#and it's hard to breathe in this closed aluminium box in the winter with your nicotine stink

[elinaline]

@ People who smoke right before entering the bus: you fucking stink !!

[aethelar]

Please can I have a sprawling romance set against the backdrop of a wisteria-laden English castle estate? Specifically the wisteria-laden castle estate that belongs to the Scamander family and that Percival Graves, the young American soldier wounded in action in the first world war, is staying at as he relearns how to walk.

It could happen. A lot of old English estates were offered as hospitals during the war, and wisteria suits castles. It’d be down in Kent somewhere, with a stone Tudor keep and rolling grounds covered in trees just coming into leaf as the seasons change. Lord Scamander won’t be around, I don’t think - he was Lady Scamander’s third husband and she divorced him when he was boring enough to protest her training as a nurse for the VAD. Lady Scamander though, she’ll be there, running the hospital with an iron fist and covering night shifts when the new arrivals were brought in. Graves met her, once, when he’d only recently woken up from surgery. She asked him how he did in a cut-glass accent and checked the dressing on his leg; he spent the whole time tripping over his tongue and half-believing it wasn’t real.

But Lady Scamander isn’t the focus of this romance. The focus of this romance is Graves, of course, and the way he braces himself against the uneven 15th century wall as he shakily hauls himself to his feet, the way he frowns and rehearses the letter he writes to his parents before he dares put pen to paper, the way he sits next to another soldier with another wound and talks them through the dreams they can’t stop seeing every time they close their eyes.

It’s the way he sits on the stone windowsill in the green dining room that’s been repurposed as a hospital ward and watches the summer sun rise and thinks what it would be like if he’d never gone to war.

There’s a figure, down in the grounds. Graves has seen him a few times - tousle-haired, tall, carrying supplies in off the delivery trucks or lugging boxes of potatoes down from the gardens. He’s heading to the stables this morning, sleeves rolled up and something cheerful in his step. He waves when he sees Graves watching from the window.

Newt, Graves learns his name is, though it takes him a while. Healing can’t be rushed, Lady Scamander scolds when Graves pushes himself too far and hobbles his way towards another injury. She taps her lips in thought then raises a hand in imperious summons. Newt, get the man a wheelchair. He needs to go outside.

What am I, a dog? Graves wants to bite back, except he doesn’t because she’s a Lady and his mother raised him right and he really does need to go outside.

Newt fetches the wheelchair and pushes it where Graves asks him to go, and when Graves falls silent with his head tipped back in the sun and his eyes closed to stop himself crying, Newt drops to the ground next to him and waits. He talks, when the silences stretch too long and too loud and Graves hears echoes in them of friends who’ll never come back. It’s nothing important, the things Newt talks about, except that it is because it’s Newt; Graves listens to Newt talk about the pigs and the chickens, the best place to spot robins in the leaf litter, the kinds of flowers that attract bees and which of the horses are learning to work the latches on their stable door.

Newt takes him to see them and Graves holds out a hand with an apple core for a pale grey foal to shy away from then dance towards and take. Graves smiles and Newt notices, and they go back to the horses until the route to the field is familiar, littered with red-gold leaves and lined with autumn brambles. The wheelchair sticks in the mud after rainy nights and Newt laughs each time and stains his white shirt black as he tries to get it free. Eventually, when the frost is thick on the ground and the days are short and cold, Graves hobbles over on a prosthetic leg and the foal - barely a foal anymore - prances up to greet him with its ears pricked high in hello.

He’s beautiful, he says, and Newt leans on the fence and watches Graves and smiles, achingly tender-soft, and says, He is.

They want him on the front, Newt says another day. He’s frowning, almost angry, but his hands are ceaselessly gently as he teases the tangles out the grey yearling’s mane. Graves’ fingers tighten on his cane and the drumming of rain against the roof seems to change in tempo. Newt reaches out to ask for a different brush and Graves is back in the stable again, back in Kent, in the castle estate with Newt. Not now, Newt continues, flicking his eyes over Graves to check he’s alright. He’s not ready yet, but when he is, he’ll leave.

