Last week I read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I am glad I borrowed this book from a friend and did not pay anything for it. I liked it, and rated it three stars on Goodreads. Mind you I also rated the first HP book 3 stars but it is way, way, way better, which rather tempts me to lower the stars on this one. I reviewed the whole Harry Potter series in this post a while ago.

This book came no where near the others. Not even close. Despite telling myself not to I expected to much. I spent the much of the time while reading it being annoyed at the whole plot of the story. It did not have that magicalness, or beauty of the actual books. I never really got into the story I think I can mostly blame that on the layout and style of the book, It is written in play format, so everything is dialogue or 

"Suddenly there is another rumble in the chimney and DRACO comes down hard, surrounded by cascading soot and dust.
Everyone looks at him surprised. He stands and brushed the soot off himself."

Every emotion and action is told. Which gets painful, as does the overuse of "suddenly". The reader if jolted around from scene to scene. It is easy to read but still confusing as to how we actually got to where we got to in such a short time. It is after all called a "Play by J. K. Rowling, Jack Thorne, and John Tiffany." There were no epic plot twists, and the whole plot felt rather cliché, it is just like so many other time travel stories. I liked the old time travel in the books by J.K. Rowling, that was quite unique and made a lot of sense, but the stuff in this book is as annoying and overused as almost every other time travel book. The story feels like fan fiction, which I guess it is as it is not really written by Rowling. I had not expected it to be as good as the other books but I had hoped it would be a bit better than it was.

Lets spin and travel through time and put everything that happened in the beloved HP series in peril of not ever happening.

I felt as though I was being forced to imagine the whole thing on a stage and as a play instead of it feeling real. So if you read this remember that it is not a book, it is a play. I would rather like to see it on a stage, but I just could not enjoy it as a book. It does not feel as if it was ever intended to be a book. After all Jack Thorne the playwright did write most of it. (I noticed that though J.K. Rowling gets her name big on the cover, he actually gets it twice, and it is Rowling’s name that sells the book, and they are her characters.)

Yes sometimes even I take slightly blurry photos... and let people see them.
But I had to have it exposed long enough to get the spin. Oh well...

But since when does Ron own the joke shop? And what happened to George and young Fred, they are never mentioned! (A rather depressing fact.) There were a few things like that which felt inconsistent and rather bothered me. Also who is the cursed child? And what is with the weird book cover? I still don't understand either? And seriously Voldemort had a child? <very slight spoiler

But there were some good bits, I really liked the friendship between the two main characters, Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. Scorpious was the bright spot in the book, he was the only character I really liked from the start and of course to the end. He was the one who drew me into the story and made me laugh. And it was nice to see a few of our old friends again, but it just did not do it for me.

I also liked one of the alternate realities where some characters who should be dead were still living in them, and I enjoyed that bit. So I guess you may enjoy it, but just don't expect that much.... not that I did, I guess I just couldn't help it, but I do kinda want to forget all that book and just read the original series again.. still the most annoying thing could have been how the time turning put all the original books at risk of not being true anymore.

And as to why I did not take any photos of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child with the other books well there they are:

• I could not be bothered to pull all the others out of my shelf and lug them around
• The covers look terrible together.... they are just a nope nope nope
• It is not worthy of sitting beside them
• And did you notice the first photo? I was in the mood to rip up another book of plays that I bought over a year ago (for the purpose of ripping up for photos) and had not yet had the heart to destroy.

Have you read HP and the Cursed Child?

Do you like time travel in books?

Are you planning on reading this book?

Prickly pear plants are normally green. But the segment my mum came across is not, at least not anymore. To get to the beginning of this story, (which is the best place to start) we have to go back two full years ago. Although I suspect it was a bit before that, but can't be sure. 

I have always been interested in weeds and herbs and natural uses for things, or the fact that some things are useless.... although most weeds are beneficial in at least some ways and many are surprising. For school I would photograph and collect a weed specimen and then look it up. I would press the specimen and put it on the opposite page to the one that I wrote all my findings about said 'weed' on. 

One of the weeds I did was a Prickly Pear. Anyone who has had close contact with prickly pear will know a few things. 

