I did it, I did it! I made it through Christmas without mentioning brussel sprouts! Oh right, I just mentioned them. But then you have to, don’t you? I mean Christmas would hardly be Christmas if you didn’t at least mention brussel sprouts. I love them now, but in our family we used to call them the vegetables no-one likes but you have to have at Christmas because it’s traditional. So traditional in fact that I decided today’s entry should have at least one brussel sprout in the title. But what, exactly? “O come all ye brussel sprouts”? “The first brussel sprout”? “I saw three brussel sprouts”? “Grandma got run over by a brussel sprout”?

In the true spirit of the season, my sister used to throw hers into the back of the toy cupboard. It wasn’t a very traditional Christmas in our house other than the holly and the Christmas tree. And the brussel sprout tossing. We didn’t kill any wrens or leave any whiskey and mince pies for Santa, and carol singers didn’t come to the door. There only were about half-a-dozen children in the neighbourhood anyway, so even if anyone had thought of it we probably wouldn’t have made a very joyful noise. Eventually the town that had seemed so far away grew up and ate little neighbourhoods like ours for breakfast before moving on in search of lunch and dinner, but I don’t recall the increased numbers resulting in any more Christmas traditions. Our own traditions involved a lot of visiting, many days of turkey dinners and cold turkey sandwiches, and chocolate in front of the TV and an open fire. Every year we all annotated the double issue of the Radio Times, putting our mark on the TV programs we each wanted to watch over Christmas and New Year, then missed most of them either because we were out or because there was only one television between the lot of us.

Decorations were kept up until “twelfth night” which was said to be 6th January because of course “it’s the twelfth day of Christmas, isn’t it?” There was never any discussion about it, and never a dissenting voice saying “wait a minute, that doesn’t add up!” Nowadays I do hear discussions about it, so did a little reading and discovered that it seems to boil down to whether the twelve days are called “the twelve days of Christmas” or “the twelve days following Christmas.” My grandmother used to have a bookmark that said “here I fell asleep.” Well this is where I would put it. If the twelfth night means “Christmas is over, get back to work!” I’ll settle for making it as late as I can get away with.

2015-12-27

ALIENS EAT GULF ISLAND FERRY BUT HAVE TO STOP AT TRAFFIC LIGHT

Island’s only traffic light says no to aggressive, imperialist blob

Thu Dec 26 2024
Islanders breathed a sigh of relief today after aliens ate one of their ferries but were forced to stop at the island’s only traffic light, thankfully showing red at the time. Locals looked on in awe as their second ferry engaged the aliens in combat, firing jets of hot air until the multi-coloured blob was forced to retreat and regurgitate its spoils.

Opinions differed as to the motivation behind the attack. “They were here for the Spirit Feast,” said local, Mossy Woodrot (41), “but when they found out they were a day late they got mad and ate the ferry.” “Yes and they were so hungry they’d have eaten the whole island if the light hadn’t stopped them” added eyewitness Oozy Slipscum (67). Others claimed they were sent by some other Gulf Island to expropriate the modern, Island-class vessel. All however were grateful for the steadfast and fearless resistance put up by the island’s only traffic light, that turned bravely towards the approaching foe. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d be delighted to see a red light” said Ivy McBootwet (107). “I used to curse them. Now I salute them.”

Island’s only traffic light applauded

The Wimbledon Suite

Attend and I’ll explain to you
What wimbling is; it’s what you do
Around about this time of year –
You get yourself a case of beer,
A trailerload of popcorn and
A screen the size of Switzerland.
Through fourteen days you’ll never see
You watch commercials endlessly,
And if your wildest dreams come true
You might just spot a stroke or two.
A tennis player dressed in white,
Defeated – smiles and is polite.
Which brings me neatly to “the wimble”.
This denotes a social symbol.
It’s the gleaming tennis pro
Who looks the part from top to toe,
Whose tennis shoes are neatly tied,
Who never shows conceit or pride,
And though he may dispute a call
Will never raise his voice at all.
Will never stamp his foot and swear
That something sucks or isn’t fair,
And always will be too too well-bred
To beat officals round the head.

