From when Alan Partridge goes to confront "smug CEO Craig Gardner".

Reading a Green Knowe, and mesmerised by how Lucy Boston writes ghosts (or Others) and history. Here Tolly (in 1958) is told a story set in Green Knowe in the 18th C, that he already knows because he took part in it that very evening, drifting into the past as an ‘other’. It’s quite Nigel Kneale.

Glen Baxter and the panel I’ve recalled every time I’ve been out late helping the neighbour search for a cat that has wandered too far down the river, or too deep into the trees.

The Stone Tape Diorama kit from heykidsrocknroll.etsy.com

This drifting apart of the choir: the towering song replaced by the creaking of chairs; the awkward shuffling, some to the door on the right, some to the arch on the left; the sudden drop in scale from the heavenly to the human - was rather moving.

Evening performance of Mozart’s Requiem. “We’ve had to pull from a few choirs” the choirmaster explaining the patchwork nature of the assembled singers. And, because it was ‘devotional offering’, there was no applause, after the mass final note everybody drifted apart, like the expanding universe

It’s also John Cage’s 4′33″ - it’s the same grass / silence as outside, but because it’s now within a frame / a composition it reads differently and you pay it greater attention. Something appear about to happen or be heard.

A thought I have to post in order to clear my mind of it: The park has just fenced off this rectangle of grass - a proper fence, with a proper (unlocked) gate. A week ago this was a patch of green you crossed to get elsewhere. But the fence makes it a ceremonial space. The fence makes it a story.

Local charity shop has a full Playmobil house for sale, but they’ve wrapped it up in a way thay suggests Mr Playmobil came home with a strange cough, developed a rash, and now the whole house and household have been hurriedly contained by Disease Control.

Just spotted a man walking a large Basset Hound, and it looked like he was walking one of those drawing tutorials that instructs you to “start by just drawing out a group of circles”

Reading in the garden. Rula the cat, the marmalade bouncer, waits in the kitchen door, letting me know that should I put the book aside she is still hungry.

I had planned to dust down my Pinsta pinhole for Easter, but it's impossible to now find the photographic paper the cameras requires. Ilford Direct Positive 4x5 no longer seems to be a thing. Are there any (affordable - this tended towards £37 per box of 25) alternatives? Why is the paper so scarce?

Sending the new mortgage advisor not my income and saving details as requested, but instead a photo of how happy I am sitting in the sun in my small garden, with a note of how important it is I be left alone to tackle my ‘to be read’ pile.

Another flat day of strange health, but I did like my joke reply to a text from my mother.

Tuned in to the Time Team Live - they're digging their radar readings of the ruins at Brancaster. Rain and the North Sea wind, but still they're all smiles at the finds. And I'm moved to tears -while men scream for war, in North Norfolk familiar faces are excited about 2000 year old pottery glaze.

On the way home. I’ve Friday’s Late Junction on headphones, and this Jon Collin track is playing as I look up. There’s something Tarkovsky about the way everybody is carefully spaced out, and with the music the people and dogs and landscape seem like the careful engineering of a universal clock.

In a sign of how easily distracted I am, I was just brushing my teeth with an electric toothbrush, but decided to use this down time to also get the vacuum cleaner out. A few seconds later I realised I was living that shiny Jetsons future by cleaning my teeth and vacuuming at the same time.

Rewatching La Chimera last night (now on iPlayer). I’d forgotten how one grave robber steals a glance at Melodie relieving herself in the woods, and then judges her by the hole she makes - just as they judge their finds by the depth and secrecy of their burial. Folklore and its casual sexism.

The Claude Mirror. Cycling the edge of an half abandoned airbase. The windows of the half moon sheds are papered over on the inside, and the creases of the paper take on the reflection of still skeleton trees, the dot of the sun, and the view becomes a texture. Looks really nice zoomed in on.

They’re mowing the maze this morning. I wonder if the two men watching are to make sure the man mowing the maze doesn’t get lost? They council have already sent in three men with mowers this week, only to never hear from them again

Because of the snip snip snip scissor action of walking legs. I should have made that clear. It’s the reason we have patchwork fields.

Fools! I've made enough model kits to know that if everybody walks around the dotted line of the new coastal footpath the United Kingdom will be cut from its bedrock and will drift into the Atlantic Ocean.

I’m much enamoured with the bag my partner has quilted and sewn for herself. Here’s the bag on a cafe seat; I’m taking it to the movies on Friday, and we’re already talking about moving in together.

2. Sadly, my favourite field - which i've painted many times, is being dug up and a new road made into it. Looks like another bit of old beauty has bitten the dust and is becoming another new estate of toy-town houses.

First overheard stranger of the day: a man, his daughter on his shoulders - “Look how high you are. A ladder of father” The last overheard stranger, on my wet walk, a lady greeting a damp party under brollies, waiting by the town hall: “Are you here for my Trail of Terror?” A nice balance there.

