This is Harry Hamster eating his Christmas dinner. I have my doubts about climbing up my dinner, but then I am not a hamster. 

I assume that the cats were awaiting recycling as this was the paper recycling box. I wonder what they wanted to come back as. 

This photograph of the Eiffel Tower is about modern icons in the classical sense: the icon representing both a shorthand and also a memory prompt for a category of experiences. I guess that classical icons work on both public and private levels. The Statue of Liberty in New York City is equally iconic, albeit regarding a different set of experiences. The clock tower (housing Big Ben) in the Palace of Westminster 'stands for' London (as a tourist destination and cultural capital), the UK government (both as a seat of democracy, and as a repository of power with colonial resonances and domination over provincial UK), Britain as a tourist destination. In the UK, the Millennium Wheel (London Eye) is gradually achieving iconic status, and its recreational nature will carry the weight of tourist meaning more easily than 'Big Ben'. How iconic is The Angel of the North? 

Although poorly rendered as a result of digital enlargement, the colours in the light suffusing Isle St Louis suggest a quietness that is reminiscent of the work of Maurice Utrillo. I think that this is an accurate reflection of the ambience. 

Spring in the garden

Butter yellow daffodils, the neat, prim ones with the short, orange trumpets and no frills, prove that January is not too late to plant bulbs. Bluebells mass under the apple tree, and the vetetable patch is a jungle of forget-me-knots around the burgeoning rhubarb. Primroses spill onto the lawn, tulips stand proud if a little blowsy, and the kerria, Moth's shrub chosen years back by Jemima for our tabby's grave and in her memory, is heavy with vivid yellow pompoms. Plum blossom has come and gone in a shower of petals, but the apple tree has tightly clenched buds the colour of crushed raspberry and the conical, lime green rhododendron buds are starting to show a hint of lilac frill. Lest economy of truth paint too idyllic a picture, we should include the ankle high lawn ablaze with dandelions, across which the rambling rose is rambling rampantly in the absence of an arch. A week ago, everything was suddenly green; now it is lush.

The vivid orange flowers of the thorny berberis outside our bedroom window, more small tree than shrub, conceal a long tailed tits' nest crafted from twigs and grass and covered in grey lichen, teardrop shaped with a small hole through which I glimpsed the eye and beak of the incubating parent. The long tailed tits are perhaps our prettiest garden birds with their rapid, flitting movements, bobbing tails and pink tinged black and white plumage. Today I saw a fledgeling jump upwards from a branch, flap madly, then glide down to the lawn and return home in a series of semi-airborn hops. In April Jemima and I were fascinated at breakfast to watch a thrush constructing a deep, open-topped nest in the ivy which clothes the house wall outside our patio door; she laid a clutch of turquoise blue eggs speckled with brown, and sat calmly on them as I trotted in and out with baskets of laundry; but a fortnight ago she disappeared, perhaps frightened away by the evil tortoiseshell Shadow's attempts to climb the ivy. Jemima wept and wanted to save the unhatched baby birds, reluctant to accept that there was nothing we could do for the cold, abandonned eggs. The nut and seed feeders in the trees and the hanging bird table attract many small birds : blue and great tits, greenfinches, chaffinches and the occasional goldfinch, sparrows and robins. Blackbirds, starlings, magpies and collared doves are constant visitors, if not residents; woodpeckers alight occasionally, and a few weeks ago Peter saw a sparrowhawk pursuing one of our plump little nut-stuffed sparrows.

Messy, but full of life.

Janet

My pets

Ginger

Soft, thick, warm fur,
golden yellow eyes,
long wavy tail,
soft tickly tummy.
Ginger bounces round the garden,
runs up trees,
jumps up on my lap in my wheelchair,
curls up and purrs.


Harry

Harry is my little tiny sweet cute hamster.
He has soft, smooth, silky fur,
bright black beady button eyes.
Harry's ears are flat when he's sleepy
and pop up when he's wide awake.
His pink tiny feet tickle my tummy.
His nose whiffles and whiskers quiver.


Jemima