To fell the umpire with a blow
Would really be a beastly show.
It’s likewise not the best of sport
To chase the ball boys off the court.
You’ll find you’re on a sticky wicket –
That sort of tennis isn’t cricket.
And that is why we have the Wimble,
Who, while agile, quick and nimble,
Knows which knife and fork to use
And always minds his Ps and Qs.
“You can’t be serious!” he cries,
And to the loser hands his prize.

Although of course I could go on
Wimble-oguing through to dawn,
I find myself a set ahead
So play’s suspended – time for bed!

The Daily Ant Wimblographer

A nice skiddy one with not too much fluff (Part I)

We grew up with Wimbledon as a tradition. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t tell a well-hit, cross-court, top spin shot from a solid, backhand drive – it’s just what you did, like eating brussel sprouts at Christmas (whether you liked them or not) or fighting in the car on the way to the seaside in August. We would all park ourselves in front of the television for the BBC coverage that went on from midday sometimes to nine or ten at night, with never a commercial in sight.

“Fifteen love.”

“Why is it fifteen? Why not ten, or eleven?”

“Because it just is, Alison. Shut up and watch the game.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if that net didn’t keep getting in the way? And who are they calling ‘love’?”

“Ssh! You’ll put him off.”

“He won!”

“He’s only won the first set, Beth.”

“What’s a set?”

“Go and put the kettle on and take the phone off the hook while you’re there.”

We loved the commentary.

“And McEnroe blasts the ball across the court, ripping it across the body of the onrushing Borg.” “The last nail is always the hardest to drive into the lid of the coffin.” “Well he might be neat and elegant but he’s a little scrapper as well.” “He’s a terrier on the court.” (Causing us to burst out laughing and bark at each other.) “He’s dicing with death there.” “The bullets fly.” “He needs a little more ammunition.” “The poor ball boy saw his life flash before his eyes.” “The court is slippery underfoot.” “They’re hitting some real peaches from the ground today.” (No wonder it’s slippery underfoot!) “Well it’s her racket, she’s allowed to use every bit of it.” “Sticky enough.” “Novak threw everything at him.” “A dead duck.” “Beautifully killed!” “He’s kept his head and hasn’t let his chin drop at losing the set.” “They like a nice skiddy one with not too much fluff.” “They can sometimes spill over and press the self-destruct button.”

“Alison go and make some sandwiches.”

“What do you want in them? Dead duck?”

Somehow though, we did learn the game and the scoring. We even had our favourite players, and I find it all fascinating though I do feel for the court (and the groundstaff) with all those players digging deep and planting their feet. Can’t be good for the grass. And then there’s the poor ball. Players – we’re told – don’t just hit the ball. They attack it, pulverize it, rip it, smash it, jump on it and even cook it. Is it any wonder they look tired at the end of the match? Actually cookery crops up fairly often in the commentary, for as well as cooking the ball, they sometimes undercook it. And nibble at it. (Probably to see if it’s cooked yet.) And then we have “crisp and crunchy volleys”, “chips and dips – he’s going to give us a bit of salsa maybe in the quarter-finals” and “well I used the word ‘succulence’ early on in this match.”

All very inspiring to anyone who loves words. Or food.

A pre-tiebreaker tennis poem

“There’s a wind over Wimbledon, heading due south
And a variable bounce on the ball
There’s an early return from the favourite to win
As he struggles with 13 games all.”

A nice skiddy one with not too much fluff (Part II)

Somehow I can’t get out of that Wimbledon habit, and around this time of year I start getting in training for the big event. That doesn’t mean running around the block or hitting tennis balls against the wall of my house, or anyone else’s house, or over the fence into the neighbour’s yard – or through their living room window. It actually means adjusting my now-western-Canadian body clock to the All England Lawn Tennis Club, Wimbledon, London SW19 time zone. Every day I get up earlier and earlier until by the last Monday in June I’m wide awake at 4.30 a.m. and comfortably planted in front of the television with strawberries and cream, coffee, toast, telephone and everything else necessary to sustain life as I know it.

Determined that being exiled in a foreign land isn’t going to stop me watching Wimbledon, I seek it out wherever I go. I remember having to go to a conference in Munich right in the middle of Wimbledon season, and watching it in German in my hotel room. It was intriguing. Especially the commercial breaks when Boris Becker would appear and enthusiastically tell us how his tremendous prowess in tennis was entirely due to a diet of Nutella. At least that’s what I thought he was saying but admittedly it was about twenty years at that point since I’d had to make myself understood in German. (We won’t count “I have a reservation for the room with the biggest TV screen you’ve got.”) The tennis just wasn’t the same though, without Des Lynam and Dan Maskell commentating, and all the players seemed to be hitting the balls far too fast. Then I realised that the speeds were being displayed in kilometers per hour. Oh I see! So Boris Becker wasn’t really hitting the ball at 200 mph due to his diet of Nutella!

