Strictly Come Dancing....

I don't think that I have ever put this on my blog before, though I did write it some time ago. If it seems over familiar please forgive me.

Village committees had met, deliberated, voted, and agreed that it would indeed be splendid if the children of the school could join in the forthcoming festivity by taking part in a couple of country dances. One involved lines of us standing opposite, boy girl, boy girl and head to tailing in a simple arrangement set to music. Along with verse variations where shapes were made with arms, and pat a cake clapping as a couple by couple passed down the middle. The whole concluded after reprises of the main theme. The other comprised a rather more circular affair. Now couples wove in and out of counter rotating rings in a path that would have generated a fine spirograph pattern had they been allowed to pull baler twine in their wake. We were all to take part.

To begin with I was just a bit clumsy. If there ever was a person who proclaimed that ‘white men ain’t got no rhythm’ I suspect that they could have held my ineptitude at skipping to a beat up as a definitive example. The trouble was that Mrs Jasper, the self chosen choreographer of the spectacle was a perfectionist. The sort of woman who saw my feet of clay as an insult not to be entertained. I was caught then, between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand there was no way that I was going to allowed to drop out. If one rat was allowed to jump ship, however much the ship would benefit, it was clear that there were a number of others that would rather not be part of it. In a school of under thirty students there really wasn’t a lot of slack as far as the required number at the dance was concerned. On the other hand there was Mrs Jaspers reaction to my overqualification in the left foot department. Over a period of a fortnight she went from being a patient maternal perfectionist to a screaming banshee every time I put a foot out of place. Rather that curb my wayward rhythms this really only served to aggravate them and produce secondary anomalies. Soon I was unable to tell clockwise from anti clockwise, invariably made lunges for a male partner, and, when trying to follow other pat a cakers, nearly had Wayne Bests eye out on the end of my thumb. Students with whom I had shared tears and laughter began to discuss openly the best methods for my dispatch and the disposal of the body. I was totally crap at country dancing and not even my sister had a comforting word.

Add all this to the fact that I was having a frighteningly early puberty. I reached the point where I prayed in earnest for some of the tragic deaths of children that we learned of in the Bible and Dickens could befall me, thus enabling friends and family to remember me as a wonderful boy. To spare them the need to speak my name in the hushed tones that would undoubtedly be reserved for the tales of the great barn dance debacle.

God answered my prayers, thoughtfully avoiding my untimely death, he instead sent a great flood to help me out.

Overnight the Bristol Avon catchment area was inundated with nearly seven inches of rain. The river rose, sweeping away old stone bridges. A dam burst and washed away the centre of Bitton. In our house the water rose to a depth of nearly four feet. In the early hours of Saturday July the thirteenth, the very day of the Upton Cheyney barndance, my sisters and I were evacuated by the fire service to a family on higher ground, and subsequently to my grandparents house in Kent. And as the circumstances of our family life moved on it turned out that we were to change school by the time the new term started. It wasn’t until the year two thousand and one that I felt able to dance as if no one was looking.

Junk Mail

“An English man’s home is his castle…
It’s also a valuable asset that could help keep your independence.”

Thus began a letter that I received trough the post today. A letter that went on to advertise the potential for equity release from my home.

Nothing wrong with that I suppose.
Oh…..
Unless of course you live in Wales and have a passing knowledge of how old Longshanks surrounded your countrymen with his castles in order to suppress any notion of independence.

I shall be giving Mr Daren Carter of Retirement Services Ltd a ring on Monday to educate him a little.

Unholy Moses!

