Aubrey Beardsley.

Brighton born dandy and 'Art Nouveau' illustrator, Aubrey Beardsley, has lost favour in recent times.

Not so long ago his name was everywhere, and fans of 'Art Nouveau' gave pride of place to his reproductions on their walls. Now, he is hardly ever mentioned. Fashion is a fickle thing in the art world. Will he make a sudden revival? Probably not!

Clematis Armandii.

This very pretty evergreen Clematis (armandii) has just started to flower, against the wall of our pool pump-house.

It doesn't do as well as I'd expected, here in France; we planted one back in England that is the same age, yet ten times the size, and needs to be seriously cut back annually.

However, it's all part of the springtime awakening process, and its annual appearance gives us hope for the days ahead.

p.s. When I built the pump-house, I commissioned a young local potter to make two traditional bird-topped, tall, green glazed, pinnacles, for the roof. The two birds (in the window) later fell off. Perhaps I should have asked an 'older' potter to have made them. Inexperience; I suspect. Never mind; at least he and his young family ate that week!

Crikey! What; no 17th?

Have I missed out on some Bilderberg conspiracy? Has the government decided that in future we shall have only 6-day-weeks? Have The Ides of March spread their influence?

Why does my calendar have no 17th? Could this be the end of the world? I thought THAT was supposed to be next year!

Are 'they' keeping something from us? I think we should be told!

Cold Comfort.

This has to be one of my absolute favourite books. A couple of years back I bought myself a new copy, but stupidly left it somewhere in England. Yesterday, however, a kindly Lady Magnon surprised me with the gift of a fresh copy, which she bravely bought on-line.

Cold Comfort Farm is, of course, set in my native Sussex (the epicentre of The Garden of Eden). But I can hardly imagine a more inappropriate cover illustration; it belies the whole essence of the story. An ancient run-down group of farm buildings would have been much more to the point; not a perfect field of rape. The Starkadders; rape? Sukebind; yes!

On the back of the book is the usual dreary blurb (below). However, whoever wrote it must have been absent during his or her English geography lessons. Sorry, no West Country accents due-south of London. We have our own beautiful Sussex lilt; an angelic song-like accent, highly admired throughout Christendom, and beyond.

Of course, none of this editorial miscomprehension (I believe the book comes from an American publishing house; sorry!) can lessen one's enjoyment of Ms Gibbons' classic novel. I recommend it to all who have not yet had the pleasure; as few as that may be.

The End Of The World As We Know It.

In the 6 Nations Rugby Championship last saturday, ITALY BEAT FRANCE by 22 points to 21.

The humiliation. The disgrace. The shame. France will never again be able to hold its head up in polite (Rugby) company.

Just imagine it; beaten by upstarts Italy!!! I can see that Cro's services might soon be required in order to regain some kudos for The Republic's sporting reputation.

Thumbs Down.

Every part of the human body (other than tonsils and appendices) seems to be essential. But it's only when you damage one tiny bit that you realise how essential.

I'm engaged in some building work at the moment, and I've gone and got a stupid bloody SPLINTER in the fleshy part of my right thumb. I know; poor diddums etc etc. But it bloody hurts and I can't dig the wretched thing out.

So I'm temporarily disabled, but unable to take time off. It's just a matter of continuing as per normal, but with the occasional blood-curdling scream thrown in for luck.

Any advice about winkling out deep set splinters would be gratefully received, although I'm really just hoping it'll come out by itself (Yes, I'm a male wimp). Thank goodness I don't use my thumb for clicking on the mouse!

Winter Landscape.

We are still having some overnight frosts, and our mornings can be bitterly cold. It's that time of year when I find walking in the woods both beautiful, and depressing. The coldness of the bare tree-trunks is only occasionally forgiven by the sight of a small patch of wild violets, or the sound of footsteps crunching on last autumn's crisp fallen leaves.

My annual winter depression has a while yet to fester. When eventually I see a haze of new green in the chestnut canopies, it will begin to lift and I shall breathe again. I might even dig deeper into my box of colours , and find something warmer.

I painted this small picture just over a week ago when it was still wretchedly cold, and although for the moment our mornings are still grey, icy, and stark; our days are actually beautifully warm and sunny. My depression must soon be in danger of lifting, I can feel it in the air.