Now once again I am exiled in a foreign land, and each year I try in vain to find a way of watching Wimbledon commercial free. And each year, as a background to that racquet sport that will keep getting in the way, more world records for spoken words per square inch are broken by commentators. Buried here in the bombardment of yesterday’s match summaries, tweets, who’s played what major this year, who beat whom last year, who they’re married to and how much money they make, we try and find the game we know must be on the screen somewhere between the scores, the statistics on aces, drop shots, lobs, smashes and slices, the upcoming TV schedules and the news updates.

Well there’s always wimbledon.com. What about them? I go to my computer and find an interview with an Olympic athlete. An interviewer accosting players and firing tennis-related quiz questions at them to a background of a drum machine. The weather forecast. A presentation of behind the scenes at Wimbledon. An aerial photo of the Wimbledon grounds with a soundtrack of tennis balls being hit.

Giving up on online tennis, I return to the TV, where the presenters are talking about tennis.

All in all, it’s still a yearly ritual. Only instead of a tennis-watching ritual, it’s a tennis-finding ritual.

And so I prepare. I cut up the strawberries, I whip the cream, I whip the cats out of the recliner, dust the big screen and find the remote control. I get up in the middle of the night, sit in front of the television and gaze at it in anticipation. But there’s something wrong! The reception is very poor. I don’t seem to be getting a picture at all. What on earth can be the matter? Oh yes, I forgot. TV service. I cancelled that in 2007.

Drifter

On my travels reading about black holes I was introduced to Shrödinger’s Cat, and find myself wondering how the cat felt about being simultaneously alive and dead? Did anyone ever ask it?

I asked my cat Drifter how he would feel about being Shrödinger’s cat and he thought it sounded a bit mean to be locked in a steel chamber. He had some questions. Would there be a litter box? An in-house grooming service? A DVD player with nature programs featuring David Attenborough? Any crab and salmon crunchy cat treats to help him maintain a healthy coat? I had to confess that most discussions on quantum mechanics did not seem to go into these details.

“Well then I wouldn’t go into their box,” he retorted. Fair enough, I thought. I should explain here that Drifter is an ex-feral cat and used to making quick decisions.

“Why a cat?” he asked as though an afterthought, but I couldn’t help him there except to suggest that perhaps an Eastern Lowland Gorilla might not have fitted into the steel box quite so easily. Besides, they’re hard to get. It was clearly a low budget affair with a limited script and gorillas’ agents are known to be sticky on that.

“Like Mount Everest, I added, “the cat was there.”

“Ah,” he replied.

I was thinking some more about all this at 6.15 this morning when Sketch (my other cat) began walking in and out of my bedroom, howling in a very loud voice. Intermittently howling. With just enough time between bouts for me to fall asleep again. And get back into that lovely dream where I was…

“Rrrraaarrrrh! Rrarrh. Rrarrh. Rrraaarrrrh!”

I made a mental note to talk to him later about steel boxes, hydrocyanic acid and decaying radioactive atoms, and meanwhile I put Emergency Plan A into operation.

For those of you who are not familiar with Emergency Plan A, it is a quick and reliable strategy for removing troublesome felines from your immediate vicinity. You will need:

a) one English concertina or other loud reed instrument or
b) one vacuum cleaner (can also be handy as backup)
c) one protesting cat

This procedure should be used of course, only when other more conventional methods have failed (e.g. cushion throwing, sarcasm, threats of litigation, etc.).

Method: Lift concertina, place thumbs in thumbstraps, fingers in finger rests and play. You don’t need to be a virtuoso – anything will do. In fact there are theories that to play too well may result in several neat rows of neighbourhood cats all lining up in front of you expectantly waiting for the rest of the concert. Personally this hasn’t happened to me, and I find that a quick blast of discordant notes works like a charm. As to how it works, I believe that it is the equivalent of pressing the cat’s “reset” switch, putting it into “automatic” mode. When in automatic mode, the cat will not sit in front of the cat door wondering whether it’s safe to go out or whether it wouldn’t just prefer to sit in and howl a bit for the hell of it. It will shoot out of the cat door like a spring-loaded giraffe then look back puzzled, unsure how it got there.

