Pest control comes in all forms and, as Gardener, it’s my role to ensure that any pests are dealt with before they get to the Big House, especially since the Squire has developed the habit of keeping a loaded shotgun next to his drinks cabinet. Many a peaceful evening has been disrupted by the roar of both barrels being discharged through a hopefully open window and a cry of ‘got the bugger!’ addressed at whatever creature has just been vaporised in a cloud of the Squire’s bespoke shot mix of lead and depleted uranium. Of course, as the level of scotch drops through the night, the man’s aim and judgement do become a little erratic; I believe that the tally for this year is five foxes, two badgers, a nephew who was returning late from a party (only winged him), a rather charming terracotta pot (vaporised) and several branches of a nearby chestnut tree that were ‘waving suspiciously’ in the wind last September.

So it’s important that menaces such as ramblers, carol singers and gypsies are all deterred from making it within gravel scrunching range of the Big House.

And of course, this time of year gives a chap time to reflect and to plan for the future. Or more accurately, to plot the humiliation and ultimately the destruction of ones rivals; in my case the gardener at The Grange who last year pipped me at the post for first prize in the Most Humorous Looking Vegetable class at the village show. This was done, if my suspicions are correct, through the illegal use of a forcing mould (no beetroot would ever grow in that shape, not even nature at its most perverted would permit such a thing) and an application of rohypnol to the judge’s tea.

Of course, the owner of The Grange is a relative newcomer to the village, having won a fortune on the lottery they have decided to live the life of country gentry. In encouraging their staff to stoop to underhand methods to achieve something as petty as a prize in the village show, they have already demonstrated a natural aptitude for embracing country ways that normally takes generations to achieve.

Merry Christmas

Guest blogger - Merry Christmas from the butler

Preparing the house for Christmas is not unlike preparing it for any holiday weekend, or indeed any weekend when guests might arrive, except with more tinsel. One does, however, have to take precautions, like hiding all the best booze.

It is at Christmas that a large household comes into its own. Nothing does justice to a traditional Christmas dinner quite like a large kitchen staff and I believe the guests delight in being roused from their slumbers before dawn to the sight of half of the kitchen staff chasing the geese that have made a last break for freedom before being rounded up and beaten to death where they have been run to ground. Those of a delicate disposition are so affected by the scene of feathery carnage that they can hardly manage second helpings at lunch.

There are also seasonal delicacies to be considered. In particular, pickles, and the Master is very particular about his pickles. Normally the household source pickles from a very reputable pickle supplier, but for Christmas, the master insists on purchasing home-made pickles from Mrs Crone in the village. With but a single tooth and a singular passion for pickles, Mrs Crone dedicates her garden to cultivating the sort of things one normally finds in a pickle jar, such as onions, shallots and beetroot, as well as the sort of twisted shapes that can only be guessed at. The woman even brews her own vinegar. The taste is, I am reliably informed, remarkable and the kitchen staff inform me that the vinegar itself is like nothing else for getting the tarnish off of silver, or indeed unblocking drains – useful with an entire country house on a rich diet.

Of course Christmas is very much a time for traditions. The Master delights in setting the Christmas quiz and as it is announced one can see the bright young things up from university keen to prove that their grinding student debts are being invested in a fine education straining at the bit to show off their expensive knowledge, only to have their hopes dashed as the quiz is revealed to be an entirely scandalous and borderline libellous test of what has happened in the village that year, which inevitably ends with fisticuffs over the question of ‘which bounder got little Marion up the duff in March’ or a more serious thinly veiled accusation of cheating to retain the village cricket trophy.

As butler though, there is no greater privilege than being trusted to distribute the various clues and prizes in the treasure hunt. And of course the tradition of booby-trapping the suit of armour in the Great Uall is always satisfying, especially when one sees the end result. Is there a greater thrill than seeing a young chap almost faint with embarrassment as the thing clatters apart at the merest touch as he moves to retrieve a clue from the visor, or hearing his shrill scream of terror as the axe that was previously upright falls quickly forward, shaving to bristles the hair on one side of his head before embedding itself three inches into the solid oak floor? As I always say, smelling salts and a clean pair of trousers for the guest are the butler’s friend at Christmas.

