4540000000 (± 1%) years...

since the planet formed, apparently...

and here we go for another one...


whether you feel ready or not,


best to try to make the best of it while it lasts, I suppose.


Don't dare smile

One little girl who smiled at me
was enough to cheer me up
until her mother saw, and snapped
although in a whisper, but one I heard:
“Don’t smile like that at strangers”
and looked at me as if I was so bad
to have smiled so freely back
Well fair enough, in this dreadful place
to warn and keep your small child safe
but sad, still sad
And when the same child looked back at me
and half-smiled again, in a somewhat conspiratorial way
I turned my head to pretend not to see
I am so sad to say


Wherever next?

We are already five days into the real new year, after spinning through the solstice, and what have you done, and where are you going, who with and why, as we are all on a track, but with options of junctions, to move, to live, to try?


Merry Whatever...

from me, my lady, and two creatures we created in a couple of pleasant collaborations long ago


Solsticial slumber

It is good to remember that within the bare bones of bleak midwinter
there lies the potential for revival, waiting to stir, and to bud and spring
as the sun is already rising higher in the sky, reborn
A cause for a minor re-creation of ancient feasting, methinks,
for the turning of the year is, of course, the real reason for the season


Light at the bottom of the year?

The days at the bottom of the year, that's what these days are, up here. The cold, the dark, the fear, in older days, that the sun would disappear; prompting dread, and horrors of sacrifice and outrage, to appease those gods that are not here. It happens again. It happens every year. The feasts of Saturnalia and other nonsenses draw near. The lights, the sights, the stuffing in of oft' unwanted damn good cheer. Happy nonsense everybody. Happy nothing. Happy miserable merriment, often fake and forced and hated, bloody merry muddled mixed up mess of maudlin madness, maybe, maybe manageable, just, without more damn tears from you again, my dears.


Read all about me?

If you click this link you will have the questionable delight of finding me - the real me not the MacLaren-Scott me - smiling out at you on page 4 and with a wee Q&A interview across pages 4 and 5, and I am honoured to be featured in the University of Cambridge Chemistry magazine.



Whenever I am tempted to do something stupid I generally proceed to do it. I have just done so again, today. Not really something very, very stupid, or even very stupid, but still something stupid nonetheless. Then having done something stupid, despite having thought about it being stupid prior to doing it, and despite having told myself that it would be stupid to do it while there was still time to decide not to do it, I tell myself that it was stupid to have gone ahead and done it, and I ponder why I did it. The answer to that conundrum may possibly be that I am stupid. This sequence of events will doubtless happen again, in some stupid form or another. The simplest way to deal with it may be to conclude that it clearly demonstrates that the notion of free will is an illusion, for were I truly free I would clearly not choose to do something stupid in the full and prior knowledge that it would be a stupid thing to do... unless I am stupid. I hope to be more sensible tomorrow, trusting that past events are not necessarily a reliable indication of likely future events in similar situations, even though they generally have been through all the many years of serial stupidity leading up to now.


In perspective

Each one of these has many thousands of millions of stars, yet occupies not even a pinprick in the wide sweep of our big sky, among endless other not-even-pinpricks, and yet we think we may be important? Well, either we are astonishingly important, that is, we are alone, or we are not even a speck of dirt in the universe's eye, which leaves me not knowing (whether to laugh or cry).

Not my photograph, I admit - a passing phantom just dropped it

Good words

They don’t just come when commanded,
they have to be born by themselves,
but when they come good they come easy,
as if created by somebody else.
The flow is dictated by rhythm,
the thought is dictated by mind,
and once here they are often discarded,
awaiting for someone to find.