(1 year and 167 days ago)
Wow what a striking image,think though you are fairly lucky to have such diverse subject matter at your dispossle,know you can if your anywhere make the most of what you come across,but certainly think bing in these type of surroundings helps.
Thank you. When I travel I never leave my camera behind, it's like a third arm...a part of me. Thanks again. Have a great Christmas Brian.
Your welcome and you too
Congrats to you, champion of the streets
Thank you Sylvie. Today is the last day of 2018 and wishing you a wonderful 2019...many adventures, good health and prosperity!
Thanks for all these good wishes, same to you. But which one of us will be the first one in the new year? I have a tale for you:
A Tangled Tale, by Lewis Carroll
YEA, BUNS, AND BUNS, AND BUNS!
â€œHow very, very sad!â€ exclaimed Clara; and the eyes of the gentle girl filled with tears as she spoke,
â€œSad â€” but very curious when you come to look at it arithmetically,â€ was her auntâ€™s less romantic reply. â€œSome of them have lost an arm in their countryâ€™s service, some a leg, some an ear, some an eye â€” â€
â€œAnd some, perhaps, all!â€ Clara murmured dreamily, as they passed the long rows of weather-beaten heroes basking in the sun. â€œDid you notice that very old one, with a red face, who was drawing a map in the dust with his wooden leg, and all the others watching? I think it was a plan of a battle â€” â€
â€œThe Battle of Trafalgar, no doubt,â€ her aunt interrupted briskly. â€œHardly that, I think,â€ Clara ventured to say. â€œYou see, in that case, he couldnâ€™t well be alive â€” â€
â€œCouldnâ€™t well be alive!â€ the old lady contemptuously repeated. â€œHeâ€™s as lively as you and me put together! Why, if drawing a map in the dust â€” with oneâ€™s wooden leg â€” doesnâ€™t prove one to be alive, perhaps youâ€™ll kindly mention what does prove it!â€
Clara did not see her way out of it. Logic had never been her forte.
â€œTo return to the arithmetic,â€ Mad Mathesis resumed â€” the eccentric old lady never let slip an opportunity of driving her niece into a calculation â€” â€œwhat percentage do you suppose must have lost all four â€” a leg, an arm, an eye, and an ear?â€
â€œHow can I tell?â€ gasped the terrified girl. She knew well what was coming.
â€œYou caâ€™nâ€™t, of course, without data,â€ her aunt replied: â€œbut Iâ€™m just going to give you â€
â€œGive her a Chelsea bun, miss! Thatâ€™s what most young ladies like best!â€ The voice was rich and musical, and the speaker dexterously whipped back the snowy cloth that covered his basket, and disclosed a tempting array of the familiar square buns, joined together in rows, richly egged and browned and glistening in the sun.
â€œNo, sir! I shall give her nothing so indigestible! Be off!â€ The old lady waved her parasol threateningly: but nothing seemed to disturb the good humour of the jolly old man, who marched on, chanting his melodious refrain:
â€œFar too indigestible, my love!â€ said the old lady. Percentages will agree with you ever so much better!â€
Clara sighed, and there was a hungry look in her eyes as she watched the basket lessening in the distance; but she meekly listened to the relentless old lady, who at once proceeded to count off the data on her fingers.
â€œSay that 70 per cent have lost an eye â€” 75 per cent an ear â€” 80 per cent an arm â€” 85 per cent a leg â€” thatâ€™ll do it beautifully. Now, my dear, what percentage, at least, must have lost all four?â€
No more conversation occurred unless a smothered exclamation of, â€œPiping hot!â€ which escaped from Claraâ€™s lips as the basket vanished round a corner could be counted as such â€” until they reached the old Chelsea mansion, where Claraâ€™s father was then staying, with his three sons and their old tutor.
Balbus, Lambert, and Hugh had entered the house only a few minutes before them. They had been out walking, and Hugh had been propounding a difficulty which had reduced Lambert to the depths of gloom, and had even puzzled Balbus.
â€œIt changes from Wednesday to Thursday at midnight, doesnâ€™t it?â€ Hugh had begun.
â€œSometimes,â€ said Balbus cautiously.
â€œAlways,â€ said Lambert decisively.
â€œSometimes,â€ Balbus gently insisted. â€œSix midnights out of seven, it changes to some other name.â€
â€œI meant, of course,â€ Hugh corrected, â€œwhen it does change from Wednesday to Thursday, it does it at midnight â€” and only at midnight.â€
â€œSurely,â€ said Balbus. Lambert was silent.
