Hello sky, hello jet.

A clear, cold Sunday; late afternoon in Chiswick. Although the sun had begun to set the sky was still dazzlingly blue, and this jet made its way to where I wonder? Moscow? Tokyo? I like the way the Moon appears to bend the plane to its will. All those people nodding off in front of a six-month old Vince Vaughan movie, a warm glass of champagne in a plastic cup and a cleverly packaged meal-like meal in front of them, and me 37,000 ft below, pruning a wisteria, not quite duty-free.

William Morris Minor

Holland Park is just up the road. These are the leaves that fell on the pond in front of us, as we walked and talked, my son and I, two weeks ago, on a cold London Saturday with signs saying 'No cycling, no skating, no ball games, no smoking, no laughing, smiling, kissing, holding of hands, mirth, joy, light satire, heavy sarcasm, wit, greed envy or lust. Or sloth.'

They couldn't kill the beauty of these leaves 'though, so here they are.

Roast! Roast!

This joint had been cluttering up the ice-box for months. Whilst visiting Ron Combo in his Grappa Hell the freezer went on the blink and I came home to a fridge full of warm gin and this handsome, but inadvertently thawed, hunk of meat. I had to cook it or chuck it.

Beef being such a rare treat at Chateau Fib I took time to read the blood-soaked label and then knocked a full hour off the recommended cooking time, figuring I could always cook it for a bit longer if absolutely necessary. It wasn't.

The mustard you see is the especially delicious 'Moutarde de Charroux', and comes from Clermont Ferrand via personal courier. The beef came from Sainsbury's going-off counter and kept me going for a week. The leftovers are now back in the freezer, awaiting the advent of a Spong National Mincer from Unmitigated England's General Stores and Provisions(Online)Plc.

Shepherd's Pie anyone?

Impala, not Husky

Now here's a nice car to have sweeping past in the rush hour. The very first American car I ever saw was a Chevrolet Impala, parked next to the beach in Rock, Cornwall in 1964. It was a very pale yellow and absolutely vast, especially compared to our Morris Minor and the assorted Hillmans and Austins parked close by. Transfixed by the fabulously wide lateral fins, I stood and gazed in wonder. It was easily the coolest thing on wheels I had ever seen, aged seven. I wanted my Dad to buy one. He didn't, but he did buy me an ice-cream and carry me on his shoulders, which was almost as good.

Seeing this estate, looking just right on the Earl's Court Road, made me realise I still want one, perhaps even more.

Crane!

I had been in Italy for the weekend, visiting Ron Combo's Grappa Hell. Ron had had about as much as he could stand by 08.30 Monday morning and forced me on to a train back to Genoa, alone. With hours and hours to kill I wandered aimlessly through the city's picturesque streets etc etc. Spotted this impressive crane. The chappie on the ground is piloting the whole thing with a little gadget like a Sony PSP, whatever that is. Diplomat, should he be reading, will know all about this. I, as a non-crane driver, was humbled. So humbled I turned right and walked down the hill towards the dock. Here I was astonished to find every doorway full of exotic ladies of the night. Except it was 10.30 in the morning, on a Monday. Hats off to the work ethic girls, but I think I'll pass. Nice to know Dickensian London is alive and well and living in Genoa.

Nothing But Blue Skies

Took this shot on one of the many recent days when the earth stood still and Saint Gordon of Brown bailed out the known world with his secret stash of Nectar points and Green Shield Stamps. Something about the nature of the shiny, empty, lighter-than-air balloons, previously soaring, now snagged on an Earth-bound telly aerial, spoke far more eloquently about the individuals who have landed us in this mess than I ever could; so I pulled up sharp, leaned out the window (bloke) and snapped.

The Way Forward

An announcement. As I am sure you are aware, we are, at the time of writing, going through a turbulent period in global finance. None of us is immune. Therefore I have today, after long and heartfelt discussions with our colleagues across the blogosphere, none of whom I've consulted, put together a rescue package that I firmly believe will lead us out of the darkness and back into the sunlit uplands of credibility, or even credulity.

From 0900 GMT Tuesday 30th September 2008 this blog, formerly 'Out The Window Bloke', will merge seamlessly, and with no loss of jobs, with both 'My Grappa Hell' and 'Jeep Rebuild' to create a new, dynamic, lean, fit for purpose Blog: 'My Jeep's Window's Hell To Clean With Grappa'. Could be catchier, I admit, but we must move with the times.

