Doggy Drama, Passport Photos, and Pork Pies
A-And they called it Puppy Love…
a break between bouts of fight club
There’s been ALL THE DRAMA with the Hector adoption. A couple came to see him and they were really keen and really nice, but they both worked full time. I did think this was a bit ambitious of All Dogs Matter since Hector screamed the place down at the vets, and not because of the snippy snip. He doesn’t mind going next door to Steve’s, but he does cry if I go out, and they had said they would want to take special care of his separation anxiety. Turned out there had been a bit of miscommunication, so the couple were sadly disinvited from adopting him. Better for him, but they really loved him and will be terribly disappointed. I am glad it wasn’t up to me to tell them.
They do have someone more appropriate lined up, but I’d rather they went with my neighbour, Brian, who has a staffie, Max, who likes Hector. He is retired and he takes Max massive walks every day. He says he is keen, but even if he phones today the guy who ADM like is coming to see him TOMORROW so there’d have to be something go wrong for him not to want him, I guess, and this guy does sound good… I suppose there’s another doggie who Brian and Max might like. Considering every time they post on facebook I repost with oohs and aahs, so they’re not short of lovely dogs.
***
In travel news, my friend Lottie has asked me if I would like to go on holiday with her and her sister and her sister’s kiddo. Why, yes, I would like to go stay in a lovely villa in Spain paid for by their dad, I most certainly would. As you know I am BRILLIANT at Spanish having bothered to learn “bathroom” for our previous trip, and managed very well with just that and mime. I think it helped that we were in deepest Spain, and I was twice the height of everyone else and blonde. I was probably like a cross between Boris Johnson and Big Bird to them.
Suddenly I remembered my passport had run out and I’d failed to fill in the form for a new one, so I got to it last night, and threw in a pair of photobooth photos with the application. It was only this morning that I thought that the likelyhood was that these photos were even older than my last 10 year passport so I’d better get some new ones done. I opened the envelope and retrieved the ridiculously young me photos and prepared to meet my face in the mirror. I haven’t worn make up for a really long time, but photo booth photos bleach your face out anyway, and since I have near invisible eyebrows and a pale face I though’t I’d better do some colouring in. Just as well, too, since the photos came out rather bleached anyway.
not a serial killer, just not allowed to smile for passport photos
Imagine if I’d gone up there bare faced? I’d have looked like a balloon in a wig.
***
On the 11th I go to the Headache Clinic at the Neuro Hospital. IF they bestow me regular botox I could be looking at having a significantly different prognosis. Also, going into the summer, if it’s anything like last year, I should at least get three decent months. Last year I just needed a break and I took it. This year, knowing that it would be forwardable, I would first of all be into dropping as much medication as possible (already started, CHECK) and dietary reform (already started, LIKE A BOSS). The problem with dietary reform is everything you aren’t going to eat any more becomes super beguiling. Even stuff you didn’t like before. One time I knew someone who was on remand in prison. Edgy, I know. Anyway, he craved pork pies, which, he said he never liked normally. Now that’s me, only without the prisony bit.
Yoga Rage
Last night I went to see Jon Kabat Zinn at the Friends’ Meeting House in Euston. It was hosted by Action For Happiness.
It was billed as ”An Evening With” and pitched at a general audience so I didn’t expect it to be anything I hadn’t heard before, and it wasn’t. It was more like going to see a supergroup and hearing their old standards or a well loved comedian and hearing beloved punch lines. The familiarity of his words left me just noticing how he structured the talk a lot of the time – and it was pretty much what anyone would do – an overview of mindfulness, a led meditation, further elucidations, a couple of poems, and then Q&A. Just with a much bigger audience than usual. I liked the way that, with a show of hands at various points in the talk he managed to make nearly a thousand people feel like a group, but the content was nothing new. You can hear a version of what he said by going on youtube and watching pretty much any of his videos. He’s good, but the main thing about him is that he did a good thing. Thirty five years ago he stripped down buddhist practices for a secular audience and brought the world MBSR (mindfulness based stress reduction).
part of the audience – he said there were 1000 people there, i thought 800, either way though, not a small crowd
So, what did I get for my £15 and my journey several hours out of my comfort zone? (I NEVER go out – not in the evening, it’s not a thing. I am in bed by 7pm most nights and asleep easily by 10.)