He swaps places and the yearling noses at Graves’ pockets when he steps forward to take over grooming. Graves laughs, and Newt watches him, and says, I don’t want him to go.

Spring comes and the wisteria blooms again, clouds of purple floating over the arched gateway and lining the stairs up to the balcony terrace. Graves takes them slowly, over-bending his knee to account for lack of flexibility in the ankle of his aluminium leg, but he takes them steadily, by himself, walking on two feet he’s finally accepted as his own.

Newt, he says, and he can’t help but smile. Newt is windswept and sunkissed, the pale of winter fading into a spray of freckles across his cheeks.

Graves, Newt answers, pushing himself off the crenellated wall and reaching for Graves’ hand. He pauses for a moment, gaze roving over Graves’ face as though he could paint it into his memory if he looked at it hard enough, and when he continues his voice is small.

Mother says you’re well enough to go home.

Mother? Graves asks, because Newt is the stable boy, the gardener, the fetch-and-carry boy that does anything and everything to keep the hospital-castle running. Then, with shock, Mother, because there’s a painting in the east library of a laughing child with tousled hair and freckled cheeks and Graves had been distracted enough by it to ask one of the maids who it was.

Oh, the young master, she’d said. He’s a charmer, isn’t he?

Mother, Graves repeats a third time, and Newt, the charmer, the young master, Newt Scamander frowns at him in confusion.

You didn’t know? he asks, hesitant. His fingers tighten around Graves’, a brief moment of weakness that he regrets when Graves steps away.

I’m sorry, Graves says, eyes wide. He’s a soldier, not even a soldier, not even American just the son of an Italian immigrant who thought he could save the world and lost his leg in a trench. Newt is a Lord. And Graves had thought - Graves had hoped - in a letter to his mother that Graves had rehearsed three times before writing, Graves had asked if he could bring Newt home.

He stares around him, at the castle, the wisteria, the rolling grounds and the stable where the horse he’s started thinking of as his is waiting to be sent to war. His mother can send him all the love she has, but the only home Graves could offer Newt would be a hovel compared to this.

Graves, wait, Newt says, but Graves is gone, limping-falling-running down the stairs with his cane clattering against the stones as he flees.

The second half of Newt’s statement doesn’t register until he’s back in the ward, staring blankly as the smiling doctor pronounces him as healthy as he can hope to be. I bet you’ll be glad to get home, he says with a friendly pat on Graves’ shoulder, and Graves nods woodenly and doesn’t want to go. Castles in Kent are not made for leaving lightly, he thinks; nor are tousle-haired boys with freckled cheeks who push his wheelchair and hold his hand and steal his breath away when they laugh.

The bag that he packs into is too small for the year of his life he’s spent falling in love. He slings it cross-ways over his body and balances his cane against his knee as the truck rattles its way to the castle gates. The sound of the engine morphs and twists in his mind until it’s a droning plane, a machine gun, a spray of shrapnel, a horse’s hooves. He closes his eyes and wills the memories away but he can’t block them out by himself.

The hooves get louder and he thinks he can hear someone shouting; he grips his cane tighter and digs his nails into his palm but it doesn’t stop and someone shouts his name and his eyes fly open with a gasp and -

and -

Graves, Newt begs, leaning forwards against the grey horse’s neck. The war falls away and Graves is back in Kent with Newt. Please, Graves, I don’t want you to go. 

You’re a Lord, Graves says, baffled and confused and so cautiously optimistic it almost hurts. I’m - I’m no one.

You’re someone to me, Newt says. The horse dances under him, ears flicking between them and head tossing at it tries to understand. Arguments run through Graves’ thoughts, tripping over themselves and part of him can barely believe this is real, but Newt holds out a hand and blinks like he’s trying not to cry. Please, he says. Stay.

Graves loves him. He doesn’t want to go. He takes his hand and stays.

The wisteria fades, summer passes, the seasons change and the trees drop red-gold leaves as autumn falls. The war ends. The Lady Scamander hires a new cook and a new librarian and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Graves when he chokes. You mentioned your mother’s cooking was the best, she remarks coolly. I think I deserve it, don’t you?