It can only be a matter of time before other notable Blogs are compelled to join forces or risk being swallowed up by some previously unheard-of Blogging combine from the Far East. 'Unmitigated Steam' anyone? All suggestions gratefully received. Please forward to Mr A Darling, 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue', BBC Radio4 , Portland Place, London W1.

Cooking With Fred

Here we see a current Fibonacci favourite under way in the kitchens. My imaginary cook allowed me in to take this picture before shooing me out of the door. I had asked her to prepare something nutritious yet frugal, and quick; particularly if she wanted to keep her imaginary job. She has come up with this, which I must say works rather well.

To eat like Fred you will need: an onion, two courgettes, big fresh field mushrooms, two stalks celery, a red, yellow and green pepper, eight peppercorns, two cloves garlic, sea salt, two or three of Ron Combo's Patent Dried Chilies, tablespoon olive oil, three drops hot chili sauce with indecipherable label from the Syrian deli at the other end of the block, sunflower seeds (optional), anything from the back of the fridge that you should have chucked out days ago but found yourself incapacitated with guilt at the waste, My God The Waste! but not that dodgy cream bun. Pasta.

Get the pasta going. Heat the oil (yes of course in a different pan). Chop the onion, garlic and two chilies into wafer thin slivers. Chop up the rest of the veg into quite large chunks. Add the onion, garlic and chilies and cook until soft and sugary. According to Cook, the garlic and chilies will burn the moment you turn round to prepare your second Plymouth Gin and tonic so stay alert. Add the peppercorns and let them go for a couple of minutes. Turn up the heat before adding the roughly chopped veg, the third chili and the optional sunflower seeds. The extra heat should add a bit of colour to the veg before turning it back down to cook. Wait until all this is as al dente or overcooked as you like; drain pasta, add the above, eat. Chicken or prawns also work very well with this, the chicken should be cubed, the prawns can go in whole. They should go in after you've softened the onions. If it all looks a bit lost chuck in a tin of chopped tomatoes. If you do this be sure to let them simmer a bit; they'll lose that 'just opened' look and reduce to a satisfyingly rich sauce in no time at all.

Time taken, start to finish: equivalent of one and a half large gin and tonics from first chopped vegetable to sitting down at the table, which should be properly set, with crisply folded linen. (Have Mary the maid do this, if you haven't already let her go.) To accompany the dish; a crisp white, any will do. Good luck, and do let me know if it works as well for you as it does for me.

Yours ever

Fred

A Trillionth Of A Second. Ish.

Somewhere in a dusty suburb of New Delhi a phone is ringing:

Brrrr brrr. Brrr brrr. Click. "Good afternoon Sir, thank you for calling CERN24, my name is Vijay and I am here to help you. May I ask who is calling? Thank you.. Hadrian? Adron? Adrian? Forgive me Sir, first of all please Mr Adrian, are you happy with me to call you Adrian? Good, thank you, I'm not sure what you mean by "that will have to do, you haven't got all night" now, yes, I see Adrian yes, you say your Particle Accelerator is giving trouble. Yes, yes, I see, I see. Yes Sir Mr Adrian, I know it has cost a lot of money, please Sir there is no need for that kind of language. Or tone. Thank you, I can understand your frustration Sir, yes. I am sure if you explain the nature of the problem we will have it fixed in a jiffy. Now, please to tell me Adrian, do the Large Particle Accelerator's lights come on when you are switching it on? They do? Good. I beg your pardon? You say you're worried about the eerie glowing one is that right? You say you don't remember it looking like that this morning? Hmmm, you don't say? And you say the walls and floors are, I beg your pardon Sir, war ping? How are you spelling 'war ping' Sir? Oh, I see, one word. No, no I understand. Yes, no, no that's good Sir, I'm sure that's fine and nothing to worry about at all, they all do that. Now, Adrian, please can you now tell me; when you fire the Proton Beam, yes, with the big button, the one on the right underneath the word 'oblivion'. Oh, hah hah! For sure it's good to keep a sense of humour about these things yes Sir, I agree, hah. Now, do you have the 'Caps Lock' key depressed? You do? Well, please I must ask you Adrian to bear with me for just a little longer, I think I have a solution. Please press down and release this key once more, good, you've done that Sir yes? Good, very good, now please and to press "ctrl, alt, delete". This should bring your Large Hadron Collider back online in no time at all - I beg your pardon Adrian? You're saying "My God it's full of stairs." Is that right? Hello? Hello? He....................................