â€œWell, now, suppose itâ€™s midnight here in Chelsea. Then itâ€™s Wednesday west of Chelsea (say in Ireland or America), where midnight hasnâ€™t arrived yet: and itâ€™s Thursday east of Chelsea (say in Germany or Russia), where midnight has just passed by?â€
â€œSurely,â€ Balbus said again. Even Lambert nodded this time.
â€œBut it isnâ€™t midnight anywhere else; so it caâ€™nâ€™t be changing from one day to another anywhere else. And yet, if Ireland and America and so on call it Wednesday, and Germany and Russia and so on call it Thursday, there must be some place â€” not Chelsea â€” that has different days on the two sides of it. And the worst of it is, people there get their days in the wrong order: theyâ€™ve Wednesday east of them, and Thursday west â€” just as if their day had changed from Thursday to Wednesday!â€
â€œIâ€™ve heard that puzzle before!â€ cried Lambert. â€œAnd Iâ€™ll tell you the explanation. When a ship goes round world from east to west, we know that it loses a day in its reckoning: so that when it gets home and calls its day Wednesday, it finds people here calling it Thursday, because weâ€™ve had one more midnight than the ship has had. And when you go the other way round you gain a day.â€
â€œI know all that,â€ said Hugh, in reply to this not lucid explanation: â€œbut it doesnâ€™t help me, because the ship hasnâ€™t proper days. One way round, you get more than twenty-four hours to the day, and the other way you get less: so of course the names get wrong: but people that live on in one place always get twenty-four hours to the day.â€
â€œI suppose there is such a place,â€ Balbus said, meditatively, â€œthough I never heard of it, And the people must find it queer, as Hugh says, to have the old day east of them, and the new one west: because, when midnight comes round to them, with the new day in front of it and the old one behind it, one doesnâ€™t see exactly what happens. I must think it over.â€
So they had entered the house in the state I have described â€” Balbus puzzled, and Lambert buried in gloomy thought.
â€œYes, mâ€™m, Master is at home, mâ€™m,â€ said the stately old butler. (N.B. â€” It is only a butler of experience who can manage a series of three Mâ€™s together, without any interjacent vowels.) â€œAnd the ole party is a-waiting for you in the libery.â€
â€œI donâ€™t like his calling your father an old party,â€ Mad Mathesis whispered to her niece, as they crossed the hall. And Clara had only just time to whisper in reply, â€œHe meant the whole party,â€ before they were ushered into the library, and the sight of the five solemn faces there assembled chilled her into silence.
Her father sat at the head of the table, and mutely signed to the ladies to take the two vacant chairs, one on each side of him. His three sons and Balbus completed the party. Writing materials had been arranged round the table, after the fashion of a ghostly banquet: the butler had evidently bestowed much thought on the grim device. Sheets of quarto paper, each flanked by a pen on One side and a pencil on the other, represented the plates â€” penwipers did duty for rolls of bread â€” while ink-bottles stood in the places usually occupied by wine-glasses. The piece de resistance was a large green baize bag, which gave forth, as the old man restlessly lifted it from side to side, a charming jingle, as of innumerable golden guineas,
â€œSister, daughter, sons and Balbus â€” â€œ the old man began, so nervously that Balbus put in a gentle â€œHear, hear!â€ while Hugh drummed on the table with his fists. This disconcerted the unpractised orator. â€œSister â€” â€œ he began again, then paused a moment, moved the bag to the other side, and went on with a rush, â€œI mean â€” this being â€” a critical occasion â€” more or less â€” being the year, when one of my sons comes of age â€” â€œ he paused again, in some confusion, having evidently got into the middle of his speech sooner than he intended: but it was too late, to go back. â€œHear, hear!â€ cried Balbus. â€œQuite so,â€ said the old gentleman, recovering his self-possession a little: â€œwhen first I began this annual custom â€” my friend Balbus will correct me if I am wrong â€” â€œ (Hugh whispered, â€œWith a strap!â€ but nobody heard him except Lambert, who only frowned and shook his head at him) â€œ â€” this annual custom of giving each of my sons as many guineas, as would represent his age â€” it was a critical time â€” so Balbus informed me â€” as the ages of two of you were together equal to that of the third â€” so on that occasion I made a speech â€” He paused so long that Balbus thought it well to come to the rescue with the words, â€œIt was a most â€” â€ but the old man checked him with a warning look: â€œyes, made a speech,â€ he repeated. â€œA few years after that, Balbus pointed out â€” I say pointed out â€” â€œ (â€œHear, hear!â€ cried Balbus. â€œQuite so,â€ said the grateful old man.) â€œ â€” that it was another critical occasion. The ages of two of you were together double that of the third. So I made another speech â€” another speech. And now again itâ€™s a critical occasion â€” so Balbus says â€” and I am making â€” â€œ (here Mad Mathesis pointedly referred to her watch) â€œall the haste I can!â€ the old man cried, with wonderful presence of mind. â€œIndeed, sister, Iâ€™m coming to the point now! The number of years that have passed since that first occasion is just two-thirds of the numbers of guineas I then gave you. Now, my boys, calculate your ages from the data, and you shall have the money!â€
â€œBut we know our ages!â€ cried Hugh.