Newt just laughs when Graves tells him. Do they like horses? he asks. You’ll have to show them yours. Maybe you’ll be able to stay on for five minutes at a time. The teasing is light-hearted and gentle and Graves flaps a hand in pretend annoyance to hide his grin. They didn’t take his horse to the front because there wasn’t a front, not any more, and Graves hides apples in his pockets and sneaks down to the stables in the early mornings to detangle his mane, and in return his horse waits patiently while Graves lifts his prosthetic leg over to sit astride the polished saddle and - slowly, carefully, steadily - the pair of them learn to ride.

It can’t be rushed, Newt says when Graves and his horse both push too fast and Graves ends up on the grass with the breath knocked out of him. You’ll end up back in your chair, and then what will I do with you?

Whatever you like, Graves promises, and pulls Newt down to land on top of him.

He could fall in love a thousand times, he thinks, and one more smile would be all it took to fall in love again.

Yes, Newt says, and presses a kiss against his lips. I rather think I shall.

[ancientbrit]

Natter  #2  6/6/2020

My Dad moved us from Essex (east of London) to Surrey (Southwest of London) when I was 3 months old (there's that steel-trap memory again) My Dad's sister Kate moved in next door with daughter Joyce and Uncle Jim. Joyce and my sister Joan were the same age - three years my senior. Uncle Jim was something of a character even though he was right under the thumb.

To stay sort of independent he had a workshop at the bottom of the back garden and he built a greenhouse nearby. Uncle Jim was a good gardener and he came up with a great method of getting seeds off to a fast start by placing a seed tray directly above a roasting pan filled with water. The roasting pan was held in a sealed box containing a light bulb. The bulb heated the water, warming the seed tray evenly and maintaining an even moisture content. Ergo the seeds germinated very quickly and the seedlings grew away.

   Being a gardener and living fairly close by Kew Gardens, he wanted to visit and I was one of the beneficiaries when he took Joyce and me to see the whole garden. This was around 1941 when I was seven and Kew made an enormous impact on me. There was the Chinese Pagoda and the Palm House - an enormous glasshouse which had palms which had grown out through the roof. Inside the Palm House are the huge Victoria water lillies with their enormous round leaves which are capable of supporting the weight of a fully grown man. One thing that truly made a lasting impression on me was when I saw bananas for the very first time - still on the tree. These were distributed to hospitalized children who had compromised digestive systems with intake restrictions. The atmosphere in the Palm House was also memorable too, being humid and warm and it was probably the first time I could remember being thoroughly warm during the winter due to the effects of fuel rationing. Of course, coming outside again felt awful. It was obviously much colder and the humidity on your clothing dried off, sucking heat from you for a time. Uncle Jim was also something of a chrysanthemum addict and he raised some magnificent blooms, which lined the central path in pots from the top to the bottom of his garden. When the family went on holidays I was given the job of looking after these beauties and also the greenhouse. This was really my first experience of working in a greenhouse and I loved it. When Jean and I were first married back in 1963 we moved into a new house that had a generous sized garden. The house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac on one of the corners, so of course, the garden opened up radially.

I wanted a greenhouse, remembering Uncle Jim's and my Dad's down in Devon. When we visited my parents, after the usual greetings and hugs, I used to go straight through the house, into the garden and into the lovely atmosphere of his greenhouse.Talking to him about my proposed purchase he advised thinking hard about what I intended to use the greenhouse to grow, calculate what size that would necessitate and then double it.  But it doesn't seem to matter what size you finally buy - it is never big enough.

