All creatures great and small

The human is unquestionably a dog person at heart, although good manners -- or is it simply laziness? -- prevents him actively from encouraging the chasing of cats. (His position on split infinitives is unorthodox to say the least, though we do find common ground on the spiny topic of gerunds -- medium-rare please.) But I digress.
I, on the other hand, am a far more reasonable creature -- I put up with humans, I enjoy the company (if not always the over-inquisitive molars) of distinguished hounds, and some of my best friends are fugitive porcine socialists. I can provide documentary evidence of my correspondence with fluffy cats:

While I'm all for inter-species cooperation, I can't help noticing who's doing most of the work in this picture, and who's simply sitting there looking smug. I certainly hope these three faithful hounds haven't been tricked into strikebreaking.

In defence of the stack

or things that make 8am classes bearable!

Non licet ombinus Londinium adire!

I'm trying not to complain too much about being left to guard plum jam in Lutetia while the human conveyed himself to Londinium by stella europae on the slightly dubious pretext of purchasing books and visiting the bibliotheca britannica. All Gaul may be divided into three parts, but the human was able to confirm in person earlier documentary evidence that the British have made progress in the blessed domain of cheesemaking:
Needless to say the human returned immoderately well fed, on everything from bacon (viz.)

with eggs and hollandaise sauce, Szechuan hot-pot ("hot and numbing" read the menu -- and I was most intrigued to note an apartheid-like divider allowing two different broths to be cooked in the one pan), aperitifs aboard what I suppose one would have to call a public houseboat, and finally an excellent Korean barbecue only rendered incongruous by being served in a quiet South-East London local with careworn oak panelling:
Old friends make for great happiness, and there is even news from the illustrious Dr. L that my dear comrade Fidel has emerged from hiding under a bed in Hackney. I can only hope I'll be included in the next visit...

Jam session

1kh overripe figs, 2kg overripe plums, 2kg of the oddly named "confisuc" -- sugar with citric acid and some sort of setting agent mixed in. The figs worked a treat but the plums seemed too liquid -- but after letting them reduce for a while they set to a texture somewhere between quince paste and sticky toffee. Spreading requires strong bread, a strong hand and a strong knife, though it's quite nice hacked into bite-sized bits and consumed on tangy goat's cheese.

The human is a closet glutton for chestnut jam though neither of us knows how it's made. If there aren't any ripe figs left next time we go to the market it will be time to experiment. All suggestions welcome!

Nuit blanche II: on the unexpectedly versatile nature of erstwhile garden installations

The improvised water tank formerly of West-Nor'-West Redfern was always an unpretentious affair, filling itself from a backed up drainpipe and washing machine hose arrangmeent when it rained, and keeping the garden alive for days at a time between summer showers.

Little did I imagine that its kind would go on to dominate both the entrance to the Buttes Chaumont and the Pont St-Louis! The future may well bring us luminous cities of plastic water cubes, but it's nice to know they haven't forgotten their roots -- allotments ahoy!

Nuit blanche I: Dancing at the Centquatre

On a more cheerful note from a slightly earlier era, long live the return of the bal populaire -- dancing 1940s style complete with braces, net veils and accordions! The place may have once been a morgue but it seems no less jolly for the experience, and to top it off there's a late-night bookshop selling postcards of old photos captioned with truly appalling puns -- who but the French could pour half their science budget into la fission de la tomme?

Years of insouciance, or la vie en rose: animal rights, racism and sex kitten nostalgia

"Never with a vacuum cleaner", the subject of this post once said in response to an appliance magnate's request to dance on a yacht in St. Tropez. Needless to say, plenty of white late middle aged vacuum cleaner salesfolk in evidence at the exhibition opening, though the animals seem to have stayed away in solidarity with the immigrants. The human assures me he only braved the sea of pink because there was free champagne on offer, and promises -- promises -- that his lengthy stare at the sight below was one of pure bewilderment. I'll let you be the judge.