Camera Obscura and Chaos

I had an idea that I could set up a camera obscura in my back room at the weekend. It should have been easy I reasoned, as I tried to black out the (mainly glazed) back door and pin the large curtains back as best I could. Achieving a black out is quite tricky I discovered as the hours passed, and the navy blue plastic table covers I thought would do the trick weren't up to the task. I had to pin layer upon layer of blankets all over the place. The drawing pins were straining at the task, and just as I stepped down from the ladder for what felt like the millionth time, the blankets fell in a crumpled heap on the floor and I was left in bright sunshine again. After quite a lot of grumpiness, but with a strong, 'I've started so I'll finish' mentality, I managed to get the room mainly dark. I then realised I'd have to bore a hole through a blanket to get the pin hole that is needed. That didn't seem sensible, so it was back to pinning bits of blanket up in a rough 'hem' and trying to jigsaw puzzle bits of cardboard to the relevant cracks. This was further complicated by the fact that as the room did become darker, I kept losing the scissors, drawing pins and sellotape. The room might not have been going black, but the air was certainly going blue.

At last I was able to make the pin hole, and realised with dismay that the sunny side of the house is actually the front. The sun did come out for a few minutes and I was able to see a very small, and admittedly rather disappointing, image of some clouds on the side of my bookcase. The next stage should have been to get a mirror to reflect the image through a lens onto another mirror on the floor. By this time I was feeling quite depressed and decided to just admire my 2p sized image of clouds. The only good thing about this, I thought ruefully to myself, was that at least you couldn't tell they were upside down.

Apparently Leonardo Da Vinci used this method to paint some pictures. Sadly the clouds were in fuzzy vision, so that combined with my limited artistic skills, wasn't going to produce a 'master' anytime soon - Leo can rest easy in his grave.

Black Mould and Tap Dancing Spiders

It’s all rather exciting, there is a new bath in the bathroom and a rather smart toilet which is a bit like one you’d find in a five star hotel, except the hotel wouldn’t have bare walls with lumps missing (the plumber said the walls were 'really terrible' – I think he was worried that if he leant too heavily in the wrong place, he would find himself in the back garden). I tentatively experienced the new bath this morning and enjoyed the view that notably lacked any black mould. There seem to be several bits of flooring missing, which is a bit creepy as I am fairly sure that Brother-of-the-Biggest-Spider-in-the-Universe will be procreating somewhere under the planks. I walk around rather gingerly as I am still suffering from a touch of paranoia about the fearsome furry fiends. I console myself with the thought that he and his clan might be tap dancing – their eight legs each working away on a new routine, ready to perform on my faucet(?) when I am next relaxing in foaming, five star luxury.

Master of all he Surveys

I popped downstairs into the kitchen to get a cup of tea last night, but patrolling the basement floor was The Biggest Spider in the Universe. He was just sitting there, glaring at me, daring me to walk past him to the kettle without the password. His long legs were bent at careful angles to keep his bloated, furry body suspended, ready to pounce. He actually had horns, which was quite scary. I decided to be brave and do the glass and card trick, but by the time I had got them ready, braced myself for the battle and turned to get him, the floor was empty. I almost fancied that I heard the clatter of eight jack booted feet as he ran to hide. It's all a bit disconcerting as every time I go into the kitchen, I feel like I'm being watched. I make sure I put shoes on now, I wouldn't want to step on anything that big, and I go wriggly down my spine when I think about his spindly, hairy legs interwoven between my toes, with the mush of spider abdomen stuck onto the ball of my foot. It didn't help when I found Son of the Universe in the bath this morning. I think having the bathroom done has sent various wildlife scurrying round the house in search of new abodes. It reminded me of cycling down the towpath of the Thames past a building development once, and rats were dashing across the path as their nests were disturbed. I've gone all yucky thinking about it.

Perhaps if I give the spider a name other than Master of the Universe I won't feel so bad. I'll call him Bob the Spider, which has friendly overtones of tool belts, primary colours and jolly songs. It's a shame he can't hold a paintbrush in each hairy leg - the bathroom would be finished in no time at all.