1. Prickly pear is spiky and the spikes come in two sets of nastiness. The big long needle sized scary looking ones, and the tiny, silent and deadly, orangey coloured ones, that cluster in a fuzz around the base of each massive spike. (Seriously don't chuck one of these at someone's face even if you did take all the big spikes out.)
2. It likes to hide among grass so that you mow over it (resulting in the stuff being spread everywhere and potentially going into the mower's tires) or step on it. (Once, in a friend's case, sit on it.....)
3. It is impossible to remove. Even if time and time again you pull out the plant before it flowers, more will just appear as if from nowhere....the seeds can lie dormant for over 30 years, which is just n o t  f a i r. (I have not lived long enough to hope to have destroyed the fiends)
4. They have big flat-ish leaves/segments, but they are still around a cm thick! and FULL of juice, which is why apparently....
5. You can eat them....if you are careful not to eat the spikes and are really, really hungry, which I have thankfully never been. A friend also tried this once and decided that they are not so good.

And so all those years ago I attempted to press a prickly pear segment. I remember changing the paper I was attempting to press pressing it between so many times in an attempt to stop the plant from going moldy or growing, it actually had the audacity to try to grow!!! I put it under heavier and heavier books, and piles of books and a whole box of them. All the time being careful not to get the little spikes in me. I had removed with pliers the few large spikes so I did not have to deal with them. 

Then I forgot about it. Mummy was sorting through the boxes of books near my desk and found an odd pile of what looked like scrap paper under one. She flicked through it and asked if I knew what it was from and then we found the now flat Mr Prickly Pear. After two years I had squished him! But of course I can't find the folder of weed information I collected anymore.

 Mr Prickly Pear had not enjoyed his stay, forgotten under the box of flattening books. He wanted revenge. I handled him very carefully.... until.. halfway though taking photos.... And found that about six of his miniature spikes had attached themselves to my finger. Annoyingly by the time I had taken the photos and went to remove them they had removed themselves, but it is ok I found them later....... One jabbed itself into a different finger and got nicely lodged there, (making tweezers and a mother necessary.) But I suspect the little spikes had all jumped onto my skirt from which they planned to attack me one by one. But I realized where they were hiding and going outside shook them all away.... hopefully.

 So that is the end of the adventures of Mr Prickly Pear, at least for now. But I mentioned postage stamps..... and they have nothing all all to do with Mr Prickly Pear or his spiky minions. 

But anyway the thing is that the price of postage has gone up yet again..... and we do not have the right stamps to make up the right amount so when my dad wanted to post a letter the other day, what came first as a joke ended up turning into reality... well take a look at the photo. We debated a while first, and laughed, and then decided that since half of 70c plus a whole 70c stamp was over enough they could not complain too much about us cutting a stamp in half.... hopefully. So we posted the letter.

Have you ever met a prickly pear before?

Or pressed plants or flowers or cut them in half????

Happy new year everyone! Or at least all those in my up to date country of Australia. You Americans seem to lag behind somewhat, so happy new years eve to you all over there. And for your information this photo was taken a few minutes after midnight at the beginning of 2016.

Close to where we live there is a Traveling Stock Reserve, but it is not used for traveling stock, but is agisted. Still anyone is free to walk and play in there. I have always liked going out into the paddock and exploring or building houses with logs, branches and sticks. When we were little we would go collecting what I called 'moon stone' for I had never seen rocks like that anywhere, they were often a creamy colour, and they had sharp edges with smooth sides. I would carry them back home and put them in my collection. I have no idea what happened to that collection, I can only guess it got chucked in the bin with a lot of other junk, which I probably called precious things, but Mum knew better, except for the rocks. 

That title.... well maybe I should have stuck with "Of Photos of flowers" or "Of Flower Photos"... Something does not sound right with it, oh well. I can't be bothered with changing the photo, so concerning photos of flowers.... This is another post where you can see how different my photos are now, to what they were years ago, and read my critiquing of my past self (or past photographs anyway). Although back then I did occasionally fluke onto a photo I still like now. As with the photo heading this post, I took that back in 2007. 

Here is another post of photos for those who wanted to see more photos of the pocket watch. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed taking them.

I just wanted to say one thing today, ask one question.


Time 

is a 

Precious Gift

How are you going to use it?

A few days after taking all those photos of books, glasses and keys, (can be found in previous post) I was able to borrow an old pocket watch from a friend. Naturally that entitled another photo shoot of my books and the watch and pieces of the insides, pieces of time....