I finally settled on 20' x 10' as I certainly had the room. The structure was of Redwood which has a similar reputation to Cedar for resistance to rot. When the boxes of goodies arrived I was so excited to get it built, but it took a little more than the weekend I had put aside for that purpose. I did add to the work during the week and finished the following weekend, but a short while later I was working ridiculous hours, 7am - 9pm  seven days a week, week after week and I was unable to do anything with the greenhouse apart from planting tomatoes by moonlight. At the end of this year I was sent to Atlanta in Georgia with a load of my friends to finish off the work we had been doing on the Lockheed C5-A  wing design. Our wives came with us and we had a wonderful time, traveling all over on weekends, managing to get badly sunburned sometimes in the process.  Our work took us about six months and we then returned home to the UK where we found that our company had nothing to offer us - except a contract with Boeing on the 747  In Seattle.

This was a whole new area of the States and Jean and I thought about it for a very short time and signed up. I came over via Vancouver in August, Jean followed on the 20th of December, just in time to catch her breath before we hosted a large Christmas Dinner. I have never been allowed to forget this - understandably. We bought into the oldest house on Mercer Island - built in 1906, which we loved. Loads of garden where I kept bees and raised veggies and fruit Then came 1972 and Boeing famously lowered the boom. I was very lucky as I had quit some months before and was now working downtown with a firm of Architects and Engineers. During the five years here our daughter Heather put in an appearance and we had to return home again as we still had our original house and the mortgage interest rate had been rising over that five years. Partly to counter that rise we had been forced to rent out the house which we did with great reluctance, having seen the state that rented houses were left in after some renters left. Our renter was deliberately nasty - he was just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. He was interested in keeping birds apparently - which he accommodated in the greenhouse, which I had fitted with automatic vents. Of course, when the first warm and sunny day arrived, the vents opened and the birds flew south for the winter. Not to be beaten, this hobbyist fixed the automatic vents by nailing them shut. Although this didn't break the glass, the next warm day did. The vents strained to open against the nails and finally, not to be denied, they burst the vent frames apart, shattering the glass. Eventually, we decided to sell and return to Mercer Island, and I had to bring another greenhouse with us, but because it was going to have to travel I decided to opt for an extruded aluminium, powder-coated structure of the same 20' x 10' size which I had never been able to find time to use. It also was ordered with the same four automatic roof vents as the original,m but as it would be traveling via ship and truck, I decided that including the glass would be too risky.

The saga of it's long time in-crate and subsequent construction I have Nattered about before, so I won't repeat it. Now my greenhouse is doing well, apart from gradually being overshadowed by trees and bushes and I have some judicious pruning to undertake. Before I forget, there is a possibility that we might be holding our September plant sale at the BBG. There will not be accompanying education classes and it all depends on the Governor putting phases 3 & 4 into effect. Also, because it has been sprung at the last minute - sort of -  I am sure that there are few who have much in the way of stock to bring to such a sale. Since NPA was considering their own sale around the same time at the same place, I checked with them and we will be able to use a stall at the combined event. As I said, this is dependent on the Gov. making the appropriate decisions, which of course are co-dependent on the infection rate going down. Quite honestly, I cannot imagine that happening following the closeness of all those demonstrators downtown, many, if not all of them shouting and yelling, expelling breath and CV19 if any were infected. Most wore no masks and I think that infection rates have to rise. They have already started to climb again in a couple of places and it seems inevitable to me. Sorry to be a Jonah but I am just running the idea and my thoughts up the flagpole, so that if I come to you a little later and ask if you have any decent plants that would reflect well on us at a sale you won't be able to say you didn't know. See how I am?

This is all a little different to the Natter I intended to send. The original one was 80% completed a couple of days ago when it suddenly disappeared. I have no idea what if any key I hit or what happened to it, but gone it was - and is, not to be found anywhere. I don't think that computers and I are sympatico somehow and I am sure everybody out there is saying how the heck can he keep losing stuff like this? But this time I was not dumping stuff deliberately to grab back my memory. Incidentally my recent appeal for anybody with Natters on hand that could let me have them has been magnificent. Janet sent me a stream from the whole of 2015, Horst has 90 of them saved and Jo & Tom delivered a flash drive to the house containing 126 Natters - count 'em - 0ne hundred and twenty-six., and Carin contributed a whole bunch too I think that they are safe, so thank you all so much. The grand total is now some 160 odd.