If you don’t happen to have a handy Lachenal 48-key, metal-ended concertina handy, try a vacuum cleaner. The range of keys is a little limited, and they’re a bit hard to play standing up, but they’ll do in a pinch. If your cat is particularly noisy, you may find that in time you become quite proficient on the thing and can enter for “New Zealand’s Got Talent,” or “Cambodia’s Got Talent,” or wherever it is you live. In addition there is that handy feature of being able to win the approval of the judges by cleaning up the stage while you play. Including of course quickly and effectively removing the opposition. You can’t do that with a concertina. We concertina players have our own ways of dealing with the opposition but more of that another time!

2016-02-07

For some time now I have had my suspicions that a black hole is forming in my house. I thought it might make a handy garbage disposal unit, and possibly also account for all the things I can’t find. Well I did find some of them and so far I haven’t found a black hole. I don’t count the septic tank in this by the way, for reasons I won’t go into just at the moment. I do live next to a swamp which certainly looks like a black hole in places, and there’s no doubt anything that falls in would be unlikely to return. All the same, I did read that black holes tend to devour surrounding matter and my house is still here despite the efforts of a local woodpecker to demolish it last week.

In fact properly trained, black holes might even be an asset. If some bothersome town planner decides to site a nuclear power plant at the bottom of your garden, just switch your black hole to “devour” mode and watch your property resale values soar with every bite. Take care though if your neighbour also owns one, for if their black hole merges with yours then they may get up to no end of hanky panky together that they wouldn’t think of doing on their own. They do have a tendency to merge, I’m told and mergers are all the rage these days. For decades now, large corporations have been swallowing each other up in the business equivalent of astrophysics.

Black holes are known experts at packing enormous masses into small spaces – they are the best, say the scientists. But then they’ve probably never met my friend Sue who has enough possessions to fill the Albert Hall (and that’s only under her bed). And I’m not so bad myself – sardine-packing fridges is one of my specialities. You know that feeling two days before Christmas when the fridge is so full that you can’t get another brussel sprout into it, then someone says “you haven’t forgotten Keith’s gone to get the 40-pound turkey? It’s got to go in too, you know.” No problem! Send for me. I have a way with ornery fridges.

Another friend I have tells me that she always thought black holes were full of black cats. Actually I think there’s something in this, because of Maya. Maya was a very wise black cat I used to have, who had an uncanny ability to find things. I know what you’re thinking – that’s normal enough for a golden retriever or a cocker spaniel, but a cat? Trust me on this. You lose your car keys. You look everywhere. Twice. Then you look again until there simply isn’t anywhere left to look. In frustration you look at Maya and say “Maya where are my car keys? I just can’t find them anywhere. Oh good grief what am I doing, asking the cat. I must be off my head.” And off you go to carry on looking. Except a small idea has just begun to take shape in your brain. “Oh wait a minute,” you think. “I didn’t look in the front door, did I?” And there they are. Another time it’s that book you were reading. It just isn’t anywhere. You look everywhere. In the bed. Down the back of the sofa. Even in the microwave (for after all, you aren’t getting any younger, are you?) When you run out of places to look you ask Maya. Nothing happens. Well it wouldn’t, would it – she’s a cat for heavens’ sake. You give up and decide to make coffee. Halfway through pouring out the coffee you suddenly stop. “Wait a minute – I didn’t look in the car, did I?” And there it is. I rarely knew her to fail. Sadly she’s no longer with me and I’m the one to be lost now. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out either that Maya came from a black hole, or had influential friends in one, allowing her access to all those lost items swallowed up by black holes.

And you thought the new energy-efficient, front-loading washer ate your socks.

Maya in a black hole

Did you ever get the feeling that time is passing much more quickly than it used to? Remember that yawning chasm of the summer holidays just starting? Those days so long that you could smell the grass growing as you slithered through it, a prowling Indian with bow and arrow pouncing on your careless cowboy friends? Remember how long the school year was when you didn’t like your teacher? How long the walk home in the winter sleet when your bare knees were freezing and purple?

