The Dark Arts.

We've been re-watching the entire Harry Potter series. In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Delores Umbridge is placed into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by the Minister of Magic. Ms Umbridge happens to be particularly fond of cats and her favourite colour is any shade of pink. Ostensibly she’s there to teach but she has a secret agenda as the Ministry seeks to gain control of the school. Clipboard in hand, Umbridge clinically assesses the staff and decides who stays and who goes. Sybill Trelawney, the Divination teacher, is marched out while the entire school looks on in dismay. With the connivance of the Ministry, headmaster Dumbledore is sacked. The highly-respected wizard who devoted a lifetime of service to the school is forced to leave. In a memorable scene, Dumbledore refuses to go quietly and disappears in a spectacular flash of flame. "You have to admit that Dumbledore's got style," concedes one member of the Ministry.  This story springs to mind today, the first anniversary of my own experience of the dark art of retrenchment. This will be the only anniversary because I would like to obliviate those unpleasant memories and move on.

Harry and Raffy.

[A very good tale.]

Today was clear and sunny which is unusual for this time of year but not unusual this particular year. While Ben waited patiently in Dr Bob's surgery, I waited patiently in a nearby park and read a good book. I had a bench all to myself and enjoyed the sun's warmth on my back. Gum trees were flowering and cheerful sounds of parrots filled the air. A Filipino lady appeared, attached the leads of her two shaggy terriers to one leg of the bench, checked that I didn't mind then walked off to the Salvos op shop. Before she left, I asked about the dogs' names but it wasn't really clear which was Harry and which was Raffy. One whimpered constantly and looked sadly in the direction of the shop. The other growled at anyone who walked by and yapped at other dogs in the distance. I kept reading. A few minutes later, a grandfather arrived. He was pushing his grandson along on a colourful plastic trike, one of those trikes with a long handle at the back. "He likes dogs," the grandfather explained. "They're not mine," I replied. Soon afterwards, Ben came to tell me the doctor was running late. He kept his distance but was clearly amused by the small crowd gathered around my bench. Dog leads were entwined around the grandfather's legs, one dog whimpered, the other one growled, the grandchild sat quietly on his trike slowly extending his tiny fingers towards Harry's or Raffy's nose and I kept reading.

Kitchen gymnasium.

[Kitchen gymnasium on a sunny autumn-nearly-winter morning.]

Our kitchen has been the focus of many activities* over the years. In its latest iteration, the area has been transformed into a small gymnasium complete with floor mats, punching bag, boxing speed ball on a stand and 'Draco' the Jiu Jitsu grappling dummy.

The TV has been moved to an adjoining room which has become the "home theatre" complete with a comfy couch. We're all amazed that, considering how many years we've lived in this house, no one thought of it earlier.

The table has been pushed up against the bench so there's not much space for eating in the kitchen these days. However, like many of our relatives, we can now eat dinner and watch videos while sitting on the couch.

* One year in the kitchen (2013),  Heating and sleeping (2012),  Kitchen workshop (2013),
Camping in the kitchen (2013),  Music in the kitchen (2013),  Christmas in the kitchen (2012),
Kitchen tap (2012),  Yoga in the kitchen (2012),  Kitchen battlefield (2012).