Taupe, ecru, beige

My bathroom is going to be replaced from tomorrow. This is particularly exciting as the plumber has been promising to come for several months. This had lead to a rather long period of not really bothering to clean the bathroom properly 'as its going to be gutted soon'. As a result it's been a place of less than welcoming demeanour. I had to go to a DIY shop (and I still feel slightly phobic about these places) to choose complicated things like floor and wall tiles and paint. I’m no interior decorator, but am quite pleased with a colour scheme of marbled white tiles with a hint of ‘granite’ and ‘granite’ floor tiles (non-slip luckily) and ‘Arctic white’ for the walls. It won’t be a warm and cosy room, but it might be a nice, clean room soon. I’m looking forward to waving goodbye to the black mould that has been depressing me for sometime, that even the spray-on sulphuric acid stuff couldn't help with, and the carefully positioned house plant wilted away from.

I'm not sure why 'granite' is a selling point - it doesn't look particularly special. The only thing I can think of worthy of note is its radon emitting properties (forget going to A&E for your suspected broken bone, just hold it over the draining board for a while). However, the paint colours were reassuringly pretentious as always; 'crushed cotton' and 'freyed hessian' giving a whole new dimension to Adrian Mole's sock drawer.

The pretentious colour names remind me of those menus that talk about freshly harvested sea vegetables from under the wild waves of the Atlantic or the rice that is grown in the flood waters of the Himalayan foothills. I used to think prawns on a bed of lettuce was bad enough, but reading these menus is like reading the pompous information notices next to paintings in art galleries; 'Trystan used gouache mixed with mud from the bottom of his Barbour boots and his own pubic hair to create this evocative scene reflecting the enduring power of democracy'.

Perhaps I'm going to the wrong art galleries.

Can You Glue Sequins onto a Recorder?

I'm jealous of Vanessa Mae. We went to see her at an outdoor concert last night. She was wearing an amazingly blingy dress and shoes that sparkled like diamonds in the spotlight. She was also fabulously talented and could command the stage just by posing with her violin and brandishing her bow, sending clouds of rosin flying off it.

The choice of music was a bit variable - she tried some 'popular' pieces which included a variation of something that sounded like a hoe-down which was a bit dull, but luckily went into the finale with the stunning jazzed up toccata and fugue and one of the Vivaldi 'Seasons'. I wasn't sure which one (is anyone sure which is which?) but not the whingy one, the one that makes you feel agitated and want to change the world. Luckily it's a short piece so the feeling passes quickly and you can relax again. It was made all the more stunning by having fireworks exploding in time to the music - I can't remember seeing and hearing anything so spectacular for ages (Handel is just so yesterday). All our jaws had to be scooped off the grass at the end.

I don't think I can achieve the same effect with my descant recorder, however many sequins I glue onto myself - although I do have some 'mirror on a role' which I could wrap myself up in (or at least stick onto my old trainers). There are some disco lights somewhere in the basement cupboard. I'll go and practice a few poses with my recorder this evening, and strut around before launching into 'Lord of the Dance' (most of the notes are there now). I'll have to be careful flinging it around, if I'm too flamboyant spittle will fly off. Some fussy members of my audience might be upset.

Watch this space for the stadium tour and album coming soon!

....and cue the 37 Shot Surgical Strike!

Expanded Polystyrene and Tombolas

I'm staring at the wreckage of my healthy eating lunch. I had a problem with it, balsamic vinegar dressing looks too much like gravy, and who wants salad with gravy? The remnants are looking rather sad, scattered around messily in one of those horrid expanded polystyrene containers that destroy the world. If you use a real knife and fork, they 'carve' indentations across the bottom. It's a bit strange, not hitting a china plate when you cut your tatty, just a squidgy experience of slicing the soft container. This probably releases minute particles of polystyrene into the salad and has probably given me cancer. So, my lunch has probably helped destroy the world and given me cancer, and it didn't even taste that good.