Mainly, I got uncomfortable. Yes, yes, it was physically uncomfortable, this was the Quaker’s gaff, and not a theatre, but it was more than that. I started feeling something I used to, in my more physically trim days, call ‘yoga rage’.
I loved yoga. I used to go two or three times a week. I’d done swimming, and then tai chi, and eventually I pitched up at yoga, which is something I always thought I would like, and I did. It’s nice and stretchy. I still do a tiny amount at home, but I do have to be careful. I digress.
At one point in my yoga journey I used to go to an excellent class in Brighton with my friend Nic. Jim Tarran still teaches, indeed he has his own school. He is brilliant. He keeps you in poses for bloody ages so you have to do loads of internal work. It’s a bit boot camp, but in a different way to, say, ashtanga or bikram. Anyway, the first time we went, we were standing still with our eyes shut following his instructions and he went silent and then said “What is yoga?”
Afterwards we giggled about it, because Nic said he nearly answered, which would have been WRONG because it was rhetorical, and it was something he was going to talk about while we stood there, fire in our muscles, working to stand straight and relax at the same time. Oh, and breathe, you have to breathe as well. Anyway, we were hooked, and there being the two of us, naturally we discussed him ad nauseum and all aspects of the classes as we went along. We also did impersonations of him, which I know were funny at the time, but I don’t remember all the catch phrases now. What emerged over the weeks was that we discovered in ourselves something we dubbed ‘yoga rage’ which was a feeling which arose when we were trying to be all OM about it all, and someone, some one would do something annoying.
They might breathe funny or very loudly in what sounded like a showy offy way or be annoyingly keen (not like us, no no, just because we were early and at the front and LOVED him, that didn’t make us annoyingly keen, not one bit of it) or grunt, or fart, or, and there was this one time when this person INCENSED us by doing the poses all wrong because he was clearly a dancer and he was being a poser. And wrong. He was doing it wrong.
Like every other detail of the class we discussed this at length. The thing about yoga rage that differs from road rage or any other kind of rage is that you absolutely know you are wrong while you are doing it. It’s an aspect of what buddhists call dukkha – or ordinary everyday suffering. Not special suffering. Just normal. Normal unfair irritation with people whose breathing, farting, or yoga style is none of our damn business and makes no impact on how we do our own yoga.
Here we are, in a hall filling with people who are passionate enough about mindfulness to buy tickets and turn up and sit uncomfortably for hours and I am irritable as hell and I am super aware of it. Annoying bloody people wanting us to budge up. Annoying people who probably bought their tickets way after we did sitting in the comfortable seats. Annoying lovey dovey couple fondling each other – GET A ROOM!
All of these people irritated me twice as much as they would have done in any other room for any other speaker or performance or whatever because I was super aware that he was going to talk about KINDNESS and as a meditator I am trying to be kind. In thought and deed. And failing.
It wasn’t all like that, but the feeling spiked up now and then and I just had to accept it. As JKZ said in his talk “The present moment is the curriculum”. And it was. And it is.
My friend Al joked on the way in about ‘taking a moment to arrive’ which is a cliche in mindfulness/meditation circles, for the very good reason that we are often not fully present, so it’s a useful tool to bring people’s attention to their own experience in the moment. We snorted a bit when he instructed us to arrive in the room.
So that was nice.
Still taking the piss.
Playing ‘I live in a hotel, I do’, a Funeral, and the Sound of Scissors
I don’t like to book train journeys in advance. I could say it was because of my health, but it isn’t really, it’s more because I dislike the stricture. And just as well, this trip, because if a plan could be changed it would be – pretty much everything changed except the time of the funeral. Originally, my brother was coming over from Holland but he got ill and couldn’t travel. I live right on the train line to Cambridge, so I would have otherwise done a day trip, but he’d paid for us to stay over, and told me to find somewhere. Cambridge is a bit of a dump apart from the fancy bits, and I don’t know it well, and the wake, in any case, was going to be several miles away, so I chose rooms in Ely, which I know quite well. Roland had given me a heeeuuuge budget for the rooms, so I did look at Ely’s one actual hotel, The Lamb, but I thought it wasn’t all that for the price. Reader, IMAGINE if you will, my excitement, when I discover a building I’d always liked the look of, Cathedral House was in fact a bed and breakfast?