Your fearless and overjoyed leader,

Gordon

[groovecontrolbcn]

Yuka set to play the second edition of Paral·lel Festival in Barcelona this September

Female techno DJs are firmly making their mark as proven by Nina Kraviz and The Black Madonna who have featured and headlined on many A-list music festivals this summer. As the tables keep turning we can never shine too much light on the true underground heroines challenging a somewhat misogynistic time in the electronic music industry, which as we all know is in the process of change and fairer representation. 

A perhaps less familiar name, but equally as impressive as the former two, Russian born Yuka is a straight-up techno mistress who frequently appears on the All You Need Is Ears party at Tresor, unleashing her signature heavy rolling industrial driven sound.

Since the age of six music has played an important role in her life. Starting out on the piano and ending up behind the decks, over the years her attention has turned to other art forms such as fashion design, sculpture and painting. Nevertheless, music has always been her main thing. Producing her own style of electronics since 2007, Yuka is now an integral part of German label FULLPANDA Records alongside Dasha Rush and Donato Dozy, whilst exploring other sides of her work on Swedish based label Kabalion and Canadian imprint Silent Season. 

Born ‘Irina Solbutova’ in the Siberian town of Bratsk, an industrial community which houses some of the biggest aluminium plants and lumber mills in the whole of Russia and where the population endures severe weather conditions, long harsh winters with temperatures dropping below -25°C. The town is also known for being one of the “Dirty Thirty” most polluted cities of the world. “In towns like this you have to be creative if you need some colour in your life, we took it upon ourselves to make our own fun. Making music, painting, organising festivals and concerts.”

In 1991 Yuka moved to Irkutsk, a beautiful old town full of young artists near to Lake Baikal where she studied fine art and ceramics at the Fine Art Institute: “I'm thankful to Bratsk and Irkutsk. That hard life in Post Soviet Russia was a great experience and the best school of life, and of course it’s been a heavy influence on my music, creativity and life today.”

In 1998 Yuka moved to Moscow, a city that was still in deep economic crisis, in search of enlightenment, a deeper education and a booming nightlife scene. “Maybe because people were close to depression they needed the illusion of a happier life. For me as a girl from a deep province, Moscow was like the American dream. I was clubbing a lot! I didn't use drugs, but could dance non stop all night and it was in that moment I decided to try my hand at DJing. Coming from a musical background technically it was easy. I started off playing house/deep house, which later shifted to a more experimental and darker techno sound - hard, fast, deep, trippy and hypnotic”

Today in it’s current political state Moscow’s nightlife is not as it was before: “The nightlife has almost gone now - clubs have closed, festivals cancelled, some small clubs are still working but are often raided by police and to be honest the politic situation is so terrible in Russia right now, many things remind me of the Soviet time. There is only one promo-group in St. Petersburg - m_division - who are producing great techno/art festivals and events, if I perform in Russia this is where you will find me.”

Besides being a subarctic girl, Yuka’s creative mind function on so many artistic levels: “All musicians can be compared to bird-catchers, especially hunters who go looking for songbirds. Some of them search for a particular type, a nightingale or a lark perhaps, others conversely hunt nothing but exotic birds. Once they are caught, the birds are kept in cages made from sheet music or boxes cut from concert programmes." 

It’s this kind of mysticism that drives her music and inevitably where she hopes to connect with her audience and their inner cosmos - Yuka’s sound is all about creating a state where everybody is connected in the present. “I believe we are one in the Cosmos and we are true. We loose this connection in dualistic reality, in social life, but this connection is very important. I love it when people stop thinking and loose their ego to dance and listen to the music. If we are not thinking (try to catch the silent moment between thoughts and you'll get what i mean) the dualism of reality goes away.  There is no "i" or "you", no "past", no "future", no "subject", no "object" only "now" and "here", only pure vibration. We need it. Our lives are too materialistic and we are suffering with our ego, which separates us and creates wrong ideas”

Set to play the second edition of Paral·lel Festival in Barcelona she comments: “When I got the request from Paral·lel Festival I was really happy because I knew about this festival already. I’d heard some great feedback from artists and people who'd been in 2016, the atmosphere and music and everything” 

It’s clear that having nothing but industry and post Soviet repression surrounding her when growing up has left a clear mark on her sound. When asked to give us an idea of what we can expect from her set on Saturday night: “I choose this track because is has a hypnotic groove. This kind of music is special for open spaces because we can fly with the wind.”

