Happiness

Happiness is being let loose for an hour or two in a second-hand bookshop, with nothing but a determination to find something groovy.


Happiness is doubled if the bookshop in question comes with bonus ladders for customers to continue searching by the rafters for the book of their dreams.

Happiness is finding a Graham Oakley book that is affordable, a Daphne du Maurier with an interesting cover (it will be the subject of a book worm review one of these days when I get my act together!), a 'photo-mag' of The Beatles filming 'A Hard Day's Night', and a 1959 edition of children's book The Borrowers Afloat.


Happiness is my cat Ginger, a beautiful boy with soft fur who likes his creature comforts as much as he likes his dinner. He is very sure of himself in the world as long as he gets regular cuddles. He has the loudest purr in London. His nickname is Mr Big Paws (AKA the Ginger Whinger).


Happiness is my cat Abigail, a beautiful girl with an inquisitive nature (see her staring past me at the window) and the gentlest paws. She goes into raptures of delight at being the highest in a room, preferably balanced around my neck. Abi is my little shadow, and where-ever I am in the house she loudly brings me her favourite toy, a long snaky piece of fluff we call The Wiggly. Her nickname is the Naughty Tortie.


Happiness is exploring somewhere new, preferably somwhere with a classic plane/car show. I will examine every car, nodding knowledgebly but if coaxed into conversation will reveal that I know nothing about cars, and my only scale for car liking is whether it will suit a wicker picnic basket. Deciding which classic car best suits a picnic basket is something that I will happily ponder for hours. I also rather like pointing my camera in the sky at these things, as you can see.


The reason for the watermark is I am debating doing something 'proper' with my favourite photography - more than likely some sort of mixed media collage thing as a bit of an Arty creative diversion when the book is done. Gosh - when the book is done! Oh fateful day!

Duxford 2007 Air Show

A weekend or two back, I went with a pal to see those magnificent men (and women) in their flying machines at Duxford Air Show.

A little way back, you may recall I went to see Rougham air show and got completely hooked. I especially love war birds (as they are called) from the first and second world war, as well as those planes such as the Extra 300 whose clever pilots can make them sort of wiggle around in the sky. I’m not quite so sure why I love the war birds so, is it the Rolls Royce Merlin engines that make them growl so majestically? Is it the fact that Lancasters in particular look so heavy they shouldn’t be able to fly at all? Is it that everyone, men and women, were so brave back then? I don’t know, but I do know I feel a thrill down my spine seeing these planes in the air.

And air shows are fab! The commentator will be a bloke wandering around speaking into a mike, cracking jokes only the most hardened visitor will get. You are bound to be in a large queue for a cup of tea / for the ladies just when you hear a plane take off. Families spread out on picnic blankets, dogs lay with their noses by the sandwiches, men will be holding things that look like megaphones but are actually triple zoom mega cameras, and re-enactment societies will be roaming around in full uniform. Cagoules will be pulled out of the smallest pockets when the weather looks rainy, but no one will ever think of going for shelter. Children will hold inflatable spitfires. Old ‘uns will be in deckchairs near the front, with a few veterans wearing gleaming medals. If you are into it, then it is a great day out.

A quick mention for the pilot who died when his Hurricane plane crashed at the recent Shoreham air show, according to witnesses he seemed to steer away from the crowd when he realised there was a problem. He was flying as part of the Battle of Britain Memorial flight, and in my opinion is every bit as heroic as the men whose memory he helped keep alive.

My Duxford air show photographs on Flickr

Bank holiday madness

For those of us not attempting to journey into London for the Notting Hill Carnival (easy enough to get to, as hard to leave the area as a fly escaping a Venus Flytrap), the only plan was to drive away from town, due North.

Every bank holiday it is the same, a wave of cabin fever sets in around 10am, and suddenly we are hauling maps around the living room wondering where we can escape to. John has the idea that everywhere in the UK is fairly accessible for a daytrip as long as a) I am ready to leave right now, and don’t stop to pick up that hairbrush again; b) he has petrol and c) enough cigarettes to see him there and safely back again. At this point he will be considering Exeter, Northumberland and the Penines.

I, however, will have nothing more concrete in my head than ‘wouldn’t it be nice to go to a little village’, and am convinced little villages with welcoming pubs that do roast dinners are a) up the road a bit, b) can therefore wait while I find my hairbrush as well as c) sort out a bottle of squash and some biscuits for the journey. At this point I will be considering a big vague area called countryside. This is different to when I get it into my head to find a beach, John will be thinking Cornwall, and I will be thinking vague thoughts of an area called seaside.

We decided instead on Duxford, as it has an amazing Imperial War Museum full of planes, keeping both of us happy.

To anyone who hasn’t been, Duxford is huge and full of British planes, American planes and exhibitions such as The Battle of Britain. It is a large airfield to walk around, and since it is a working airfield, there is a pleasing backdrop of light aircraft taking off and pulling up as you stroll about.

It does leach money from you though, albeit in a forgivable subtle way. “Donate your tax from the entry fee!” said a smiling twinkle-eyed lady on the way in. This translated into donating roughly £4 on top of the £15 it costs each adult to get in, although with that you get a £1.50 voucher to spend in the shop (guaranteeing you will buy something on your exit that will no doubt cost more than £1.50). Then there was the coffee shop – 65p per piece of fruit, which was like a toddler size apple. Then there are extra prices to ride in tanks, appeals to help save certain planes, raffles… Actually the raffle was well worth it, £1 for the chance in a million to fly in a Spitfire or Lancaster. We bought two; the man in front bought ten…

But hey, it is a great place with some beautiful planes, so we gave willingly (apart from the fruit squizz, they can so keep their apples). We watched large tanks do a large tank demonstration (surprisingly nifty), we read a highly amusing leaflet given to GI’s before they came over to Britain, ('Thames' is pronounced ‘Tems’, British people play rugger “which is like American Football but without all the padding”), and I think I recognised a Mustang take off in the distance. Since I call everything a Spitfire, Stearman or ‘plane’, I was rather proud, in a 'John didn't see it all that clearly so I can speak with authority' sort of way.