What was the most useful present you received for your wedding? Not, I suspect one of the three silver toast racks.
“. . .A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that ‘great wits have short memories:’ and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts, (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there. . .”
The “few and insignificant thoughts” are exactly what will be found here in Commonplaces.
Personally, “Stir Up Sunday” has passed me by. Probably because none of us much like Christmas Pudding – that’s the excuse I make when I can’t be bothered.
Did I know, asked the lorry driver, that old books were used as filler with the rubble to construct the M40?
The countdown to Christmas has begun, with books for presents.
Three wise things to do, courtesy of Padre Pio.
“The more of you the better.” Says BH kindly, when I moan yet again about putting on weight.
It can seem a bleak old world whichever way you look at it. But remarkable things do happen, and here is an instance.
It has to be said that ever since trying to make an armature from wooden spills for a replica of Degas’ “Little Dancer”, I’ve been a sucker for sculpture.
BH is safely back at home!
BH is down again, felled like his favourite tree, the hornbeam. Down, yes, but not out.