Plastic is horrid stuff. I've given up drinking wine in plastic cups, finally realising that part of the lovely thing about wine is seeing how the light reflects the colour through the glass, either honeyed shades of white, or blackcurranty red. Holding a plastic cup with an opaque plastic tint doesn't do it for me anymore (unless on a picnic, where different rules apply). If you are at an event where the wine is proffered in plastic, my advice is to ask for a cup of tea in a mug. Someone will probably be quite pleased to have an opportunity to put their feet up in the kitchen while the kettle boils anyway. Make sure you state the 'mug' part, otherwise you are in danger of having more disappointing expanded polystyrene. While you wait for the tea, you can have another couple of goes at losing money on the tombola (you knew you were going to lose anyway, so don't get upset). Which reminds me, once I won a jar of something on a tombola, and my cynical friend smirked (which I attributed to jealousy at the time) and said it was bound to be past its sell by date. She was right. I think there are trolley loads of out-of- date tins and jars going around the country doing tombolas. Suspended in a never- land of backs of cupboards, a year at a time, but at least getting to see the world, albeit slowly.

650 million people can't be wrong

I've started to prepare for a trip to India in a couple of weeks time. The ratio of planning that has to be done in relation to the humble mosquito is out of all proportion. My main worry is that if there is a mozzie within about 10 miles, it usually decides to head straight for me, and to tell his mates to come and join the party. I think I must be particularly tasty to mozzies. I've packed a mosquito net, mosquito repellent, another Avon product that the SAS apparently use, lots of long sleeved tops and more tablets than I've ever seen in one place before. So when I saw an advert for a wide brimmed hat with black netting covering it, and helpful drawstring around the neck to prevent the little pests getting in, I was sorely tempted. I am not usually interested in fashion, but even I was worried that it wouldn't be a good look. I also have a worry that if the mozzies were particularly irksome and made me grumpy, I might accidentally yank the drawstring too hard and garrot myself, which wouldn't be a good look either. Maybe a boater, veil and ribbon combo (think Katherine Hepburn) would enhance my appearance more than the Harrison Ford effect? Shame the boater probably wouldn't make it in one piece through the airport luggage handling system.

So, the mosquito, what's the point - apart from being particularly kind and helpful to the protozoan parasite?

'Why all the fuss? I love mosquitos!'

Wet Leaves and Swear Words

I was on my usual Sunday morning wander round to the newsagent to get the papers, wearing my favourite wedgy heeled sandals with silly, smooth soles when I slipped on a wet leaf by the bus stop. My legs were thrust well out of their usual loci of movement, and I found myself kneeling on the pavement in a pose not unlike those seen on 'Strictly Come Dancing'. The passengers on the 281 seemed surprised that someone was so desperate for a bus to come, they they had got to their knees. As I was flung to the ground by the evil leaf, I have to confess I emitted a yell of 'f**k' (I don't usually swear, it was the surprise element). I felt quite abashed when I realised that this particular bus stop is immediately outside a convent, and that, being a warm July morning, several windows were open.

My favourite sandals are now too grimy to wear and my favourite knee is feeling a bit sore. My trousers were covered in bits of leaf and dirty puddle water too.

I just hope that no one on the 281 knew me and that the nuns Sunday morning prayers weren't disturbed. Today I will be going out to buy some sensible, flat shoes with laces and soles that can take me up Everest.

It looks harmless enough, but really it wants to break your legs

Encompassing the World

I'm thinking of freeing myself from TV ownership. So many programmes are about doing up your house, moving house or sharing a house with lots of weird people it's become boring. I'm so in love with my radio that I think I'm nearly ready to tell the telly to leave. It's not paying its way, its not funny anymore, it wastes my time and keeps staring at me when I'm lying on the settee. It doesn't do any housework, can't do the gardening and won't clean the car.

I'm going to buy some good speakers for the computer and buy a comfy chair for maximum slumpage comfort (I'm seeing an executive leather affair that tilts back and maybe even has one of those foot rests that pings out when you achieve 45 degrees).

That's just reminded me of one of the most fascinating things I ever did see on TV, back when I was about four. It was on 'Play School' and I think it was through the 'Round Window' - a cunning device to disguise the educational element (I was fooled, were you?). It was a short black and white film of a double decker bus doing the 'tilt-test'. I was transfixed by the bus leaning over, but mostly transfixed by the over sized protractor attached to it, with a swinging arrow indicating the angle of tilt. It is a seriously geeky admission I know, but I think it started an early interest in geometry. I went on to enjoy shopping for maths sets. Other girls wanted matching bra and pant sets, I wanted a matching compass and set square set.