Back it the late seventies it was still legal to burn the straw by products of the grain harvest directly in the field. Various justifications were expressed on behalf of the practice. Weed control was one. Ash as a quick wash in fertiliser was another. I think that I heard destruction of certain types of parasite insect larvae once as well.
The truth was of course far more simple. It gave you an opportunity at the end of a hard days work for more than a little mayhem.
Stubble burning was a truly spectacular conflagration and the real aim was to produce a pall of smoke that could be seen for three counties and allow you to turn up grinning and red eyed for last orders at the pub. If you were truly gifted you might just get a write up in 'The Stubble Burners Gazzette'.
My old boss Roger was a stubble burner of legend and on a good windy day, a day when things got truly out of hand, he could close down the M4, Divert air traffic from nearby military airfields, take out half a mile of hedge, endanger a few lives and probably several tens of thousands of pounds worth of equipment. It was men like Roger that made farming ‘exciting’ in the seventies and I fear that unless health and safety legislation becomes a whole lot more lax we shall not see his like again.
I remember at the end of the day he would turn up just as his chaps were taking the last load of grain from the field. Cackling like a spectacularly maniacal Arthur Brown, he would drop a match while standing at a point that he judged to be upwind. Heaven help you if you were downwind.
Here on Hallett’s mountain it is time to pay tribute to our heroes of yesteryear. For the next month or so it is perfectly OK to set fire to the gorse. I have no idea why, though they do say that it keeps down weeds and pests and improves the grazing. For the next month we shall be blessed with a little rain of ash from the sky. Lone tractor drivers will be seen heading away as fast as they can. The skyline will be filled with small volcanoes, and men glad of the overtime will arrive in little red fire trucks to watch as things burn to their natural conclusion.

Uneasy Rider

After freezing my genitalia down to the size of a chipolata blessed with poorly shrivelled raisins for company I looked in despair at the contents of my bag.
Now there’s an opening line for you.
You see the thing was this, She Of The Townhouse had lured me on a promise down for a couple of days in the Cotswolds. While she went off for the day trumping up business for her organ, I am left to my own crude devices.
I am not sure whether fortune or foolish vanity drove my reason but I took my Dawes out of the shed and dusted it off with the intention of exploring a bit of Laurie Lees backyard. The gentle spring that had blessed the early part of the week had rather lulled me in to a false sense of security. Persuading me that all would be well and warm even without the extreme nether garments that I layer on when striding the mountain.
Dear me how wrong I was. As I attempted a hurtle along the A417 from Birdlip towards Cirencester, a very bike unfriendly dual carriageway, I soon regretted my optimism regarding the sun breaking through the chill grey mist. My fingers gradually turned blue and my thumbs stopped aching and went completely numb. The nose I was following likewise. Soon the uphill bits were accompanied by ragged breath and snot. By the time I actually arrived at Phoenix I was like a block of ice, and as I say at the top in danger of the unfortunate emasculation of the proverbial brass monkey.
I was glad then to repair to a coffee shop called Jacks and gird myself for the next stage of my expedition, first having purchased a map that would guide me to a route with a little less heavy traffic.
There I also reflected on how poorly I had stocked my small rucksack, not even a pair of gloves.
I was a sad comparison indeed to the radiant mother with a toddler who sat opposite me. Hanging from the back of a pram she proceeded to unpack an impressive range of puzzles, books, foodstuffs, spare clothes, cleaning materials and all manner of daily essentials until I began to suspect that she must have access to the Tardis space saving technology of ‘Bigger on the Inside”. This she multi tasked with animated and interesting conversation and the consumption of coffee.
It was like watching someone rub their stomach and pat their head at the same time.
I did think about whether she might not have a hot water bottle that I could stuff down the front of my trouser. But then I guess there are some things that are better left unspoken between strangers.
Ten miles later on I found a very nice pub and thawed out by the fire. As well of course as sinking a couple of pints of IPA and floating pie and chips on top of that.
The day seemed to brighten up…..

Miracle Cure

Just as I turn the corner between life and death, She Of The Town House is banging on about some sniffle she has picked up from goodness knows where and is exagerating to call a cold.
Women!

The Grim Reaper Calls....

Seldom free from pain but never one to grumble. Such, dear reader, is a mans lot. While some exceptions are out there (lesser men…) we bear our lot stoically and seldom remark upon life, it misfortunes, or indeed illness. Indeed, I myself am raising a weary finger from my own sickbed to type this small note to you and no living soul has yet heard a word of complaint.
Wracked though I am with this terrible cough. Burned by a fever hotter than pepper. Staring through the wild eyes of delirium.
Though I am uncomplaining, She Of The Town House has spotted my plight, and summoned the Old Walled Town's finest medical opinion to my sickbed.
I can tell that the end is near. The lights are dim now and the sound is receding to a gentle murmur in the background. I understand that the HN51 strains have all been accounted and discounted leading to a sorry conclusion. There is little time left. Unless an elixir can be located, and fast, I shall be gone by morning.
It seems that I have ‘Man Flu’.