Edit Select - Breathe In Exhale

Paral·lel festival takes place from the 1-3 September in a rural Catalan estate located in the idyllic foothills of the Pyrenees. It’s ethos is to promote differentiated and disruptive musical paradigms and staunchly rejects the motto “the more, the merrier”. Limiting capacity whilst prioritising audience comfort within the intimate atmosphere of the festival, programmed by Berlin based and festival resident artist Refracted, the three day soiree of musical indulgence represents the more independent scene of techno, ambient and experimental music boasting a lineup including LOST founder Steve Bicknell, Alfonso Pomeda, Function and Jana Sleep. Now only in its second year Paral·lel is well on its way to becoming a reference festival within the electronic music landscape. 

Paral·lel Festival takes place from 1-3 September, but be quick to buy your tickets as the capacity is limited. http://www.parallelfestival.com/

Words and interview by Laura Ramos

[ancientbrit]

Natter #3  12th June 2020

Gordon Polson <ancientbrit2@gmail.com> Fri, Jun 12, 11:12 PM   My Dad moved us from Essex (east of London) to Surrey (Southwest of London) when I was 3 months old (there's that steel-trap memory again) Mty Dad's sister Kate moved in next door with daughter Joyce and Uncle Jim. Joyce and my sister Joan were the same age - three years my senior. Uncle Jim was something of a character even though he was right under the thumb. To stay sort of independent he had a workshop at the bottom of the back garden and he built a greenhouse nearby. Uncle Jim was a good gardener and he came up with a great method of getting seeds off to a fast start by placing a seed tray directly above a roasting pan filled with water. The roasting pan was held in a sealed box containing a light bulb. The bulb heated the water, warming the seed tray evenly and maintaining an even moisture content. Ergo the seeds germinated very quickly and the seedlings grew away.Being a gardener and living fairly close by Kew Gardens, he wanted to visit and I was one of the beneficiaries when he took Joyce and me to see the whole garden. This was around 1941 when I was seven and Kew made an enormous impact on me. There was the Chinese Pagoda and the Palm House - an enormous glasshouse which had palms which had grown out through the roof. Inside the Palm House are the huge Victoria water lillies with their enormous round leaves which are capable of supporting the weight of a fully grown man.One thing that truly made a lasting impression on me was when I saw bananas for the very first time - still on the tree. These were distributed to hospitalized children with intake restrictions. The atmosphere in the Palm House was also memorable too, being humid and warm and it was probably the first time I could remember being thoroughly warm due to the effects of fuel rationing.Of course, coming outside again felt awful. It was obviously much colder and the humidity on your clothing dried off, sucking heat from you for a time. Uncle Jim was also something of a chrysanthemum addict and he raised some magnificent blooms, which lined the central path from the top to the bottom of the garden in pots.When the family went on holidays I was given the job of looking after these beauties and also the greenhouse. This was really my first experience of working in a greenhouse and I loved it. When Jean and I were first married back in 1963 we moved into a new house that had a generous sized garden. The house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac on one of the corners, so of course, the garden opened up radially. I wanted a greenhouse, remembering Uncle Jim's and my Dad's down in Devon. When we visited my parents, after the usual greetings and hugs, I used to go straight through the house, into the garden and into the lovely atmosphere of his greenhouse.Talking to him about my proposed purchase he advised thinking hard about what I intended to use the greenhouse to grow, calculate what size that made, and then double it. It doesn't seem to matter what size you finally buy - it is never big enough.I finally settled on 20' x 10' as I certainly had the room. The structure was of Redwood which has a similar reputation to Cedar for resistance to rot. When the boxes of goodies arrived I was so excited to get it built, but it took a little more than the weekend I had put aside for that purpose. I did add to the work during the week and finished the following weekend, but just later I was working ridiculous hours, 7 - 9 seven days a week, week after week and I was unable to do anything with the greenhouse apart from planting tomatoes by moonlight.At the end of this year I was sent to Atlanta in Georgia with a load of my friends