But what was even more amazebobs was that the double room I had reserved for myself turned out to be a tiny pretend apartment! I didn’t have my camera with me, but I’ve taken some pictures with my phone.
My pretend apartment even had a tiny hall OF MY OWN
Having read books set in Paris, I have often felt that were I suddenly a BIZILLIONAIRE for no particular reason, I would like to live in a hotel.
Although it was actually rather cold, it was furnished and decorated in rather a lovely way.
I didn’t think I would need to take any chargers with me, so my visit was characterized by a series of power failures as my various devices died. The “smart” phone was the first to go, but luckily I had my old phone with me (with an audiobook on it) so I swapped out the sim cards. The B&B was advertised as “having” WIFI. In as much as I got a signal for a few seconds every hour or so, it did indeed “have” WIFI. I did have a bit of telly on my netbook, so it wasn’t a total waste of time bringing it, but I was rather surprised to see that die fairly swiftly, too. I was left, then, with my ebook (with Back Story by David Mitchell on it) my old phone, and the telly and radio in the bedroom. For lots of reasons I don’t really like watching tv when I am traveling – in any case, I don’t watch it live when I am at home, either. I did, however listen to the radio.
hello, this is the olden days. sit on a hard chair and keep your back straight
It’s such a pleasure to listen to Radio 4 on an old timey radio. Given that R4 is stuck in a time warp anyway, it seems most fitting to listen to it on a device such as this.
If I was staying longer, or if I had run out of reading I could have chosen from any of these orange spined Penguin books.
They struck me as being like an artwork Robert Rauschenberg might have made in tribute to Mark Rothko while visiting Piet Mondrian. Except it’s full of books, most of which I either have read or would happily read.
The ‘apartment’ had a little sitting room, but I didn’t really use it. I spent most of my time indoors in bed drinking various teas, and, of an evening, sachets of miso soup.
While I was packing for the trip it started snowing, so I chucked out my smart clothes and bundled dark coloured jumpers and trousers into my suitcase. I even wore my Yaktrax, which are coiled metal grips for walking in snow. Although it was really cold when I got there and it did snow a little, there was no need for ice trudging gear.
Having a room for two nights did seem a bit excessive just to go to a funeral I could have done in a day, but I did like the sensation of being cosseted in my own little world with no DORGS jumping all over me. When traveling abroad, there is usually a little form for you to fill in where you have to write the ‘purpose’ of your trip. This has always confused me, but I did have a little moment of existential angst, which was allayed entirely by the trip indeed HAVING a purpose. I arrived mid afternoon, and went out and bought soup, chocolate, and a hot water bottle, and basically went to bed at 6. Considering I’d woken up at 3.30 the previous morning and not got back to sleep, this was pretty useful. I listened to an entire audio book about Elizabeth I. It was rather dull, but there was one stand out moment in her life which I’d not read or heard of before. Once, when a lady’s maid botched serving her food she took revenge for the slight by STABBING HER IN THE HAND!
Jeez!
So, the next day I was fairly bright, and after scoffing the “breakfast” of the B&B package – a plate of egg, bacon, sausage, mushroom and tomato I was fit to face the day. I went back to Cambridge to meet my dad at the station, and we got a cab to the crematorium. We had both been super early and we ended up getting there far too early, so we sat and chatted. I thought I would be all stoic, since Pat’s death could hardly be described as tragic, but as soon as I saw my cousins, her daughters I started to weep, and I really didn’t stop until afterwards. My dad, being the codger that he is, declined to come to the wake, and got a cab back to the station. It’s kind of weird seeing my family en masse since we don’t normally meet up, but it was actually pretty nice. My cousin Diana had just been on Radio 4 on a show called Saturday Live which is a long, magazine style programme. It features something they call ‘sound sculpture’ and my cousin Diana was on it talking about the noise our Nana’s shears made as she cut out a pattern. It’s awfully good. You might be able to listen to it here since the BBC seem less parsimonious about radio programmes than tv online. She’s on from 15.27 to 20.09.
At some point I was offered a lift back to Ely, which I gratefully accepted, and although I had eaten all the chocolate I did have my miso soup and an apple so didn’t have to leave my room once I’d got back, and I again put myself to bed more or less immediately. The first night I was very keen to shut myself in with as much warmth as possible, so I’d shut the shutters and the curtain, but this time I left it all open and woke to the sunrise which was pretty.