Hoping For A Snowday

As January marks its passing I would like to nod my head to Jim Miller.
My friend of many years.
Goodnight you old bugger.

In other news. The wind is creeping in to the corners of Hallett’s Mountain and it’s a chill wind indeed unless you can scrabble room by the fire. As its my fire I have my feet up beside it. I have a glass of whisky and a strong coffee beside me on the left arm of the chair. To my right a bowl of Wine gums. There is also a rumour of chocolate but I am keeping that hidden unless She Of The Townhouse or The Boy twig.
We are hoping that the bad weather warnings for our area are realised and that by morning we shall find the rest of the world cut off by snow. At least to the degree that we wont have to go to work.
Fingers crossed.

Update 01/02/2008
Bloomin!
No sign of snow at all on the ground and just the briefest flurries as I set off for work this morning.
Grrrrrr

Sock It To Me

When She Of The Townhouse gave me socks for Christmas, I sensed that a certain stage had been reached in our relationship. Nevertheless I persevere.....
The footwear in question had a higher purpose. Over the weeks since the festive season, things have been complicated. You see the socks in question were labelled with the days of the week. At first I thought that this would be easy. If the day was Monday then you fished out the socks with Monday written on them, wore them for a day and then bunged them in the wash. And the next day you picked up Tuesday, the day being a sock related update of the previous one. So on and so on. I am sure that even a child could get the hang of it, and for someone as shamefully over certificated as yours truly, well surely such a concept is child’s play.
Is it bugger!
Within mere days the socks had performed a shuffle reminiscent of the pea under one of three thimbles. By the end of the first week I was finding it hard to remember what millennium we were in and I just couldn’t match the socks to the days no matter how much sweat or intellect I expended.
And (lap it up Miss Beckwith) then the great Moo Moo stepped in. I was getting ready for work last Monday and my personal deity revealed one of the wrinkles in the universe that comes every now and then to a Newton, an Einstien, or a Hawking. There I was, desperate to fit the socks to the day and all the time I was starting out wrong footed.
I picked up the nearest pair and in a flash realised that, in accordance with their legend, it would be so much better if it was Saturday again.
From now on it’s the socks that will determine the day and not the other way round.
Some of them are going to be recycled a lot more quickly of course.

Miss Beckwith? She was the Venus who taught me English when I was eleven. Never let me begin sentences with ‘and’.

Déjà Vu ?

Many years ago , on an eighteenth birthday that turned out to be memorable for reasons that I wont completely embarrass you with, one of the gifts I was given was a book token.
This represented the thoughts and good wishes of a group of friends that shared my life and lunchtimes in the sixth form college.
Lets see, Soo, Christine, Elaine, Julie, Alison, Peter, Kath, Jayne….Oh dear I am going to have to find it now and edit up at a later date.
The thing was the token had a picture on the front that was a puzzle to me at the time. Envisaged as some time in my future was a man nurturing a whisky and a pipe, feet up beside a glowing log fire, getting stuck in to an improving book. This latter presumably being the focus, in keeping with the nature of the gift.
Pleased with their generosity and the sentiments expressed within I made demure reference to the naffness of the picture. And to a woman ( sorry Pete it just scans better..) they assured me that this was an accurate representation of their own expectations of my future.
Well!
You can imagine what a blow this might be to an eighteen year old lad. The lanky Don Juan who agonised over the affections of young women just such as these was seen as a pipe and slippers man! It all seemed a dismal prospect.
The hormonal rollercoaster was put firmly back on track at a shared party in Hanham cricket club later that evening thank goodness. Even so some niggle of doubt surfaced again last night.
She Of The Townhouse is away on a witchcraft course you see and so for two nights I am alone. And I expect you can see it coming….
There I sat, nurturing a whisky, feet up beside a glowing log fire, getting stuck in to an improving book. The pipe was replaced by a stinking dog, a black Labrador grunting from time to time at my feet.
To all intents and purposes I had become the picture on the card. Disturbing.
So there we go, I am at a loose end again tonight. What should I do?
Text me, let me know, leave a note in the comment box perhaps?
I mean there’s the pub. The cinema. I could go out and watch the moon on a remote beach ( if the rain stops). I could dash out for some Kentucky fried weasel at the drive through. The night is pregnant with all kinds of exciting possibilities that I am eager to have drawn to my attention.
What do you think?