Last night, as my mood sank yet again, and over texts home I bemoaned how colour blindness how limited my job as a video editor - my mother quickly sent back a list of colour blind film directors. Even now, with a 55 year old son who basks a bit much in his depression, she is trying to lift me up.

After the storm, glistening like a rain soaked spider web, a ferris wheel. This is a field near the railway line where funfair rides overwinter. Somebody brought a horse out to graze. The trains brush past. It’s chaotic and rather lovely, like a bit of your imagination you’ve let get dusty.

I liked this horizon line with the heavy rain above the road, and waited for a while for a cyclist to go past. No luck did, so with the phone on the timer, I pedalled furiously up, then back and forth until I was sure I was in at least one image. By this time the rain had moved a bit out of shot.

Cycling. The path ahead has found the only storm in the sky.

It didn’t turn out picturesque enough to post, but I baked a rhubarb cake with dollops of custard pudding inside the batter, so when the finished cake was sliced into custard came out like cartoon lava. I consider this among my finest achievements.

Leaving the footpath and crossing a ploughed field - I turn off my torch, and it’s solid darkness for a 10 minute trudge, like crossing the Atlantic by canoe. The half way marker of an electricity pole, torch briefly on to shine upwards. Orion, endlessly hunting, always hungry, hangs overhead

It was the end of a long day at the near end of a long week… and that’s my excuse for being briefly mesmerised by a squeaking (abandoned) pub sign - The Gate…squeaking. It’s nearly a form of Onomatopoeia, a painted object finding a sound which mimics the well known sound of the object painted.

I like how the neighbour has dropped off the first of her allotment rhubarb with it wrapped in its own leaves - like a Viking buried shrouded in their own cloak, held in place with a golden clasp / simple rubber band. This Viking, in its ceramic burial dish, is going to be baked into a cake.

Made and sent Mum's card.

Typical first hour of the day: I have an urgent edit, but get caught up in making the graphics for a less important film, listening to Freak Zone I find to my amazement that Pauline Moran (Poirot's Miss Lemon) was in She Trinity, half way through researching this I stop to rearrange a garden corner.

Quilt Class appliqué butterfly. I thought the pieces were a bit large, but it's easier to learn the skills on.

The window display in the local knick-knack shop suggests a Kaiju Elvis, who has entered our world by stepping out of a drive-in screening of Jailhouse Rock. His nuclear fire breath has already laid waste to all around him.

After nearly 8 years together I’m taking @bugshaw.bsky.social to the village I grew up in. It’s only 18 miles away from where I live now, but because this is East Anglia it’s going to take a walk, a bus, and a lift to get there. She’s beyond excited; I’m going to show all the places Lovejoy filmed.

Fathoms deep in doldrums (which, now I’ve typed it seems an oxymoron of sorts) BUT a spaniel on the town common, a total stranger of a dog, with a tail like a North Sea wind farm, just ran up to me, dropped a ball at my feet and waited. We played for a few minutes, before I handed the ball back.

Full moon signage. A ripped off sticker on a road sign, caught in my torch light, is a full moon cresting a hill. Just to the side of this sign, the road wound up to the real moon, making this sign seem slightly magical.

The giants are in conversation.

On the footpath alongside the golf course. The land is in that fugue between the exhausted sun and the near full moon. On the golf course the ghost golfer pushes his clubs to the hell mouth of the 17th hole.

I purchased one of @chloecumming.bsky.social’s Beatles illustrations - I love it. Reminds me of The White Album, and songs that are sketches but still fall perfectly together because they were geniuses. Another beast for my marginalia menargerie, alongside @panchoballard.bsky.social’s giraffe.

this is a little silliness out of the awfulness. I was curious as to the location of the UK airbase on Cyprus. After finding it on google maps I went exploring. There's a monastery just up in the hills... a monastery with an enticing dedication... (I added a little Nala Sinephro as a soundtrack)

Made a friend and spent a while in conversation. Usually in the middle of a field, but now chattering away on the path. I very much liked the Harry Partch crossed with Grand Guinal nature of this beast. Would flip between rapid EDM to funeral march depending on the breeze. Would spin to slice you.

Watching an older Time Team. One archaeologist hands a pottery sherd to another archaeologist with a gruff "hold your paw out" - and my mind has snagged on the playful therianthropy of that.

This mesmerised me for a while. An almost delightfully perverse abandoning of first principles of wet paint signage. It’s like a Hollywood prequel that unnecessarily complicates a previous blockbuster with extra lore, characters, and motivations.

The lighting of the light - look at the exposure on this tremendous shot. I had no idea it was orb of flame; It’s like the opening act of the universe, something the James Webb telescope will eventually photograph for us.

These BBC documentaries are great. It’s the small details: the wicker baskets they use to hook in buoys, the tiny formica kitchen, the folding of the curtains. And, in this clip a lighthouse keeper waves goodbye to his family, and the dog starts to run to the other side of the dock to watch him go.

Lurpack Man in the streets Lurpack Man in the sheets