02 January 2009

Cosset Centre

I hardly dare show this. Indeed, how dare I *do* show it and risk resentful hordes descending and trashing the place like some Facebook parteh? (and hey, how long 'til folks learn NOT to post their feting on that site?)

Tassia just left, after cleaning and cosseting and prepping me another feast.

And you lot slaving away in the office and then home to Hoover and pan ... by the oven of Alcmena! How long can this slackery last?

tassia cookery

I am lying low and reading Harold Acton and listening to early Pentangle (I'm not sure there ever was a 'late' version of that wondrous ensemble) and ignoring all calls and textings.

Perfect weather: drab day not quite raining; no movement outside; Sam lying by the fire, lucky fellah; Koutsi the cat prowling for foolhardy rodents.

I have a theory about the game-legged K: ever seen Drunken Master martial arty craft? The expert reels around like me on a Friday midnight, fooling the opponent into dissing him as sloshed and easy prey. But whoops! How come he can't lay a finger oh him, swaying out of reach at the last minute? Too late. The killer blow lands and it's over.

K weaves her way around the rat who thinks 'whoa, this is easy ... crippled kat? Let's have some teasing fun ... hey, she wasn't meant to go there, say what? I'm cornered ... aargh, I'm being clawed and toyed with ... heelp!" Crunch munch gnaw.

She has the vilest peasant voice, as if she'd crawled her way up from the street and under the car where ... oh yeh, that's what she did.

Elocution lessons for YOU, ma chere, I threatened.

Then I phoned my darling in Prague and in the background came the sound of her aristo Burmese showcats and they had exactly the same yeowl, so forget the elocution.


Sibadd said...

Which of Harold Acton's writings are you enjoying? How I'd have been honoured to meet the man. I wanted his advice on how to disinter lost understanding of city trees. A park ranger told me recently (I'm keen on public parks) that some Victorian landscape designers of parks had sought to select and plant trees so as to achieve different mixes of harmonising leaf hues as the seasons changed, and that's not all. They knew the sound made by breezes blowing through different kinds of leaves and sought to plant in ways that would sllow orchestration of those varied sounds for the pleasure - conscious and unconscious - of visitors. I'm sure Sir Harold could have give me page numbers, names and places, to help me campaign for the addition of such considerations to our council's tree maintainance schedule.

Busker said...

I'm actually RE-reading both 'Memoirs' and 'More memoirs of an aesthete'. Joan Acton died last year at her Kommeno home at a venerable 94 and we moved her entire library to Pagoda 'Fucius where I went thru the dross and donated it to the church and Durrell Society. Both Actons are hard to find these days so it was a true find, among many many others of every language.

Sibadd said...

Wow! And you are right about the rarity of Acton books. I - embarrassed - did not know of Joan Acton. Can I learn more about her without going to a proper library? My nosey thoughts are about the Beacci claim on the Acton Estate but have your Acton books sat on shelves at La Villa Pietra - and - er - is there honey still for tea? Don't answer such bloody nosey questions.

Busker said...

i don't think you *can* learn about dear Joan. She was married to Anthony, a banker and some sort of cousin (so not that close). I fear her excellent grandson will pick up on this post and tell me to stop using her name forthwith.
I was dropping the name to scare and impress you.

Sibadd said...

I'm impressed and - er - well a just bit scared. No I was just happy at imagining you enjoying reading HA instead of being distracted by the DT which now runs silly season stories year round and doesn't seem to know its readership any more (:)) I enjoyed it when Max Hastings was editor and long before - for Peter Simple alone - but it's just gone down lately. I get bored with the the way it festers on about dear English going down the tubes and cherry picks stories about 'political correctness' designed to provoke impotent rage until you put them in context and find there's more common sense about than the story implied. Its like the Daily Mail boring for England on house prices. Who's fault? Perhaps being Conservative has become too confusing. Class loyalties keep dissolving amd getting realigned? That's probably good but it's disorienting for a newspaper trying to establish soem sort identity. Was it Conrad Black or those reclusive Barclay Brothers started the rot? They keep trying new things but the circulation goes down and down - and soon you'll be the only reader they've got.