Bob is in his 80's, and became a patient of ours after he'd had a fall, smashing his nose on to some pavement. He was a pharmacist in Kings Cross for many years and is well known around-and-about. His wife died a couple of years ago. They'd been married for more than 40 years and he was planning to get a tattoo in her memory. She would have been horrified, he told us (a good Catholic Italian girl). His adult daughters were horrified.

Long after his nose had healed, Bob dropped in to say hello and, if it was ok, show Susan his tattoo. He got the impression, he told her, that she was the type to have a few herself, and he was in search of like-minded people (his daughters not falling into that category).

Off came his layers of clothing until there, on his heart, was the portrait of his wife.

Sigh.

Last week, Bob came to say hello, and he confessed to Susan that, as it turns out, getting tattoos has become somewhat..addictive. Much to the horror of his aforementioned daughters. Bob has become an album of the trips that he and Norma took together, and of the life they shared. His daughters don't understand it at all.

I think his daughters need to take a pill; if you can't get tattoos all over yourself when you're 80, then you may as well pack up and be done with it.

The Rose window of Notre Damn - the Sphinx - the bridges of Venice

His plan is to get Notre Dam recoloured soon

Balloons in St Louis - Thomas Jefferson's house, Monticello

Yosemite and jazz

Forty years, he said, and he didn't realise how much he loved her until she was gone.
But I'm sure she knew.

Obviously, Borders as a concept didn't work out so well in Australia...But their books were always stupidly overpriced and the coffee was terrible, so it's hardly surprising. I won't even mention the cakes.

Imagine instead, a cafe, with big fluffy scones, melting moments and central heating, mixed with a second-hand bookshop. It just feels right.

In general, I'm not a huge fan of melting moments, but these were just the right size. Two little bites, and not enough biscuit to dry the mouth. I might make some today to bring back the memories. I might also stay in bed watching True Blood, but at least I have options.

I can't remember which of these I bought. Hopefully not The Remains of The Day, because after recently reading Never Let Me Go, I just bought the kindle version. Unless, I have read before. I remembered liking it though, and I am unable to resist the lure of the second-hand book. Elizabeth Jolley, I bought but haven't yet read. Really, I only bought it because my mother told me that everyone should read at least one of her books, and if I have it on the shelf I can tell myself that I will read it one day.

So much cosier than Borders, Starbucks, Gloria Jeans et al.

This was over Easter, and I think I ate a scone everyday. It was a revelation. Jam. Cream. Floury scone. Heaven.

I rarely leave the house, except for work and groceries. Perhaps if there were more places like these in my immediate future it would be easier to emerge from the nest.

As a general rule, I am hideously embarrassed to be around my mother and modern art, at the same time.

She is, mostly, decidedly unimpressed by it, and faced with an installation of bread loaves baked to varying levels of brownness, representing the different classifications of cloud, will express an audible, "hmmmfph". Pie tins scattered on the floor, filled with varying types of detritus, will result in, "right, hmmmn," as she stalks up the stairs to find something else to ridicule. 

For the record, I thought the bread was interesting, though I'll agree that the pie tins did look more like the left behind traces of a bogan football crowd.

I'm not a fan of modern art. Most times, while I cringe inwardly at my mother's overly loud comments, I stay silent and try not to draw attention to myself whilst staring thoughtfully at sculptures made from paintbrush bristles and human saliva.

And while I'm sure that Jackson Pollack really is a visionary, I just think.. there are limits, right?
On my way to the station at night, I walk past a gallery. On opening nights it is filled with skinny men in three piece suits with ironic moustaches, and women with angular hair cuts, all convinced that they are extremely fabulous.

But seriously...

Please. Hrrmmmmph.