I read today that in summer molecules move at 430 meters per second, while in winter it is only slightly less! Is it any wonder that we feel we have to live at breakneck speed these days? Going to bed around two in the morning once, when we had to be up at six, a friend once commented wearily to me “never mind, we’ll just have to sleep faster”.

Of course it’s nice to know that when it’s icy and frosty outside those molecules are at least slowing down a bit. After all if they slip then time will move even more quickly won’t it? There you might be trundling along, a contented 25-year-old and then “oops!” one speeding molecule and you’re slipping into old age before you can say “minimum pension contributions”.

In summer too they’re fairly dashing along, when you’d think they might want to take things a bit easier. Many’s the time I’ve headed out to my dusty hammock in the fruit trees with a book in my hand and a pillow under my arm, only to find that a posse of irritating molecules has got there before me and splattered it with bird poop. Or just when I’ve planned to sit in the shade of the crabapple tree and study the caddis flies in the pond, suddenly the grass is two feet longer than it was yesterday and demanding to be cut right now. Molecules again. I head out to the vine to make sure the birds haven’t eaten the grapes only to find an advance squadron of molecules on the grass in a drunken heap of mushy fruit.

Here on our island the warmer weather can be hazardous too. For example we often have a layer of pollen on the roads which again might cause a speeding molecule to slip and do heaven only knows what damage to the space-time continuum. Our local molecules are generally familiar with our island’s perils but if visiting molecules go charging dangerously about then it can be a problem.

I can testify that in large hospitals molecules move very fast indeed. This is particularly challenging for nurses since as everyone knows, nurses are not allowed to run except in cases of fire, cardiac arrest and tea break. There’s no doubt that it was a bit of a trial for us at times keeping up with those supersonic atoms. Fire and cardiac arrest don’t tend to happen very often. Tea breaks however happen at least once per shift so they were our big chance to give those particles a bit of a run for their money. It was generally thought that we were rushing to tea break because we only had 15 minutes and it was a 7 minute walk to get there and another 7 minute walk to get back, but now of course it is widely known that we were rushing to keep up with those dratted molecules. (It certainly wasn’t on account of the canteen’s food.)

Not that there aren’t times we’d all like our molecules to move a bit faster – but let’s face it, it simply may not be possible. The next time my internet speed makes me wonder if some of my service provider particles have gone on strike, I’m going to bear in mind that they may have been caught up in one of those hair dryer-type things the police sometimes wave around when they sit at the roadside measuring molecules.

Of all the New Year celebrations I have known there is only one that is completely unforgettable. Not surprisingly, it was in Scotland, for when it comes to going wild on 31st December, the Scots have it down to a fine art.

Strictly speaking, according to quantity of alcohol consumed, my Scottish New Year should be the one I’m entirely unable to remember. Well admittedly there are parts of it I’m not sure about. Did I really sit on that man’s knee? Did that Christmas tree really fall over or did I dream it? Did I really sing “Quare Bungle Rye” and screw up the third verse?

I was 17 and had a Scottish boyfriend. He was spending Hogmanay with some relatives in a small Scottish village and I was invited. Apart from forgetting my underwear and buying paper ones in the airport (can you still get such things?) I mainly remember monumental preparations in the days leading up to Hogmanay. Armies of formidable Scotswomen appeared to be cleaning entire houses from top to bottom, and filling them with food and drink in quantities that would have fed a regiment of pipers. All evening of New Year’s Eve last-minute sandwiches were being frantically prepared as though lives depended on it, glasses polished and food laid out. Already drink was being knocked back by the tankerload and I was practically on my ear. The party was in full swing. Until suddenly at 10 pm one of the aunties emphatically declared:

“All right everyone, that’s IT! No more drinking. No-one’s to drink anything else.”

“Haha!” I laughed heartily, then immediately froze. The room had gone silent and everyone was staring at me.

“Really! Not a single drink until midnight.” And they meant it. Not a drop was touched until the midnight countdown on television was complete and the fireworks started. The New Year had officially arrived and all hell broke loose. Drinking, eating, shouting, kissing, hugging, dancing, singing Auld Lang Syne – everything was happening all at once. I could barely hear myself think. People were arriving in the hall and I was told it was time to go visiting. The entire street of houses had open doors. In fact probably the whole of Scotland did, but luckily we were only expected to visit everyone in that street, of course having one or several drinks in each house. It was more alcohol than I had ever consumed, before or since. I think I finally passed out at about 4 or 5 a.m., but no-one else did. I groaned my way downstairs the next morning around 11 to find the party still going strong and aunties, uncles, friends and neighbours still laughing, eating and drinking.