Oh incidentally, in case any of you out there in BlogSpace are reading it
A Guide to the Gower by Wynford Vaughn Thomas
The Oxford Book of French Verse
Wandering by Herman Hesse.
Thanks girls…..and Peter

Hot Stuff

Around this time of year I find myself thinking about Dave. My best friend for twenty odd years was taken away by foul cancer two years ago now. We had taught the same role in schools side by side ever since way back and we knew each other like a pair of old socks. We were the same age as well, still are I suppose but its not so easy to talk to him now.
It was around now that I spoke to him for the last time. Squeezed his hand. Cried a bit as I walked away. But you know he would be awkward if I made a scene so instead I will trot out one of his thoughts in the hope that those who knew him will turn a smile with me and he will continue to be remembered with affection by a generation before he fades. As of course we all must.
We used to waste time occasionally speculating on a program on the TV. ‘Ready Steady Cook’ has been on BBC for some time now. Its format is that two guests bring in a bag of food costing no more that five pounds ( about ten dollars (US)) and then, with the aid of two celebrity chefs, turn the contents into a spectacular feast inside twenty minutes.
We would idle away a few pints of beer amusing ourselves over the most unlikely ingredients that you could tip out of the bag and face the poor schmuck who really had to deliver.
Tara Palmer Wotsname came up with an interesting take when she tipped a pair of red high heeled shoes out in front of Anthony Worral Thompson. He made a herb omelette out of the storecupboard specials that the chefs are allowed access to in order to supplement if memory serves.
We decided that we had to stick to food items though. Eventually Dave came up with something that we felt would crush any attempt to deal with it.

Out of our bag would crash a turkey, deep frozen overnight in a bath of liquid nitrogen.

Right then fellas, twenty minutes starts now, ready steady cook!

Not A Word Mind

Dear reader, I hardly know what to say. There is a whiff of scandal here on Hallett's Mountain. We await developments agog and speculate away.

The Emporers Dirty Laundry

Apocalypse has struck at the Townhouse.
You know that moment on all naval disaster films when the background hum of the engine stops. The one where you are suddenly conscious of the sound by focus on its absence. Well a similar moment happened sometime between Christmas and New Year in The Old Walled Town. The washing machine, faithful old retainer of socks, ground to a halt. And a very nasty grinding sound it was.
A mere thirty seconds after disaster struck a large amount of laundry was discovered. After accusations had been exchanged, this was bagged, bundled off up to my lofty perch, and loaded in to the Halletts Mountain washing machine.
Now don’t get me wrong, I am not that much of a slob, but a T-shirt will normally last me for a couple of days if you know what I mean. And a pair of jeans….well sometimes more than a day or two. I even have to be reminded sometimes. Well there you go. But hardly the end of a spectrum.
What struck me when sorting through the stuff to put on the washing line, was that we have one among us who changes his clothes with a frequency bordering on OCD. From one of the teenage bedrooms of the Townhouse has emerged enough clothing to relieve a community struck by Tsunami.
Even as we speak I hear the distnat rumble of a half track delivering the next load....

What A Great Age You Are Grandmama

Today was my grandmothers 96th birthday. She and I have been out for a meal.
We had a bit of a laugh with her wheelchair and getting in and out of my car.
We dined out at a very nice Chinese restaurant in Bath and then took a tour around the park. We talked over old times and speculated on whether she would reach her hundredth birthday.
Later, as she was falling asleep in the chair, I realised that I was almost exactly half her age.

