Evidence

Just before the tree comes down, and the cards are binned, and 2009 is given a good hard stare, we see what Santa left under our tree. This is a Fly Classic Ford GT40 (Bucknum/Whitmore) slot racer, found on e-bay, arrived Christmas Eve. Fibonacci Minor assumed immediate control of this car, and quickly got its measure. It goes like stink. We have other cars in our collection, many of them. I think I'm supposed to keep them mint, boxed and un-raced but for what? Cars are meant to be driven, toys to be played with, and Fib Jnr and I raced good and hard throughout Christmas, the track taking up the entire living room floor. Few things are as painful under bare foot than a sharp, plastic, track support piece. Few things are as much fun as a 1/32nd battle fought and lost with your 11 year old son.

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.