Walking along the alleyway beside the yard at theback of my home, I spotted the first 'horsetail' sprouting out of the sandy gravel and grass beside the white (and decorated) plywood fence. Without the fronds it'll grow later, it resembles a sort of greeny-white phallus, though the colours blend in perfectly with the surroundings and so it's already grown several inches without my seeing before.

In a sense this harbinger of spring is an event, something to bring a smile to to your face, to make joy blossom like... (*sound of needle drawn across a vinyl record*)

That's quite enough of that. Yes, the horsetail is there, but the romance of wayside weeds isn't going to enliven this blog at all. Last night I watched The Odessa File, a 60's feature film about secret Nazi skulduggery. As films go, it's quite good. It has a tight plot, decent acting, some understated action sequences, and a suprise ending. It's also showing its age. As good as it is, it doesn't have a modern edge to it. Now I don't mean those silly films like Kick-Ass or Sahara which are just so ridiculous as make you weep, but I found last nights film to be something of a disappointment.

Ahh... Not enough explosions. Now as a child I was brought up on a diet of Gerry Anderson puppet shows. Anything could happen in the next half hour as Marineville inevitably dropped into it's bunker in every episode. The grand opening of some fabulous engineering project was always a disaster, with the somewhat strange lads from a secret Pacific island rescuing everyone before everything exploded. Alien creatures on Mars trying to overthrow Earth by the stupidest means possible. Oh yeah.. And some nine year old geek who's transformed into James Bond by a government sponsored gizmo and who gets to drive around in a wheeled jet engine without the police noticing.

You'd think the lessons would have rubbed off on me, but no, they didn't...

Fashion Dummy of the Week

Some of the guys at the store were discussing their imminent trip to the Donnington Festival, where AC/DC are putting on their last gig on English soil and so forth. It's one of those big mega-events that resembles a communal mud-bath with a long-haired stereo in the background. Miss L was moaning because flares were banned. Banned? Oh come on, L, what is the world coming to? Off course you go in with flares.

"No" Said J in an authorative tone, "They're classed as offensive weapons".

I should explain that J goes glassy eyed at the word 'offensive' and to him, as a keen martial art dude, anything remotely weaponish is a source of stimulating fantasy. Hang on a minute J. Since when were trousers classed as offensive weapons? I mean I know fashion is taken a little seriously but that's ridiculous. Take risks, express yourself, turn up in whatever togs you want.

"Errr... No," J looked askance at Miss L, "We mean flares. You know? Shooty ones? Big red and green rockets?"

Excellent. Get wet, muddy, deafened, and rescued by an RAF helicopter all in one weekend. But nonetheless I've proven that I've been working with natural and man-made fabrics for too long. I think I need a dose of explosions. Time to break out a computer game and lose myself in pixellated pandemonium.

Ahhh... Explosions....