â€œSilence, sir!â€ thundered the old man, rising to his full height (he was exactly five-foot five) in his indignation. â€œI say you must use the data only! You mustnâ€™t even assume which it is that comes of age!â€ He clutched the bag as he spoke, and with tottering steps (it was about as much as he could do to carry it) he left the room.
â€œAnd you shall have a similar cadeauâ€ the old lady whispered to her niece, â€œwhen youâ€™ve calculated that percentage!â€ And she followed her brother.
Nothing could exceed the solemnity with which the old couple had risen from the table, and yet was it as it a grin with which the father turned away from his unhappy sons? Could it be â€” could it be a wink with which the aunt abandoned her despairing niece? And were those â€” were those sounds of suppressed chuckling which floated into the room, just before Balbus (who
Congrats Olga for 1 to 5 told you street stuff was right up your street[no pun intended]one of your many strengths
Brian, today is the last day of 2018 and I am wishing you the very best for the new year!
And to you happy new year
just before Balbus (who had followed them out) closed the door? Surely not: and yet the butler told the cook â€” but no â€” that was merely idle gossip, and I will not repeat it.
The shades of evening granted their unuttered petition, and â€œclosed not oâ€™erâ€ them (for the butler brought in the lamp): the same obliging shades left them a â€œlonely barkâ€ (the wail of a dog, in the back-yard, baying the moon) for â€œa whileâ€: but neither â€œmorn, alasâ€, nor any other epoch, seemed likely to â€œrestoreâ€ them â€” to that peace of Mind which had once been theirs ere ever these problems had swooped upon them, and crushed them with a load of unfathomable mystery!
â€œItâ€™s hardly fair,â€ muttered Hugh, â€œto give us such a jumble as this to work out!â€
â€œFair?â€ Clara echoed bitterly. â€œWell!â€
And to all my readers I can but repeat the last words of gentle Clara:
Sylvie, thou hath tangled my gray matter that it no longer slides along the dura mater and is presently short-circuiting. I saw myself in the article, confused as if I had flown through many time zones and ended up not knowing what day or time it was. I have no idea what my excuse is for this present moment's confusion but your article didn't help to clear my mind. I know you put it up for my amusement and edification, indeed, it is full of unfathomable mysteries....so I thank you mucho.
Yes, this is exactly the expected result, happy new year Olga
(even if it is just routine to you, how many new years do you have in Thailand every year, so how many years in a month, do they come before or after all of us?)
Let me see....there is western NY - January 1st
There is Ukrainian New Year - January 19th
There is Thai New Year in April 13 th
There is the Chinese New Year, Feb. 5th - Year of the Pig
I am sure I'm missing one or two! The Thais embrace all New Years and like to party hardy as that is part of their culture to have "sanuk" or fun. They do not celebrate Ukrainian Christmas or Ukrainian New Year, but if there were enough Uke's here they would.
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(1 year and 168 days ago)
Dancing in the street (1 year and 336 days ago)
Looks like a variation of Uttita Trikonasana pose in yoga! Like the post processing of this photo.
You mean the Utthita Trikonasana pose..close..but not a triangle shape
We are both wrong, the correct version is à¤¤à¥à¤°à¤¿à¤•à¥‹à¤£à¤¾à¤¸à¤¨
A view of Dubrovnik taken from the wall that surrounds the city,recommend it if you go there, (2 years and 117 days ago)
Went here but didn't go on this walkabout. Should have....grrrrrr. Nice catch.
thanks Olga,maybe next time
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