But no mere parlour games, not even the traditional ones the Master insists are played at Christmas; ‘bloated goat’, ‘slap the leather’, ‘soapy dog’, ‘goose fat twister’, ‘chimney surfing’ or even ‘sherry gargling kareoke’ compared with the glorious sport of the Boxing day hunt. Or, as the Master says: ‘the Boxing Day hunt, thank Christ they’ve outlawed it’. Gentry in general love the idea of hunting, as a class they love leather, love borderline bondage and tight clothing obviously to hold well-fed guts in, but having it all tied up with hunting a fox on horseback with hounds is just not on. As the Master explains, the best way to get rid of a fox is with a gun, or shovel, or increasingly as more of the village lads return from a tour of Afghanistan, a young man toting heavy duty contraband weaponry aided by night vision goggles.

Merry Christmas!

Guest Blogger - Merry Christmas from the Squire

At this very special time of the year, ones thoughts turn very much to ones family and friends. One considers ones family, the near and the dear, the far away and the not so dear. One thinks of friends, many of whom are no longer with us, others one is not allowed to socialise with any more because ones wife has decided they are a ‘bad influence’. One thinks of those who want to be near us at Christmas and one thinks; pull up the drawbridge and hide until New Year.

Because if Christmas is a time for anything, it’s a time for copious amounts of alcohol. And traditions. And one of the grand traditions if one resides a home that has enough room to put up a guest, is how to avoid having guests at all costs.

When one resides in, say, a Highland cottage this might be achievable, especially as the current climate means that the roads should be open again some time in May, but when one resides in a large country house things become a great deal trickier. Traditionally, the prelude to somebody inviting themselves begins in early November, when they attempt to show what jolly good fun they are by breathing gin fumes onto the bonfire to turn the flames blue. Innocent questions along the lines of ‘are you ski-ing over Christmas? Or ‘Will you be in Australia for the Ashes?’ or even ‘have you ordered several crates of port yet?’ really mean ‘can I come and stay with you for at least a month and eat all your stilton?’.

Deflecting house guests is part art, part science. Obviously one can cite germs. While he days of scarlet fever, the plague or measles are long behind us, thanks to media hysteria one can put the name of any animal before the term ‘flu’ with total credibility. ‘Bird’. ‘Dog’ and ‘Man’ have all been used with real success. But there’s always some bugger who’s had vaccinations or who thinks they are immune, so one has to be prepared to permanently damage the family name to get some peace and quiet. Current favourites are to make the home a no-go area by hinting that one has a daughter who is associated with a member of a terrorist cell, or who has married somebody who is from quite the wrong set, or foreign.

However, one is expected to do one’s bit when it comes entertaining and, somehow or other, one inevitably has to put up with some house guests at Christmas. The thing to do is to try and enjoy oneself by making the most of traditions. I always enjoy the tradition of hiding all the televisions and pretending that there is no reception, as this rather thins out those who really want to stay for the whole period.

Establishing a real country house atmosphere for Christmas is, of course, a fine art. It requires one to do more than turn down the heating and cheat in an outrageous manner at board games. Nothing marks Christmas quite like a ghost story and I only consider my tales a success if the listener is in therapy for some months afterwards. It’s particularly satisfying if one can weave a tale about the guest room that somebody is staying in.

Games and ghost stories are all very well but Christmas is, as we all know, really a time for young people, as they creep from room to room in the dead of night in order to make their own entertainment. Of course, not having any lights on at night only adds to the excitement, as one really has to make sure that one has the right room before entering. Many a happy relationship has, I am sure, started with the knock at the wrong door and a delighted surprise. Indeed I know two fellas who run an antique shop in the village who met just like that.

Indeed when it comes to the best way to enjoy Christmas, I consider it’s best to hole up in the study with some cold cuts, a crate of scotch, some back numbers of ‘Gentleman and Player’ and a half kilo of Moroccan gold an old school chum is kind enough to send every year.