I drove past a house the other day and it inspired me to write, this;

Once this was not a sad little house, I am sure. Once a man, or maybe more, laboured on its foundations. Each wooden slat, cut and placed by loving hands. With joy and laughter, looking forward to a brighter future, this house rose up from the steep hill. Finally the wife arrived, the furniture, and the corrugated iron for the roof. It rumbled up on a slow moving wagon, drawn by a team of oxen, maybe. Maybe they had trudged the tree boarded track up the mountains for days, weeks.

Once, maybe once, the young wife ran up and into her husbands arms,  so glad that they were together again. So glad of the beautiful house, a house of her own, with wooden boards to sweep the dust from. Together they would make this their home, possibly.

As the rain fell, it drummed down on the roof, horrendously noisy, but they sat together, knowing that the house was solid built. It would not blow away, or collapse like a tent of canvas. Maybe soon after that children could have come.

Once they could have leaped off the bottom step and run down the slope, crossing over the fallen tree that bridged the creek, and jumped into their fathers arms as he arrived home. Did he come from taking their cattle to market? Or selling the furs of the animals he trapped? Or from the homestead where The Boss lived? 

Other times the children could have run with buckets down to the bubbling mountain stream and tried to catch the little mosquito fish, that darted through the clear water. Little trousers, or skirts, hoisted high. Maybe muddy little feet ran back up the hill to show Mother their prizes. Or maybe they fished out the fat black tadpoles, and kept them in a jar, watching as they grew legs, squiggly tails shrank and then disappeared. 

Once upon a time, long ago, many things could have happened in and around that happy little house. House of promises, hopes and dreams, once. Now though, it sits a weathered grey. On a hillside, far from anywhere, a dull house rots, silent except for the clatter, bang, and scratch of the rusted iron roofing, that has now come loose. Each gust of wind, pulls at the house, and it succumbs, sinking away, slowly returning to dust, and memories.

What memories it must hold though, if only I could hear it speak. If only the creaks, could, be interpreted, or the language of old things found out. But the people who lived there once, have gone, grown old and died. Maybe the children still live on somewhere, I wonder have they forgotten, the once happy little house on a hill. Or are they no longer, here to be able to remember, have they too passed away. I do not know, but I wonder, what does that sad little house remember?

The juices in my mouth stopped squishing in sweet flavoursome bursts at every chew and no longer slipped smoothly down my throat to fill my stomach in a satisfactory way. The soft pulpy fruit turned hard after a few mouthfuls and the liquid that ran from it, down my arm, began to feel sticky and dirty. 
I chewed harder; my teeth grating together, with a gulp, another mouthful of the fruit scratched its way to fill the pit of my stomach, sharp edges catching at my throat. Yet I cannot stop. My jaws keep working and again I swallow... I swallow what feels like rocks picked up from beside a path, gravel. 

11th October 1943 A British spy plane crashes in Nazi-occupied France. Its pilot and passenger are best friends. One of the girls has a shot at survival. The other has lost the game before it's barely begun.

Photo from here

If you did not know already I will enlighten you on a fact: I really like John Flanagan's writing and have read all his Rangers Apprentice and Brotherband series... He is the only author our family buys new books from as soon as they come out... or before.... If you have not read any of them, well you should.

I have been watching goodreads and other places for months. Finally we got the synopsis for the next Ranger's Apprentice book, a Prequel to the others! Here is said synopsis;

"When Halt and Crowley discover that the ambitious Morgarath has been infiltrating the Rangers in order to corrupt the corps, the young Rangers travel north to Gorlan, seeking a royal warrant to stop Morgarath before it is too late. By weakening the Rangers, the most powerful force in support of the king, Morgarath plans to steal the throne. Yet when Halt and Crowley arrive in Gorlan, they discover just how close Morgarath's scheme is to taking root. Prince Duncan has already been taken prisoner and an imposter installed in his place. All the while, Morgarath has been earning trust and admiration from the Council of Barons while he secretly assembles a powerful force of his own. If the young Rangers are to prevent the coup from succeeding, they will need to prove their mettle in battles the like of which neither has ever faced."

