A forthcoming home exchange with my Parisian contact means launching a spring-cleaning programme, and taking a chance on the slightest hint of a let-up in the cold weather, to see if Columbia Road market had anything to liven up my sad-looking window-boxes.

The usual ready-flowering annuals were, not surprisingly, in short supply (though one stall had fuchsias and petunias, which was all I needed). Most of the stock on display seemed to be cut flowers, hardy (they'd have to be) perennials and greenhouse exotics. But the sunshine brought out a good mood, and even a couple of pearlies with their collecting tins.

And whatever the weather, market traders are irrepressible. These dramatic orchids were being sold as "Cheap enough to give to your mother-in-law!":

Meanwhile, for comment on the main news of the week so far, rather than yet another example of de mortuis nil nisi bunkum, Diamond Geezer has a useful all-purpose post.

Jargogled, at all?

A slight touch of apricity at last, after so much lumming and the not so distant memory of snowbroth, not to mention the enlivening prospect of a longer twitter-light, tempted me out on my bike again.

Not that the exercise is likely to turn me into a monsterfully callipygian snoutfair, but it might hold at bay for a little longer the chances of becoming a complete jollux. Alas, the wind deals such a curglaff that any bike discovers its inherent resistentialism, gorgonizing the rider into an elflocked quockerwodger, reduced to groaking outside the chippy like a lunting slubberdegullion, or tempted into the warmth of the pub, even at the risk of a fuzzled, crapulous curmuring.

In case you're thinking these must be the beef-witted twattlings, hugger-mugger cant or grumpish brabbling of a lethophobic cockalorum, relax: it's just a test of whether it pays, as the Reader's Digest used to say, to increase your word power - with the help of this little list.

Having grown up in a Victorian house with the kind of plumbing that, if it ever needed attention, seemed to require copious amounts of teeth-sucking, solder and swearing, I'd always vaguely assumed that getting a water meter installed would be a major operation requiring lots of forms, several appointments and various sorts of precautionary clearing out.

Not so, in these modern times. An enquiry online to book a survey, a quick inspection of the pipework available (admittedly, some head-shaking over the peculiarities of the way the developers of this estate installed the exterior stopcocks and pipework, but that's no surprise), and the fitter had all the kit already with him to install a meter beside my water tank.

All done within the hour; and I now have an additional stopcock that doesn't require arm-dislocating contortions.

As to whether it will save money - we'll just have to see.

I've never taken much notice of "living statues" around London, but yesterday I was struck by the way a whole neat line of them had formed outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square: a silver cowboy, someone in a pig's head mask (who didn't see to have quite got the idea), a vague attempt at the princess from Shrek and a couple of gilded I-don't-know-whats.

As if that weren't surreal enough, after I'd taken my shot, a passer-by handed me his phone and asked me to take a photo of him with the cowboy; said passer-by was a young man wearing, no doubt for his own good reasons, a pink "Hello Kitty" onesie (or, as we persons of an older persuasion call it, a romper suit).

I think it may be spring. Or perhaps Red Nose Day had something to do with it.

Ho-hum

Quietly miraculous

That's how Transport for London describes the bicycle, in Our Beloved Mayor™'s latest plan for cycling in London.

At last it looks as though someone on high has got the message that it will take consistent - and persistent - planning and commitment (and money) to achieve any sort of shift towards Dutch levels of usage. All the right noises are being made about what and who it's all for (ordinary people pootling to the shops, the station, the school) and what they might need to encourage them (segregation in time and space, thought-through planning of routes, junctions and integration with other public transport, consistent and easily understood signage and mapping). The headline spending figure looks eye-wateringly substantial too.

But that "quietly miraculous" is attached, in the document, the potential effect on health because of the reduction in air pollution if enough people ditch the car for the cycle; and no doubt neither it nor the date of publication has anything at all to do with the current  embarrassing court case about our laggardly progress in dealing with air pollution - dear me, no.

This ramshackle arrangement is my set-up for contributing recordings to Librivox, the audiobook equivalent of the Gutenberg Project - putting out of copyright texts online.

All it needs is a reasonable (and not expensive) microphone, some free software and some technical guidance from the administrators, and anyone can contribute as much or as little as they like, to whatever project is listed on their messageboard as open for contributions.

Using the soft furnishings can muffle out ordinary background domestic noises, but not all external noises from delivery vans, planes and helicopters and the like. This can be frustrating in the middle of a stirring Victorian account of the Spanish Armada:


And though it's advisable to keep the throat well lubricated, it's best not to gulp in too much air at the same time:

First signs

Adults only

Flicking through the electronic programme guide list of movies to see if there's anything worth recording (you'd be surprised how many "Everyone's seen that" films I never got to - or maybe not), I found this warning in one movie's information note: "Scenes of violence/torture/sex/live octopus ingestion."

Ah well, it certainly helped me decide whether or not to bother. Unlike the occasional warning that a film "contains mild language". Are they imagining people saying "That's no good, I want non-stop swearing tonight"?