Merry Christmas!

Countdown to Christmas

Bloody hell! It’s metrological mayhem as winter grips the nation once again, like an icy fist grabbing at your festive nutsack. Everyone appears to be in a total state of shock that there could very well be a white Christmas. The surprise is, to my mind, totally unfounded – just look at the evidence; all those Christmas cards showing jolly carollers, people going to midnight mass and revellers enjoying themselves, in the snow. OK granted, these are all paintings of jolly goings on in Victorian times but seeing as we are bombarded with these images every year for the last two years in December, can it really be that much of a shock when it actually snows before Christmas?

Well, yes, apparently. Next year’s Christmas card will be not so jolly people, not going anywhere, stuck in a check-in queue at Heathrow while the airport crew try and dig 747s out of snowdrifts. Christmas is indeed a time for friends and family, not a time for trying to jet off to the Caribbean for two weeks, as many people at Gatwick are currently finding out. Looks like this December the only bugger flying will be Santa.

Surely if you are stuck in an airport in the snow the temptation must be to start a rumour that terrorists have taken the place over in order to free the dictator of a banana republic, and see how long it takes for people to stop screaming and work out that that is the plot to Die Hard II.

And it certainly has snowed. This morning I struggled to the small shed in the garden where the lawnmower, garden stuff and, importantly, shovel, is stored. Shovels are fantastic for stoving in the heads of foxes (at least two visited the garden last night, looking at the tracks) and almost as good for digging your car out of the car park space you left it in that morning before the latest big dump. There are no airplanes, there was little traffic and what there was was hushed by the snow, it was a moment of almost perfect peace, with the church bells chiming seven – I could almost hear the frost crackling on the wood of the shed door. Standing there two things occurred; how little time we get to stand and listen to the bells; and what sort of person gets up to be at their bell rope for seven in the morning thinking ‘time for a really good peal!’. I’m betting hearty Christian.

All this snow and ice means that normal service has been severely disrupted – including Amazon and other on-line retailer deliveries. This means that unless I am to face alienation from the family come Christmas, I have to fit in some shopping, as well as trying to struggle into work.

This leaves no time at all for blogging. Hence, some of the chaps from the village have decided to step in as guest bloggers.

100 days of Flickr

Certainly, there’s never any shortage of things to blog about. Pick up a newspaper, turn on the telly or even go for a walk and it’s a pretty good bet that there will be something that will push my outrage levels up from their background state of about 30% of outrage well into the red (quite an achievement to keep things in the visible spectrum I think). At the moment the trees are turning and it’s a gorgeous time to walk through the park. I could do that and try by best to describe the glorious golds and ambers of the autumn and how walking on a carpet of fallen leaves makes the same sort of scrunching noise you would expect from balling up paper with a poem about autumn written on it and flinging it into the bin. The post would probably end with a rant about dog poo.

In order to counter this predictability I wanted, for the next 100 days, to write 100 words a day based on a totally random image. I’d go to Flickr, click on the ‘uploaded in the last minute’ photograph and write 100 words on it. A story inspired by it, or an observation, or maybe just a whole load of questions. Maybe even caption it, like a photo and accompanying piece in a newspaper or magazine. At some point I fully intended to be faced with having to mock somebody’s wedding photographs or make hil-hairy-arse bestiality comments about pet photographs.

So day one, I go on line and the first photograph is this one:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/39909087@N03/4061342088/

It’s from this person’s photostream:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/39909087@N03/

and has, basically, derailed the whole thing. First of all I feel like some sort of cross between a groomer and a stalker for looking at pictures of an adolescent girl who appears to be either in some medical facility or an eccentrically furnished home. Also, writing anything about that could not possibly be as interesting as the truth. Finally, inventing things about women is a great way to start a career not as a lovable Walter Mitty style character but the sort of fellow you see eventually being banged up for breaking into Meryl Streep’s house and insisting that you have been secretly married to her for years.

If it had been a picture of a sulky looking kid standing outside Graceland, I’d be up to 2,000 words by now, so one way or another, I don’t think I’ll be pursuing the idea.