My morning baths were hot and deep. Here’s my fancy little bathroom.
cast iron bath from days of yore. not very long but super deep
I got up at farmer o’clock again, and ran my bath, listening to a programme I like to call “Men Arguing” but which is in fact called “The Today Programme” (wait – it isn’t – it’s called “Today” but apparently people call it The Today Programme. Bloody PEOPLE! Always messing things up). I don’t usually listen to it because it does that thing of telling you the same news over and over again in a panic inducing way, but I quite liked doing it that morning just for the oddity of it.
I’d been asked over in the morning to spend some time with the girls, but I’d thought that sounded rather ambitious, and when it was chucking out time at the B&B I rang but my cousin’s phone was off. She phoned me back, but I was already on the train home – they had indeed stayed up til 3 in the morning drinking and reminiscing.
ridiculously awful photo i took as i was leaving
Pat’s ashes are going to be dug into my uncle’s grave with a rosebush on her birthday in August. He was buried with a bottle of good red and a Jane Austin book. I like to think he read the book while he was waiting and saved the wine to share with Pattie Poos. Mind you, a theory was mooted that she might have smuggled a crate of Baileys in with her in her coffin, so perhaps he woudn’t have to share.
Modern Type, a Quiet Moment, and Goodbye Pattie Poo
1916: Edward Johnston’s hand-drawn alphabet for the Underground
NINETEEN SIXTEEN this was designed in! Not even the 30s, which is what it looks like to me. So lovely. I have to say I am not overly interested in typography or signage – to the point that I very much got someone else to teach it when I was running m’course. Nevertheless, I do appreciate how very modern this lettering is – predating Bayer’s Bauhaus typeface by nine years.
Which, of course, I do like as well. I wonder if, having been brought up in London, I am predisposed to love the underground lettering and signage? I mean, I can see that the Paris metro is pretty, but I feel an actual love for the LU. While we are musing, I wonder if I would feel less attached to London if the signage was changed? Not that they’d EVER do that. There would be uproar.
When I bought a typewriter to write my dissertation (it cost the same to buy an electric typewriter as to pay someone to type it out for you, what people did in the OLDEN DAYS, YO) I chose courier but as soon as I had my first computer, a classic mac (second hand) it was helvetica for me, and then ariel after that. Sans serif looks better on a screen.
***
I have today on my own with the dogs. After a few days on my own at the beginning of the Hectorium I had to beg Ten to come back and help me, because it was all too horribly much. However, the dogs have largely settled down together, and Hector is nearly completely house trained, so it’s easier to be on my own with them. I am enjoying a quiet, non fighty spell on the bed while I write this. Soon there will be feeding time, and then a walk, and then I will be exhausted and only want to watch tv.
***
Since last we met, dear reader, my beloved auntie Pat has died. Here I am with her at my cousin’s wedding nearly three years ago.
me and patty poo
The good thing is that she wasn’t particularly ill. She was old, and quite disabled, but had just been to Spain and enjoyed herself ogling at men’s legs and drinking ‘something naughty’ in the sunshine, so there is nothing to be sad about really, except that I liked her. For a while I spent a fair bit of time with her, too. She was cared for at home, and would go into respite care every few weeks for a few days. I went to visit her there and would bring her a flask of gin & tonic or a film to watch or whatever. There was one time I found a ginko leaf on the ground on my way to see her. I gave her the leaf and told her all I know about the ginko tree – it is so old that it has no parasites, so the leaves are always pristine, it is known as the ‘memory tree’ and people take ginko to improve their memories. When I left she said ‘thank you for the leaf’ and I know she meant it. She was the sort of person who would prefer a leaf and a story to any amount of fancy flowers.
Makes me think of the Brian Patten poem ‘A blade of Grass’
You ask for a poem.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You say it is not good enough.
You ask for a poem.
I say this blade of grass will do.
It has dressed itself in frost,
It is more immediate
Than any image of my making.
You say it is not a poem,
It is a blade of grass and grass
Is not quite good enough.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You are indignant.
You say it is too easy to offer grass.
It is absurd.
Anyone can offer a blade of grass.
You ask for a poem.
And so I write you a tragedy about
How a blade of grass
Becomes more and more difficult to offer,
And about how as you grow older
A blade of grass
Becomes more difficult to accept.
