31 December 2011
29 December 2011
28 December 2011
27 December 2011
26 December 2011
24 December 2011
23 December 2011
22 December 2011
|Terry and Suarez shake hands before Chelsea's game with Liverpool|
19 December 2011
18 December 2011
16 December 2011
Since completing her Masters degree, Lady Pudding has discovered extra hours to fill and so she thought she'd give the Women's Institute a try. At the second meeting in a church hall in the city centre, "secret Santa" presents were exchanged and she ended up with a practical guidebook to knitting her own cakes - complete with free patterns and illustrations. Here it is:-
My mother used to be a staunch member of the W.I. in the village where I was born - Nazareth in East Yorkshire. They made jam and chutney and useful things for the home like lampshades and baskets before singing "Jerusalem" and going home. They never knitted bloody cakes! What would you do with a knitted cake once it was finished? Torment children with it? Feed it to knitted teddy bears? Or, most likely, just ram it in a cupboard and forget about it.
What a mad world we live in. Here are some cakes I knitted earlier:-
14 December 2011
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
12 December 2011
11 December 2011
10 December 2011
9 December 2011
7 December 2011
6 December 2011
5 December 2011
4 December 2011
Song for The Departed
I thought I heard you last night
As this wind-pommeled house
Yes, before I was submerged in sleep
I thought I heard you.
How faint your voices were
As if from far away
Only dimly like your faces.
Oh, how faint they seemed.
Life pulses like oceans
But its foreverness is
I could only sense the darkness
Though my hands reached out for you.
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