Ah Sung; talk about a Master Chef. And I haven’t a single recipe for Chinese food in my cook book. I wouldn’t dare.
My nephew tells me that this musical piece languished in near obscurity until Pope Francis heard it. The rhythms must have been familiar to him, and I like to think of him tapping his feet and having a twirl.
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.
Would you rather be Tweeted, Snapchattered, emailed, or Facebooked? Or would you prefer to receive a picture postcard? Remember them?
Of necessity travel as been by taxi recently, lots of them, for short trips. My insatiable curiosity concerning other people’s lives and backgrounds has the driver spilling the beans in no time.
I fear it’s too late to go to Plovdiv or Varna; and climbing the Vitosha mountain is out of the question. I did know about the fabulous and largely unspoiled churches in Bulgaria, but that’s it.
Today a friend has set off for the Altai Mountains, weighed down by luggage of nineteenth-century oddity: ancient guidebook, compass, probably a folding camp-stool, Kendal Mint Cake, aspirin. Even BH has never been that far East.
My Bookmarks need weeding. Scrolling down to try and find that excellent website saved to tell me the quickest way overland to Ohrid (when you decide you just can’t face Luton Airport ever again), it’s obvious there’s too much dross.
Buckthorn, which I have always associated with the sea as a sort of wind-blasted shrub, has berries that are crammed with vitamins. The tea is a valuable antidote to sore throat and colds.