Perhaps it was those pre-Hogmanay scrub-the-world preparations that give me that feeling I get year after year, that I should clean and tidy the old year and pack it away neatly in catalogued drawers by December 31st. All undesirable experiences, memories, bugs & illnesses etc., will not be granted entry permits to this nice, clean new year, but must remain in the dirty, old, used year.

I said I get the feeling. I didn’t say I actually do it.

“Did you look outside?” a friend asked me this morning.

Did I look outside? I’ve been trying to avoid it. Must I? I’ll think about it. Can I leave it until April? No.

Outside is like a scene from a Christmas card. Again. Come to think of it, it’s looked like that since Christmas. This morning all the violations of yesterday are gone. The heavy boot and snow shovel scars have vanished in the night’s snow. Clearly I’ll have to give that weather a talking to.

“Ok ok ok. I know we asked for a white Christmas and you did that and it was very nice but can you go away now? Go and snow on someone else for a change. What about all those poor snow-starved tourists down in Mexico. They must be just gasping for a few feet of the stuff!”

An icicle is dripping. I want to go out and tell it to get a move on, there are twelve feet sorry, inches of snow waiting to be thawed.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
A snow drift around my pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Two blizzards more and a snow drift around my pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Three cold snaps, two blizzards more, and a snow drift around my pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Four chilly blasts, three cold snaps, two blizzards more, and a snow drift around my pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
Five frozen pipes!
Four chilly blasts, three cold snaps, two blizzards more, and a snow drift around my pear tree.

You get the picture.

Here was my picture of today. Linger in warm, cosy bed with Mac and the coffeepot for as long as humanly possible. Didn’t I do everything else yesterday? All I have to do today is put on ten layers of clothes, trudge along my shovelled walkways to the water cisterns, get up a ladder with a bucket on a rope and haul water back to the house. The hard work is all done! I scraped, shovelled and chipped my way into the bins on Monday, scraped, shovelled and chipped my way into the cisterns on Tuesday and indulged in a little investigative plumbing yesterday just to pass the time of day. Which was fun but a bit like a PD James novel with no ending. Which is the guilty pipe? Ok guys, who did it? Several of them had good reasons for committing the icy crime. They had the motivation. They had the means. It’s just a question of eliminating the suspects one by one.

I eliminated them. I guess just because you can play the English concertina doesn’t necessarily mean you can fix the plumbing. Well who’da thought it?

Dear Gabriolan,

How are things in Mexico today? How are your frontal zones? Is pressure building on the Costalego due to an accumulation of refried beans? Are powerful weather systems spreading heavy sunshine to all areas? Are tropical air masses approaching from the east bringing blistering blasts of chimichangas topped with guacamole?

Are you pining for the ferns and fronds? The Barra de FerryLineup? Should I send moss from my roof? Brown, oozing cedar from the hood of my car?

Some hot soup?

It is a little known fact that in 1791 José María Narváez landed on the north side of our island and said:
“I name this place The Land Of The Heat Pumps”.

It is important not to take our island for granted. Why go to Mexico when here you are free to stroll around the coast of Gabriola wearing only three camisoles, two pairs of panty hose, longjohns, six pairs of socks, two sweaters, a Mackinaw, scarf, boots, mittens and a woolly hat, knowing that at any moment you can leap into the ocean with no fear of sunburn.

It is, admittedly, a little chillier than where you are, but let me draw to your attention that “fish tacos” are – anagrammatically speaking – simply “fish coats”, and here on the fish coast (oh those anagrams again!) fish can regularly be seen sporting the very latest in fishy fashion; coats, headscarves, sunglasses and even jewellery.

May your tacos be fishy, your dates be dishy, your dishes be dates, your bad news late,
your dates be stoned and your bills postponed.

May the mariachi ever be catchy, your aunty be picante and your bridge work be cheap.

Wear bandanas and watch for updates.

Nora the Conquistadora

2016-01-12