I loved making those flower patterns using only a compass and totally was engrossed by drawing perpendicular lines by marking out little arcs. I know the Greeks (is this where the word 'geek' comes from?) and Egyptians managed to measure the circumference of the earth and probably the distance to the moon with little more, but I was happy drawing a flower.

Love to Love Me Baby

Driving to work this morning, I was listening to a compilation tape that has spent a lot of time hidden away under a bed. It was quite odd to find out it was the music from my 18th birthday party. 'Whatever happened to the Alessi Brothers?' I mused as I waited for the lights to change. Then Donna Summer started warbling 'Love to Love You Baby' (I hasten to point out this was an already an 'old' track at the point of my 18th birthday) and I remembered that this was the really, really long version. A friend of mine once recalled going to join the toilet queue when it started (remember pre en-suite toilet queues at parties?), waiting ages to go, and coming back down to hear Donna still doing her stuff. I had completely forgotten how naughty her stuff was. I had the passenger window completely open (driver's window still not mended) and was held up in traffic just level with a bus stop where several old ladies were waiting for the 131. Donna was just reaching the 'climax' (and I use the word carefully here) of the lyrics, which caused some surprise to the bus stop people, who must have thought I was doing something quite inappropriate in the car. I tried to make the window go up, but the button on the driver's side doesn't work either, so I smiled bleakly and made sure both hands were visible on the steering wheel.

The person who had made the tape for me was a one eyed ex Hell's Angel, who had quite a lot of metal bits holding his bones together. Once, while giving me and a friend a lift back from some dodgy club in London in his Triumph Spitfire, he exhibited signs of early road rage, waving a monkey wrench around on the slip road of the A3. I spent the rest of the journey thinking about the conundrum of him liking the Alessi Brothers, but ended up singing along anyway.

Playing to the Camera

The advent of the digital camera appears to have made everyone see everything as a potential photo shoot. We are no longer limited to 24 shots on a film, everyone can click away taking endless pictures of everything. I've seen people taking photos at the end or beginnings of church services, with no respect for the congregation. One thought that some specially arranged candles were set up as a photo opportunity rather than an aid to quiet contemplation before prayer. In a concert recently a couple of members of the audience kept bobbing up and down to photograph the musicians with flash at odd intervals throughout the performance. I also went to a wedding a while ago, and as the bride walked in to the room for the ceremony, all the guests turned round and rather than greeting her with smiles, held up their cameras and took pictures. It was an odd and rather disturbing sight. I've also seen lots of families on holiday where fathers instead of joining in, stand to one side and endlessly point camcorders at their brood, who then become self conscious.

Are we all in danger of never actually living important memories, being so busily tied up in recording them? As you stand aside with your camera, are you actually taking yourself out of the frame in more ways than one?

Mapping Your Life

I like ordnance survey maps, it's a bit geeky I know, but I love all the information displayed in the twirly contours and winding roads of different colours. There was something quite enjoyable about finding a new symbol on the map and checking the key to find out what it meant. I used to enjoy geography lessons where you had to draw a cross section of land from the map and make a lovely little diagram - which was always a river valley. There is something soothing about rummaging in a pencil case to find the right coloured pencil and doing a bit of careful colouring in and ending up with the predictable blob of blue at the bottom of the valley.

As I flipped through the maps, I realised they reflected most of the summer holidays I had been on from childhood through to recent years. The North coast of Scotland (honeymoon), the New Forest (with the children), the French OS equivalent (cycling in Brittany with friend) and so on. I hadn't realised how much of my holiday history was reflected in the maps. The old maps that my parents owned are a bit brittle and faded, but the cartography looks nicer somehow - they lack the over perfect polish of computer generated artwork. There is also the guaranteed moment of frustration with OS maps when you try to fold them up again in the right way. It's all part of the vibe.

Forget the digital holiday snaps, just have a look at your old maps and enjoy memories of train journeys and tricky bends in roads and beautiful views.