On The Beach Bloke

Me and bike on the beach at St Jacut-de-la-Mer, Brittany. Having borrowed the bike, I rode from Dinan, on a day made for cycling, early last summer. It was a fantastic ride and probably the furthest I'd been on a push-bike for years. My reward was this beach. The tide was out and me and my trusty steed are a long way from land in the pic. The tube sticking out of the bracket on the handlebars is a rolled up map, cleverly arranged so that I could navigate without stopping to unfold it every half hour. Very Mille Miglia, very DSJ. Not shown are the acres of mussel beds that lie here. Hundreds of them, tall and inky black, row upon row of growing mussels. Oh, for a primus and saucepan. I cycled back along empty roads, only stopping to get out of the way of enormous tractors that tore up the lanes from time to time, all of them driven by spotty lads. Who needs a Porsche when the farmer lets you out on his Steyr 9000mt? Thanks for the loan of the bike John.

Froggy Went A Stonton

Seen here in the passenger seat of his Austin-Healey Sprite, as we bounced back to Stontonbury Fields earlier this summer, is my little nephew Will. My other little nephew Matt (1943 Jeep Rebuild) is close behind in Toby's 1948 Land-Rover. The Land-Rover is being driven by my very little nephew Ted. To Matt goes the credit for this shot. That's me in the hat.

I had only driven a Frog once before, about thirty years ago; a dreadful heap that a 'collector' was trying to flog near Melton Mowbray. He had a droopy moustache and, in his office, a ridiculous, red leather, deep buttoned swivel chair. The house, all of five years old, had far too many faux Georgian windows with wildly inappropriate bottle glass. He kept banging on about 'the collection'. Pushing him further, this turned out to be a Triumph Herald and a rusty V12 E Type on stands. His Frogeye drove like a bag of spanners. Stepping out of the Sprite, and back into my heavy, comfortable, quiet, Sunbeam Alpine was an enormous relief.

Will has done a much better job on the Sprite shown here. It felt fantastically direct and sorted. Like all Healeys it is also tiny; so tiny, we later calculated, that were the Fibonacci Peugeot Boxer van not full of my kit, I could have driven it straight in and taken it home. The thought certainly crossed my mind.

'Gamecock', The Hammersmith Queen

As I write, the Olympics are drawing to their close in Beijing, Lewis Hamilton is chasing Felipe Massa around the brand new Valencia GP circuit and, as it's Sunday, this lovely boat should be taking a well-earned break from whatever it is she does on the river.

I took this photo in July, I am standing less than two miles from the Bristol showroom. The city's capacity to surprise is without limit.

In The Window Bloke

Moved by recent posts on Peter Ashley's 'Unmitigated England' site, I thought I'd go and get some live shots of Bristol's wonderful Kensington showroom. So here you are. There are five cars just waiting to be bought; two Fighters, a Beaufighter, a Blenheim and the 408 shown here. I'll let the photo-copied 'Sales Literature' do the rest of the talking.

Wakey, wakey, Father Thames.

Another watery shot, remarkable at least for your reporter being around at this time of day. This is the Thames, taken from the corner of Oil Mill Lane and Lord Napier Place in Hammersmith. It's just before seven, and before the clocks went forward. It's still London Winter Time. I love the sense of anticipation; soon those benches will fill up with resting joggers, that bin will fill up with discarded sweetie wrappers and the yacht club look-out will fill up with earnest and super-fit sailing types, barking instructions at their charges out on the river. I make no apologies for the rough and ready nature of the shot: it's Mr Nokia's camera and he does what he can.

Chapman Spool

In Dorset with Fibonacci The Younger, two weeks ago. A view across Chapman's Pool. Getting to it is less easy than some other beaches, but worth it. Hardly any people, even on a day as glorious as the one coming to its close in the photograph. Just us and two other families; it felt like we had the place to ourselves. Couldn't find Colin Chapman's headstone anywhere; or a fraying Lotus Elite in a boat shed. The light was never less than fabulous. It really did turn to pewter as we walked back up the path. A swallow caught a moth four feet from my nose.

Later, at The Square and Compass, we had a pint, a pie and a Coca-Cola. In upended glasses, and with all his new best mates, Fibonacci Minor trapped dozy wasps. A girl turned up with a ferret peeping out of her blouse. She went inside to play in the band. Don't know what happened to the ferret.