Happy Christmas

and best wishes to everyone out there in blogland for the New Year

....meanwhile, high above Tranquility Base a lone figure races through the void....

Genetically Modified

I am sitting awake at just after four in the morning and would probably be a whole lot better off asleep.
I am thinking about the clothes that I wear like a second skin.
I really only have two modes of dress recently. An unlike Einstein in every other respect I think that it is from him that I get the idea of wardrobe. Mind you it could be from the guy that Geoff Goldblum played in ‘The Fly’.
I have my work mode uniform and my jeans and black t-shirt. Buy two of everything and you never have to think about what to wear. Goodness only knows what people think when they see me in the same clothes week after month but I care little …. no hang on that’s not true…. I care for my appearance once and then I don’t like to think about it again.
This month I have had some disasters though. Jeans that have been with me since the mid nineties have bitten the dust and my school shoes, shoes that I hoped would see me to retirement, have sprung. I have been raggedy arsed and poorly shod. In addition the strategy of lining my pockets with plastic bags in order to prevent items falling through the holes led to a night having to search a whole beach for my car keys.
I have been forced to bite the bullet and lash out on a whole new wardrobe.
Well at least that’s it for another decade. Provided that I can figure out where my umpty pairs of black socks wiggle off when the washing machine door closes.

Just stepped Out For A Minute

I guess by now people whose blogs I am normally all over like a bad rash must be beginning to wonder why I am so silent of late. Correspondents who drop in here from time to time must be wondering why I haven’t sent a note in the last fortnight likewise. For those of a nervous disposition, the ones I stand among, by way of a half arsed apology I offer this. I am afraid that my life in the real world is rather hectic at present and I am getting a bit flaky round the edges.
The spare time that I usually have to chew a thorn or pass the time of day is eroded to the nub just at the minute. I seem to be coming home and passing out for the few hours that I used to use for all the good things in life.
So if I don’t seem to be there quite as much as usual please forgive me.
To quote a man who used to make guest appearances blowing up hot water bottles on children’s TV “I’ll be back”.
Its just there isn’t a lot spare in the next three to four weeks

An Embarrassment Of Riches

Never looking the gift horse in the mouth may well be a general piece of good advice, but every now and then someone uses the entertainment of this sentiment to stiff you one.
I am beginning to wonder whether She Of The Townhouse shouldn’t have checked the teeth and gums of what had the appearance of a very generous offer just a little more carefully.
While not wishing to dwell on the size of Bob The Other Builders latest erection, I am afraid that this is where my tale must start. He has a few acres you see. A few acres down in the valley. Acres that are encumbered by trees standing in the way of development. Or rather were encumbered. It seems someone has been offsetting their carbon footprint on real estate that had been cleared for development and so it now has been cleared for development…ummm if you see what I mean….
With an enthusiasm worthy of a man who has finally rid the third runway forest of environmental protestors, he has laid siege to the trees that would otherwise impede progress. And, as is the way with these things, he has some logs.
Ever generous ( and I mean that quite sincerely, this is a tale of generous spirit if nothing else) Bob The Other Builder gave She Of The Townhouse the heads up for a load of logs. Knowing that she possessed a wood burning stove he asked what part of The Old Walled Town she would like a few unloaded in.
Now you see the thing is the local council can be funny about this kind of thing. OK they have passed a planning consent that allows him to obliterate an ecoforest. This doesn’t mean that they are going to grin and bear him dumping fuel willy nilly in the middle of a medieval walled town outside a house with a small back yard. So she asked if he could leave them outside my barn. In my car parking space. Where my car usually goes.
Bugger!

Vanity ?

For the past twenty three years I have taught computing, mathematics, and science at YsgolJB in varying proportions. I have taught each subject at key stages 3 to 5 and have been responsible for four separate A levels. Some of my ICT students have also gone on to take special papers beyond A level. In every subject I have taught it has been a good fortune to see my students succeeding at the highest levels.