Which is one way of saying that despite her chronological age – 86, I think – she was never ever old. We shared a love of the tv series The Camomile Lawn which we had both seen so many times we could quote virtually the whole script. The series was, unfortunately, taped rather than filmed, so the visual quality is awful, but the whole series is on youtube, and the sound has cleaned up nicely.
I love the soundtrack which is a variation on Ravel’s string quartet. I had it as a ring tone for ages.
Four and a half Months, 500 Likes, and a Book Review
HecTOR is 4 1/2 months old now. We think.
Anyway, it’s a fortnight since we got him, and I have NO BRAIN LEFT. What I do have, now, though, is a new respect for parents. Okay, I do have one or two neurological conditions which make me predisposed to being super tired, but at least I get sleep, even if it’s not the super good quality sleep, the M&S sleep of the healthy. HECtor spends most of the night snuggled against my head, neck or face, which is sweet, if a bit non-breathy.
I only call him Hector some of the time. He never answered to ‘Ben’ which is his ADM adoption name, but I am aware that a new owner will want to name him themselves, and so I call him ‘puppy’ a lot as well as just squeaking *HEY* at him. (And growling NO!)
I note ADM have added a whole bunch of Ian Morrison’s fancy pictures to his profile – the main one being a black and white shot for all the world like an actor’s head shot.
Moody.
They also have him down as a staffie mix, which I am not sure he is. They might know better, or they might just be hedging their bets, since the trademark body type and triangular head won’t arrive for some time yet. What I notice is his paws are nice and big, and his legs are as long as Popsy’s already. And he walks like he had balls the size of tennis balls, even though they are no bigger than marbles. Also, he has a lot of spare skin on his head which makes him look like he is frowning – I think the spare skin is for his triangle head. But I could be wrong, so don’t quote me.
Here’s one which reflects his Scrappy Doo ness.
scrappy doo
Ten’s observation that young Hector has a touch of the Scrappy Doos about him reminds me of a statue in Kew Gardens called The White Greyhound of Richmond which, tragically, Wikipedia fails to illustrate, so you’ll have to click here to read about it after you have looked at the stupidly arty picture on the English Heritage site. When I first saw it I just thought SCOOOOBYDOOOOO!!!!!! But this was pre digital camera, so I don’t have my own image of it. And Kew is bloody miles away from here, so I doubt I will be snagging one soon.
Still! SCOOBYDOOOOOOO!!!!! No?
***
I fail to have much news to impart due to all the parenthood but I will do my best, since I love my blog and I love you reading my blog, my dear readers. I have just passed 500 likes, apparently, so that’s NICE and LIKEY.
***
At night I like to listen to Radio 4 plays and stories. There’s been a serialization of The Bell Jar lately, there’s always the Afternoon Play to catch up on, and I like The News Quiz, which is a satirical offering hosted by Sandi Tosfig and featuring Jeremy Hardy, both of whom I LOVE. What I didn’t love, the other night, was Thinking Allowed, which is hosted by sociologist Laurie Taylor. It’s not my favourite programme, but I do have a passing interest in things sociological, having done a postgraduate course in that area. Usually it’s pretty inoffensive. It’s not very challenging, but it sometimes airs some interesting things, and this episode promised a look at ‘neds’ – a sort of Scottish version of ‘chavs’, and for my American friends ‘white trash’ or for Grady – ‘zefs’. So far so predictable. Then he had another guest on, one Simon Harding, who has authored a book called ‘Unleashed’… a £70 tome about “attack dogs” and their owners. Priced presumably to catch that niche market ‘lawyers prosecuting dog attack cases’ he revealed his position to be an example of what, in sociology, we call a “common sense argument” – that is to say, ill thought out bollocks.
Relying mainly on statistics, Harding found that it was hard to get any qualitative research done since his interviews, designed to highlight these dogs owners as having ‘status deficit’ resulted in him having to RUN AWAY in the middle of them. Quel surprise.
What pissed me off was that my going to sleep cozy gravy of programmes had been RUINED by a spike of adrenaline as I listened to this smug tosser opine about the uneducated working classes.
He managed to make a strangled coda of ‘well, staffies are different’ but it was rather too little too late for my liking. My only hope, which presumably is his hope, is that having become an ‘expert’ in ‘attack dogs’ he will be asked to act as expert witness in dog bite cases. What will happen then is that the jury or, more likely JP, will discover what a total tosser this guy is as he reveals his ‘research’ to be merely prejudiced opinion.
