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Kites

At the end of October, I decided to take the boys to the seaside, for a long weekend. They were off school - it was the half term break.
I thought it would be a nice change from the same old same, which would probably include boredom, grumpiness and whining....not to mention the children's bickering!

It's always a gamble, going to the East Coast of Lincolnshire.
The weather can either be divine or horrendous. There are no half measures.
As we were experiencing a 'cold snap' and the temperatures are usually lower at the coast anyway, most of my friends viewed the venture, as an act bordering on insanity. They were wrong
It didn't rain, it didn't snow. There were no hail storms or sleet.
It was extremely windy - but this just kept the unpleasant looking clouds, on the move, making the sky look dramatic and keeping the beach deserted.
Ideal conditions for kite flying.Click Here I love flying kites. I have quite variety them. My current favourite is a Dolphin kite

When I lived in London, I used to go to Primrose Hill, on Sunday mornings, to watch the kites and fly my own.
But the best place is always a beach. Especially when the tide's out and there's nobody about. The children had a great time, each with their own kite. It was fun.
I found this poem, I don't know who wrote it.

Children are like kites.
You run with them until you are breathless.
They crash – you add a longer tail,
they hit the roof-top – you pluck them from spouts.
You patch and comfort, adjust and teach.
You watch them lifted by the wind
and assure them some day they’ll fly.
Finally they’re airborne
but they need more string
so you keep letting it out.
With each twist of the twine there’s
sadness and joy because the kite
becomes more distant and
you know it won’t be long before
it will snap the fine line
that has bound you together,
soar as it was meant to soar… independently free.

Author Unknown

'November' by Thomas Hood

NOVEMBER
by Thomas Hood

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

Dulce et Decorum est

Today is 11th November 2008, 90years since the end of World War 1. I always wear a poppy and I always observe a 2 minute silence. I actively encourage my children to do the same.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

This poem was written by Wilfred Owen. Of all the 'War Poets' (Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon etc), Owen is my favourite. Click Here

He was killed in action, 7 days before the Armistice, aged 25 years

Mists and mellow fruitfulness

Well, Goose Fair has come and gone.
The weather has turned cold.
Summer is over.
I always think of Goose Fair as the official end of Summer and the beginning of Autumn.

I love Autumn.
I think it's the leaves, gold,red,orange,yellow, all the warm, vibrant colours.
It's as if nature is having a final 'look at me' moment

Leaves by Elsie Brady

How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

As a child I used to love running and kicking through piles of leaves. We'd play hide and seek, burying ourselves under the piles....leaping out at unsuspecting passers-by. I can remember collecting particularly beautiful leaves and taking them home, to stick in a scrapbook or make collages.
There seemed to be more leaves back then or maybe it's because I was smaller.

The Incinerator

I bought this, last weekend:



The children have had more fun with it, than anything the XBox, Wii, DS etc could possibly offer.
Money well spent

Warning by Jenny Joseph

It's my birthday soon. Remembering that, put me in mind of this poem. I intend to follow the advice.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.