I have overseen the expansion of my main subject from a curiosity in the corner of a science laboratory to a Key Skill seen as vital to success in all subject areas in a large comprehensive school. Over the years this has put me in charge of several expansions in the size of my department. Recent major challenges have been the smooth transfer from a late Victorian style building to a purpose built school, along with the introduction of ICT as an academic qualification to the majority of key stage 4 students. This has meant that my department has built from a one man band operating mainly at lunchtimes to a diverse and dedicated group of full time and second subject ICT teachers, each one of whom it has been privilege to guide and work alongside.

The above though is what you might expect. I have a background of experience, and some successes to feel pleased about. I can bring that to the table, but then so can many others I am sure.
As well as academic and pastoral responsibilities of a teacher I have always found that it in taking students on for the extra mile there are rewards beyond.

I have introduced and led a Duke Of Edinburgh award group at YsgolJB. As helping me to share my own passion for the outdoor and mountain experience, it has allowed me to see students develop self reliance and self confidence. The satisfaction gained in sharing this kind of experience with students more than repays the effort you have to put in.
This also allowed me to develop my own mountain leadership skills and qualify as a welsh mountain leader. The award has also allowed me to work closely with colleagues in other schools, sharing joint expeditions to the Scottish islands.
Trips abroad. I have served as teacher / deputy leader on fifteen trips outside the United Kingdom, taking students to Germany and France for weeks study holidays. Working, and sharing the fun. Guiding students (and indeed staff) through the perils of the ‘hypermarché’ and Euro Disney. Quite often reflecting on the fact that you could really do with a little more than five hours sleep before the next tour of duty starts. I am fluent in spoken French.
OOSH. Now what on earth does that mean? Out Of School Hours. Grant money enabled us to keep study facilities open at YsgolJB after the end of the school day and as well as maintaining a presence in an IT room overseeing project work in a variety of subjects I was able to focus on helping students improve coursework in maths for GCSE.
These last three, along with other experiences have of course shown me the value of going further. In teaching I feel that we are rewarded by what we give. The relationships and empathy that you build with students are what enriches the joint learning experience. Academic excellence is rooted in this I am sure. If I could give a third referee it would be my students over the years, many of whom correspond regularly from all over the world.

In my personal life I am a keen astrophotographer and a published amateur astronomer. I have a passion for photography and am a member of Conwy Camera Club. I enjoy the challenge of the mountains in all their variety. I am training to drive HGV vehicles. I grow my own vegetables and I am proud of my garden. I read extensively on a variety of subjects and write for pleasure. I walk the dog twice a day and have a hectic family life. I hold a BSAC diving certificate but prefer snorkelling and free diving. If you give me some raw ingredients I can cook up a storm.

Oh yes! If I have to, I can conjure up a science experiment from brown paper, string and patches.

( I am brushing up my CV )

The Feel Good Factor

Once every month I have a private indulgence……..ALL RIGHT! Enough of that sniggering at the back….you there….see me at the end of the lesson.

Hey you can tell I have been doing a little light teaching this week cant you.

Let me start afresh.
Around the middle of each month a copy of Astronomy Now magazine appears in the Hallett’s Mountain post.
After divesting it of its outer plastic cover I always turn eagerly to the amateur astrophotography pages at the end. While there are superb pictures by people of real talent I am ashamed to say that my immediate aim is to find a couple of pictures that I can scoff at and compare unfavourably with mine. Its just envy of course. I never take the time to send any of mine in so any mockery that I posture is just sour grapes.
A month ago I changed my habit though. I felt that my picture of the occultation of Leo was probably up their street. I also remembered that from the cloud variations I had seen that there probably were not many people who could compete. The window in obscurity that I was lucky enough to see was pretty lucky and the event had quit a limited geographical extent. Reader, I sent it in.
So with solitary feigned boredom I disrobed (enough of that sniggering I told you earlier) the virgin (stop it!!) December issue of my magazine on the kitchen table and with nervous fingers fumbled straight to the relevant section at the back. Imagine, dear reader, my delight when my eye fell upon an image of the moon and Venus and then again my disappointment when I realised that the credit underneath the photo wasn’t mine. Not only that but the fellow had missed the burst of starlight that I had seen. While still a good picture I was quite miffed! My gruntle had been decidedly taken away, and just for once the idea of a stiff letter to the editor, possibly even a liberal use of underliners ink, seemed to fit the bill.
Then my phlegmatic side kicked in. I like Astronomy Now quite a lot and decided not to let one editorial faux pas by someone who was obviously on a short term contract spoil my enjoyment of the rest of the magazine.
And so it was, that as I left page nineteen, with its speculations about the activity of martian volcanoes, and turned to page twenty the lower mandible truly hit the deck. There was my picture at the bottom of the page. Along with it, lacking really only the superfluous description of an arse being scratched, lay the content of my post.
Well! You could have knocked me over with a cheesy wotsit.
I am a published amateur astronomer. My picture. My words.
I modestly texted everyone I know.