to finish off the work we had been doing on Lockheeds C5-A  wing design. Our wives came with us and we had a wonderful time, travelling all over on weekends, managing to get badly sunburned sometimes in the process.Our work took us about six months and we then returned home to the UK where we found that the company had nothing to offer us - except a contract with Boeing on the 747. This was a whole new area of the States and Jean and I thought about for a very short time and signed up.I came over via Vancouver in August, Jean followed on the 20th of December, just in time to catch her breath before we hosted a large Christmas Dinner. I have never been allowed to forget this - understandably. We bought into the oldest house on Mercer Island - built in 1906, which we loved. Loads of garden where I kept bees and raised veggies and fruit Then came 1972 and Boeing famously lowered the boom. I was very lucky as I had quit some months before and was now working downtown with a firm of Architects and engineers. During the five years here our daughter Heather put in an appearance and we had to return home again as we still had our original house and the mortgage interest rate had been rising over that five years. Partly to counter that rise we had been forced to rent out the house which we did with great reluctance, having seen the state that rented houses were left in after the renters left. Our renter was deliberately nasty - he was just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. He was interested in keeping birds - which he accommodated in the greenhouse. Of course, when the first warm and sunny day arrived, the vents opened and the birds flew south for the winter. Not to be beaten, this hobbyist fixed the automatic vents by nailing them shut. Although this didn't break the glass, the next warm day did. The vents strained to open against the nails and finally, not to be denied, they burst the vent frames apart, shattering the glass. Eventually, we decided to sell and return to Mercer Island, but I wanted to bring another greenhouse with us, but because it was going to have to travel I decided to opt for an extruded aluminium, powder-coated structure of the same 20' x 10' size which I had never been able to find time to use.It also was ordered with the same four automatic roof vents as the original.The saga of it's long time in-crate and subsequent construction I have Nattered about before, si I won't repeat it.Now my greenhouse is doing well, apart from gradually being overshadowed by trees and bushes and I have some judicious pruning to undertake. Before I forget, there is a possibility that we might be holding our September plant sale at the BBG. There will not be an accompanying education part and it all depends on the Governor putting phases 3 & 4 into effect.Also, because it has been sprung at the last minute - sort of -  I am sure that there are few who have much in the way of stock to bring to such a sale. Since NPA was considering their own sale around the same time at the same place, I checked with them and we will be able to use a stall at the combined event. As I said, this is dependant on the Gov.making the appropriate decisions, which of course are dependant on the infection rate going down. Quite honestly, I cannot imagine that happening following the closeness of all those demonstrators, many, if not all of them shouting and yelling, expelling breath and CV19 if any were infected. Many wore no masks and I think that infection rates have to rise. They have already started to climb again in a couple of places and it seems inevitable to me. Sorry to be a Jonah but I am just running the idea and my thoughts up the flagpole, so that if I come to you a little later and ask if you have any decent plants that would reflect well on us at a sale you won't ge able to say you didn't know. See how I am?This is all a little different to the Natter I intended to send. The original one was 80% completed a couple of days ago when it suddenly disappeared. I have no idea what if any key I hit or what happened to it, but gone it was - and is, not to be found anywhere. I don't think that computers and I are sympatico somehow and I am sure everybody out there is saying how the heck can he keep losing stuff like this? But this time I was not dumping stuff deliberately to grab back my memory. Incidentally my recent appeal for anybody with Natters on hand that could let me have them has been magnificent. Janet sent me a stream from the whole of 2015, Horst has 90 of them saved and Jo & Tom delivered a flash drive to the house containing 126 Natters - count 'em - 0ne hundred and twenty-six. I think that they are safe, so thank you all so much.Your fearless and overjoyed leader,Gordon