Here is a small fact to think on:

~ You are going to live forEVER ~

Or to put it another way

~ Your soul is IMMORTAL ~

After you leave your body

you will continue to live....

but where?

there are only two options

and this is not an either or fallacy

it is fact

now is the time to chose where you will spend eternity

As I stole out of the house and down the silent streets a poem by Banjo Paterson echoed through my head. I memorized it years ago and it came flooding back as it played out in real life before me.

Sunrise on the Coast A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

Grey dawn on the sand-hills -- the night wind has drifted

All night from the rollers a scent of the sea;

With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted,

At the call of the morning they scatter and flee.

Like mariners calling the roll of their number

The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep.

And far over-head -- sinking softly to slumber --

Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep.

To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on

The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night;

And far from behind the enshrouded horizon

Comes the voice of God saying "Let there be light."

And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender,

It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey;

And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour --

Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day!

One candle stood in a corner. It looked silently out over the room; it could not see to the rooms extent, the candle did not even know if there were other edges. Hundreds of thousands of candles stood in the shadowy room.  A few of the candles had faint lights on them, some sputtered, but most were dark. In one place nearby, a group of lighted candles stood together right next to each other. Each little flame melded together to create one roaring tower of light that could be seen by many more candles. The group of candles dispersed, each leaving with more fire atop it than it arrived with. They went out and mingled with the unlit candles. 

From the corner the candle watched, many of the dark candles leaned towards a flaming candle as he passed them. The flaming candle stopped in amongst a huddle of dark ones, as he left the wick atop one he had just spoke with sputtered into life, a faint glow, but still a glow. 

Sadly some of the lighted candles walked about with their arms shielding their light as if they were afraid it would be blown out if someone else saw it. Others hid their light, ashamed of the shadows it seemed to cause, though really all it did was show the truth. Still others selfishly kept their light hidden so only they could use it to guide their path. Candles around these ones never had any idea they were near lighted ones. 

The candle in the corner stopped watching the others as she heard a strange sound. Following it she came to a small group of candles. Their wicks were faintly lighted or sputtering. With a smile she walked into the midst of them. They gathered round and gazed at her light. As the little group came together their wicks touched and a great tower of light shot up. They soon parted, but each candle now held their heads high, showing their light to anyone watching. 

The candle from the corner kept on moving through the darkness. At times she saw one of the candles beside her start to sputter, other times she had long passed on before her light lit theirs. Most of the time she only warmed their wax, but that prepared them for when another lighted one passed their way then they too burst into flame. 

One candle had time only to light one other before he melted away, but that other burned bright. The one candle that the candle of short time lit went on to light many others, and warm or bring to sparks many more. When others lights flared up, they too lit still more.

In one place, too many candles away for our corner candle to see, a bright burning candle refused to go out. Other candles entrenched in their darkness noticed his flame and for fear of it catching, took him away. Still his light shone. So they bent him, they battered his light. They failed their mission. The battering of his light only caused sparks to fly; the distances some of them went were incredible. Finally the dark ones smashed him to pieces until he was no more, but his light had already given many others light of their own.

One lighted candle can make a difference, yet each does in different ways. Let your light shine. Give the Light time to catch, light up the darkness.

Yes I did used to be that cute! Since I turn ... ah lets say old today I thought I should post photos of me, as time passes. I don't know who all these photos were taken by, probably my parents, though with the really old ones I took photos of the photos since we didn't have any copies of them on the computer. 

I am not exactly sure if they are in the right order (the old ones) but they are close. There is also proof here that my hair was not always long and it has been cut short once.......

So in celebration on eighteen years, from the beginning, me. 

Yes this it taken at our place..... it was so different back then..... I remember this moment, watching the storm come in.

And I'm rather confused of the order of the photos around here....

I was once taller than my sisters too..... and Jane had longer hair than me.

I know this was taken at school some time.....

And now the lovely digital age! these photos are in the correct order. The photo below was taken in 2006. With the digital age also comes me not being able to chose which photos to put here so there are a few more for each year..... oh well... Look how many freckles I had! Well I still do, but not so obvious.

The massive flood of 2007

I have never had a horse but if there is one nearby I will probably go and pat it..... even climbing onto private property.... though this is in a paddock next door, and any one can walk there.

This chook is still alive even though she has tried to die numerous times.

Do you like to look back over old photos?

Have you ever counted back the years to see if you are really as old as you are meant to be?