The Dance Of The Hours

Returning to the mountain around two this morning, a black velvet studded with fusions diamond gems greeted my delight. The sky was clear and the air was still. Perfect for wandering through the cosmos and my imagination.
I am hoping to see some good meteors. The annual Leonids are good for a few nights either side of the 17th of November.
So there I am. Half inside a thermal sleeping bag. Lying back on a deck chair. A couple of thousand pounds worth of digital trickery beside me staring into the inky abyss and wandering the lanes between the stars.
Pointing my camera at Gemini first. My sisters birthsign so a good picture here might suit her for Christmas. A gorgeous red Mars hangs right in the middle, like an internally illuminated ruby tossed between the twins.
On to Cancer, and in my own faint constellation Praespe, a tiny little beehive of stars shines steady.
Then Leo. He strides the darkness over Garvie’s leap and the old church. I ought to return to this when there is some moonlight to illuminate the foreground. Perhaps in a couple of weeks. In the meantime Saturn decorates the lions belly like a little fleck of yellow butter.
I am reluctant to lose the warm cocoon that I am in but The odd wisp of cloud is about now. Already I have been an hour out and things are moving round. The meteors are eluding me as well. So I put away the toys and just take the chair and my Ajungilac a little way down the track to see what I can bag with the binoculars. Moving away from the house lets me look more to the north and west.
Even though I know the sky well it takes a little while to get my eye in. After a quick scoot through Orion it is on to Taurus where I tick the crab nebula in passing and wonder if leaving the camera at the house was a mistake. Still If I had tried for the crab I would feel I had to get the telescope out and then another hour would pass. Sometimes you have to just look and wonder.
Looking past the Pleiades, a gorgeous little cluster of sapphire stars I would like to find Aires and Triangulum this would give me a galaxy that borders on naked eye visibility but the pattern is hard to pick out for some reason. These are faint constellations and by now low in the sky so I have probably missed this tonight.
And then my eye is caught by something new, As I wander round the W in Cassiopeia a patch of light around a bright star doesn’t seem quite right. I think I know what it is but even so …Lets see. Cassiopeia, Perseus with its double cluster of stars grouped together but just beyond that. Using the binoculars I realise now what is wrong. I had spotted Comet 17P/Holmes a couple of weeks ago. It was flagged up on many astronomy sites and I even got a picture that I was pleased with, but this is much bigger. The corona now seems to be rivalling the size of the moon, nowhere near as bright of course but it is an amazing sight. Like someone had tossed a little bag of exploding flour around a star. Indeed I must check just which one the bright magnitude star next to it is. Beautiful. In fact it is so good that I should get my camera back out and try, the chance might not come again tomorrow night and in a few days the moon will wash some of it out.
Looking at the sky though, I can see that there is no time for this. Bugger. The cloud is now racing over from the west and there are only few minutes left before a veil is drawn across infinity. Just time in fact to look over my shoulder and admire Venus rising in the east.
And now it’s five in the morning. I have been out there for three hours. Time, I think, for a coffee and a few hours sleep. I imagine you all tucked up in those warm beds. Riding your night trains. Think then of me while I inhabit the parallel universe.

Free tours. Next one leaves just after dark.