Odour

T and I went to an art exhibition opening last night. Everyone looked very Falmouth-like, very hippy-like, but of course they were all immaculately groomed and smelt delightful. We spent most of our time in a haze of lavender and Body Shop / Lush.

Then it hit me. I was the only one there who actually smelt bad. Now I understand why I always felt out of place in Babahogs, The Tap Room, The Waterfront etc.

Stephen Gately

Stephen Gately. I remember you. There was an Our Price in Canterbury many years ago, but then, like all Our Prices, it closed down. They had a sale, and as the weeks went on the diminishing stock got cheaper and cheaper. By the final week, they had nothing left except some Westlife calendars and about 30 copies of Stephen Gately's solo album. By the final day, the Westlife calendars had all been sold, so the whole Our Price had no stock whatsoever except those 30 Stephen Gately albums. For one day, therefore, Canterbury High Street had a dedicated Stephen Gately shop. And that's all I've got to say about that.

Getting Run Over

Not content with trying to run me over while they're going forwards, Norwegians have now start trying to run me over while they've going backwards. At least, that seemed to be the intention of the gent who drove past me, stopped, then started reversing as I walked over the crossing.

Meat

I'm home alone again, and a man just came into the kitchen, said something in Norwegian and deposited 90% of a sheep on the sideboard. He said something in English - I think it was "I have been hunting" - and then he left. I poked the remains of the sheep. It was warm. Not in a 'just been cooked' way, more in a 'just been breathing' way. Sheep for dinner, then?

A Walk to the Shop

This morning I took a walk to the shop. The moon was still out:



It was 7.30am:





A nearby farmer had left his tractor out:



Eventually, I reached the shop:





Finally, here's a picture of an abandoned lawnmower that I passed on a bike ride yesterday:



You see, if aliens visit Earth long after we're all dead, and they find the internet, I think this is the kind of thing they'll be interested in. Well maybe not this post particularly, but this kind of thing in general.

Norwegian Graffiti

I'm starting to quite like Norwegian graffiti, of which this is the latest example:



What's next? Petronius was here? Fanny and Alexander 4eva?

Still, it doesn't beat my all-time favourite, from the Quayside in Falmouth a few years back:

It's That Time of Year...

A few months ago:

ME: Norwegians are a bit obsessed with potatoes, aren't they?
T: No! They're not at all!
ME: Hmm, okay, sorry.

A few hours ago:

ME: We can go to the wine merchant's on Monday.
T: No we can't, it's Potato Week.

Yes, we have now entered the hallowed Potato Week, a celebration of the harvest. I've been noting many signs of the harvest recently, but never expected the concept to be formalised like this, and I can't help but think of the ending of 'The Wicker Man', but with a giant Mr. Potato Head...