You will hardly be surprised to discover that I wrote an Amazon review PDQ – although I had to fillet out all the swearing I had so creatively used in my facebook update on the same topic.
Steal, Dogs, and Vic Reeves
In my quest never to buy from Amazon I bought my copy of Steal Like an Artist from a local bookshop. Not local to me, I’ll grant you, but local to the author, which means my copy is signed. BOOYA!
It’s the first book in ages I would have used for teaching if I was still teaching art & design. I’ve been following Austin Kleon on tumblr for ages. If you clicky through the picture you will reach his website. BUT DO COME BACK HERE – THERE’S MORE!
a copy of ‘steal like an artist’ in the wild. ok, not so wild, my bedroom. what. ever.
***
The MORE to which I refer, is, of course, doggie photos. Ten’s friend Ian is starting a dog portrait bizniz and took a slew of Poppet and Hector pics. He’s just started a facebook page Dogstar on which is EVEN MOAR photos of the pair of them.
pops in action. who leaves a bone in the park? weird.
I’d never be able to get a shot like this. Because a) I am not much of a photographer and b) my camera is a point and shoot. I am unerringly not techie. But I do take nice pictures like this one on a regular basis, so sue me.
doggydoggydoggiezzzzzzz
***
For some reason my WINDAZ environment is all bunged up and has become prone to freezing for the slightest reason, so Ten has parked me on the UBUNTU section of the puter. It’s quite nice, but it makes me think of this;
Hector’s House
HOLD THE FRONT PAGE!
Today might be the day I foster THIS DOGGY!!! And by *I* I mean WE… Poppet is hardly likely to ignore this little chap, Ten is staying today in the hope that he arrives – I asked him what he was doing today and he said “Sniffing puppy” and Stephen next door is pretty keen, too.
he doesn’t seem to have a name yet. i am thinking “hector”
I was going to blog about my new tumble dryer, because I know how interested you’d be in that, but when Ira from All Dogs Matter emailed to say that this little chap (4 months old) needed a foster home last night, it kind of pushed the laundry excitement off the front page. We’ve had some near misses for fosters before, but this one is looking very likely, and despite thinking I am crazy, Ten is pretty excited.
***
In case you are disappointed not to hear all about the tumble dryer, here’s what I was writing when Ira emailed.
For someone so clever, why aren’t I clever?
D’you know, sometimes I wonder at my incredible ability to be slow on the uptake. Years ago I discovered that no matter how many times I went to steam baths and how much I enjoyed going to them I would always end up with a killer migraine. Also, in the past I’d get quite bad arthritic fingers, and I often wondered if arthritic pain might be part of my headache problem. Since seeing my current neuro, he has drawn me in to his very pragmatic view which is if your neck hurts take a triptan.
meet b
This might not LOOK like the most exciting photo ever, but believe me, it represents a dramatic improvement in my migraine situation. Last time I had the botox treatment it was as if I hadn’t had it at all. I put this down to two probable causes, the fact that I had taken some codeine in the previous weeks, which it turns out can nullify the botox effect, and the general winteriness of the onset of winter. However… what happened was that I had a week or so of leaks from the labyrinth of pipework behind my dishwasher/sink/washing machine arrangement. Hence, you see, I wasn’t using the washing machine for a while… AND, for the first time in a few months I was not sleeping with wet washing in my bedroom.
I did feel like a bit of an idiot when I realized the connection. I hurried onto the interwebs and researched the world of tumble dryers. You see, this is the first time I have lived somewhere where there isn’t a window in the bathroom, so you can’t dry washing over the bath. I haven’t used it an awful lot, but I also haven’t slept with damp washing in my bedroom either, and I have been remarkably well for the time of year, which has stood me in very good stead over a recent dreadfulness with running out of medication – ALL THE DRAMA, and not the nice, puppy driven kind of drama.
***
It being Terri’s birthday I made a little tumblr yesterday for her. It’s heavily stacked in favour of pictures of animals, and has no fancy art in it, so if this kind of thing is your bag click through. elaine4queen.tumblr.com/day/2013/2/08
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Tumblr: What am I tumbling?
Some posts i have liked lately