A little sunshine makes all the difference

Over the years, street organs seemed to have become less and less in evidence in Amsterdam. Bearing in mind what I'm guessing must be quite a cost in getting and maintaining one, it can't be easy to make much of a living from them. But this weekend, I not only saw one in one of the main shopping streets in Amsterdam, but also in the middle of some fairly heavy snow in Utrecht: maybe the Saturday shopping crowds brought them out.

In Utrecht, too, you can surfeit yourself at Museum Speelklok with all kinds of draaiorgels, circus organs, hurdy-gurdies, pianolas, orchestrions, polyphons, musical boxes, some monsters built for dance halls, and some strange mechanical musical instruments (I once saw a machine here that played four violins).

Visitors have the chance to wander around some of the many different examples, but the main interest is the tour of selected machines (though this does include plenty of chances for little ones, and one lucky grown-up, to turn a handle). There's even a bit of singsong, as was once traditional, though at least one of the old songsheets on display suggests something rather racier than you might expect.

Cold enough

Walking up to a tram stop, I noticed a group of people giving an unremarkable stretch of canal more attention than you'd expect at that time on a Saturday morning - and this was why:

Not exactly Nigella

Mumblety-odd years ago, on my first evening in Amsterdam, I ate at a restaurant offering traditional Dutch cooking. The special of the day rather appealed as much for the sound of the name as much as anything else: hutspot met sudderklapstuk, which turned out to be a mash-up (hotchpotch) of potato and vegetables with a huge piece of braised beef.

The restaurant is still there, though much more spruced up these days, and still includes such substantial fare on the menu (and in these temperatures, you can see the benefit).

However, the specials this time didn't particularly appeal (and what sort of beer were they offering?), so I chose a variation with curly kale, and a sausage and speck (bacon pieces).

The presentation was a bit...well, striking.

And then the demon of literal word-for-word translation struck on the dessert menu. Even with a cinnamon and caramel sauce, "bag cheese on a biscuit" doesn't entice.


P.S. I've just noticed Disqus's bizarre idea of "related" content elsewhere among their users - nothing to do with me. I'm working on finding an alternative commenting widget if anyone has any bright ideas

Greetings from a very cold and snowy Amsterdam, where (as you can see) if you want to tempt customers in by tempting other customers to sit outside, you might as well try offering them blankets, in fetchingly contrasting colours.

Feeling like a break, I've given the traditional rail and ferry option a try. They can zhoosh up the ferry as much as you like (comfy bed, own telly and ensuite bathroom well up to medium hotel standard), but I doubt if I'll ever be able to sleep properly on any sort of moving transport (not that the movement made itself felt on this trip, with much less juddering and jolting than I get on the bus of a morning). And the rail connections are still somewhat unwelcoming and inescapably tedious, with seasonal problems adding to the commuter crush.

Arriving in the murk of a winter twilight, the view is all shades of grey across the snow, apart from the lights of cars and the occasional advertising sign; and when the sun finally breaks through, the few distinctive objects on the landscape barely make a mark through the mist.

But Amsterdam retains its distinctive mixture. Amid the bikes and gables and down a side alley, the eye is drawn past today's graffiti art to the 16th century outline of the Begijnhof, more peaceful than ever in the untouristed snow.

Monday's sun made Sunday's constant snow look very different.

Round on the city farm, the ornamental fowl may not have been too sure about venturing out, but some animals come ready-wrapped for the weather.

I have some creative neighbours:

Sign of the times

A toddler, trying to grasp the idea that tapping and swiping the TV screen doesn't actually make it do anything.

Yet.

Time was, a trip "to see the lights" was a semi-compulsory part of the season, but fell by the wayside in the face so many other distractions. It was by chance that a walk through Seven Dials and Covent Garden suggested it might still be worth it, if you choose the right time of the late afternoon.

Forget the disenchantment of the most-hyped displays, in Oxford St and Regent St, which have mostly seemed not quite enough or too commercial (who thought it would be Christmassy to have the lights in Oxford St advertising Marmite?). Here, the lights are just that, with Seven Dials and the surrounding streets in a more modernistic orange and yellow, and

Covent Garden in more traditional red baubles with silver (and, appropriately for the weather, those lights that look like dripping rain), complete with a red-nosed reindeer and Lego advent calendar.

Trafalgar Square is the most traditional of all, with just the Norwegian tree and its austere plain lights. I arrived in the middle of a carol concert underneath it. Part way though a small commotion and applause among the crowd on the steps revealed a marriage proposal, greeted by a call for three cheers from the choir leader.

Magical mystery tour

Whether it's the planetary alignments, Mayan calendars, climate change, squirrels nesting in the works, or just plain human error, there have been a number of occasional slips with the audio announcements on the buses locally. Repeating the name of the last stop, or anticipating one or two ahead, is nothing new; but just recently I've heard some rogue announcements of places way off the route.

Today was such a lowering grey, seeping sort of day, that something obviously decided the thing to cheer us all up, on the pootle up the road to Canary Wharf, would be some outdoor swimming on the other side of London - for it suddenly announced the next stop would be Tooting Bec Lido.

Since we're all still here..

..why not get on with the seasonal celebrations in style, with this offering from the home of innovation, artistry and design of lasting value (well, that's what they say, and who am I to disagree?) - the Elvis Christmas Tree.