Somehow we have missed a day. Never mind. Stage 12, from Bourg-de-Peage to Mende, was uneventful. At the end of the day Andy Schleck was still wearing the yellow jersey.
The following day, Stage 13, our friends set out to ride from Rodez to Revel, past yellow fields of sunflowers, along roads shaded by leafy plane trees.
Let us eavesdrop on Team Philosophe.
The VeloDrone: How pleasant this is.
Le Bon David: Yes, and easy too. If only every day were like this.
Jean Paul Sartre: Enjoy it while you can. We shall soon be in the Pyrenees.
Le Bon David: Surely not! Not today!
Jean Paul Sartre: No, not today. Haven't you looked at the maps?
The VeloDrone: He never looks at the maps.
Jean Paul Sartre: A privilege of stragglers!
Le Bon David: Hey!
This is unedifying. Let us join Diderot and the ladies, at the rear.
Diderot: Are you interested in reading, Belle et Bonne?
Belle et Bonne: Oh yes. I always have something on the go.
Simone de Beauvoir: Tell him what you've been reading, Belle.
Belle et Bonne: I've just read The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane.
Diderot: How did you find it?
Belle et Bonne: It was on the Classics shelf in the library.
Diderot: No, I mean, how did you like it?
Belle et Bonne: I thought it was extraordinary! I wished I had read it before.
Simone de Beauvoir: Before what?
Belle et Bonne: What is the matter with everyone today? Asking ambiguous questions...
Simone de Beauvoir: It was your statement that was ambiguous, dear, not my question.
Diderot: Ahem. I too have read The Red Badge of Courage.
Simone de Beauvoir: Oh! How did you find it?
Showing posts with label plane trees. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plane trees. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Autumn Ramblings
It's the last day of autumn, here. We walk to the shops.
We cross Portrush Road and walk down Percival Street, past the hole in the ground that was once Clayton Aged Care Home. The street trees are not very old. Under them, on the footpath, are shiny red ovate leaves that look like they've been punched out of leather. Some have bright yellow edges, others have startling green veins.
It irritates me that I don't know the name of these trees. That won't stop me from calling them Manchurian Pear. Because that's what I think they are, and I have my reasons.
Now we have turned the corner on to Queen Street. It's quite dark, for two thirty in the afternoon. That's because the street is lined with huge plane trees. At least I think they are plane trees, and I have my reasons. The footpath is littered with fallen plane tree leaves, as big as poppadoms, and as crunchy. The colour of these is ordinary dead leaf brown, but that is something that happens to them after they have fallen off the plane trees.
On the trees, the leaves are a different brown entirely. The glowing brown of rust, the curdling brown of yellow and the fading brown of green. The colour of snakes, the colour of something being not quite right with your eyes, the colour of menace.
Fortunately, we soon cross this street into Wall Street.
We cross Portrush Road and walk down Percival Street, past the hole in the ground that was once Clayton Aged Care Home. The street trees are not very old. Under them, on the footpath, are shiny red ovate leaves that look like they've been punched out of leather. Some have bright yellow edges, others have startling green veins.
It irritates me that I don't know the name of these trees. That won't stop me from calling them Manchurian Pear. Because that's what I think they are, and I have my reasons.
Now we have turned the corner on to Queen Street. It's quite dark, for two thirty in the afternoon. That's because the street is lined with huge plane trees. At least I think they are plane trees, and I have my reasons. The footpath is littered with fallen plane tree leaves, as big as poppadoms, and as crunchy. The colour of these is ordinary dead leaf brown, but that is something that happens to them after they have fallen off the plane trees.
On the trees, the leaves are a different brown entirely. The glowing brown of rust, the curdling brown of yellow and the fading brown of green. The colour of snakes, the colour of something being not quite right with your eyes, the colour of menace.
Fortunately, we soon cross this street into Wall Street.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Minus Fifth Day of Christmas
I was on Hutt Street last week, said Pliny the Elder, waiting to cross over at the lights, when I happened to look at a tree I was standing next to. It had a length of red plastic net fixed round the trunk, the sort they use for oranges.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Brahms Loses His Composure
The final Lunch Hour concert for the semester. The Elder Trio. Pliny should be here, he'd like them. I'm listening to Haydn's Piano Trio in A. It starts with three jabs from a pointy compass.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
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