Ten, in the overcoat and the sandshoes.

Today is my sister's birthday. I made sure that I rang her in enough time that I could sit down to watch Dr Who.  She's my sister, she understands. My verdict was Ten, in the overcoat and the sandshoes, although Eleven's superb glasses do get an honorable mention.  

It's an indicator of my great age that I remember William Hartnell, back in the day, but  Patrick Troughton was really the Doctor I grew up with.  He was the one with the dark Beatles 'do and the baggie suit.  In those days, families were lucky to have one TV set, and the thought of children having their own set would have caused a parliamentary enquiry. Somehow, I was allowed to scare myself silly for 25 minutes a week, with cybermen and daleks, while my parents rolled their eyes.  I never did grow out of it, although even I was sorely tested by the McCoy regeneration. Dark days indeed. Thank you, Mr Eccleston.

I'm still a Who tragic, and even at this late stage Two and Ten remain fixed in my affections. Tonight, however, has raised most vexing questions - is Ten Ten, or Eleven? Does that make Eleven Twelve? The Twitterverse will be alive tonight.

While we ponder that, those who aren't keen on Doctors can chat amongst

themselves and have a look at some things I did this week, to do with cyber-dragonflies and an occasional fish.

Dr Who, Mummies and how Lucy took over.

The arrival of little Lucy in our midst has caused all about her to go 'ooooh'.  She's my daughter's first puppy, she has attitude and is very, very cute.  Even Obie seems quite taken with her and is teaching her how to play puppy-style.  Lots of growling and chasing and batting.  Lucy's busy re-arranging everyone around her and will be running things with an iron paw before very long.  We made her new bed from a re-used wrought iron something - it's been here for ages without it's origin being clear.  Now it's a puppy bed.

 

This weekend I found one of the things I have been looking for forever, just hanging there on a hook at a garage sale.  As someone at the sale said, "Are you my Mummy?"  For non-Dr Who tragics, a vintage gas mask.  I turned it over expecting to see an outrageously high price, and was so excited to find it not only within my price range but an absolute steal.

Some other little treasures, all in a lovely old pine crate.

 

Some Saturdays it's worth turning up in the cold and the drizzle.

With Mothers' Day coming up I've been finishing off some little projects, and getting ready for the Market at the Vancouver Arts Centre.    As always, more than is needed, I've packed up some more brooches and pins, and I'll do the pendants and necklaces this week.  This Toybox is finally complete.

  And I almost forgot - new power tools, new table.  Once a tatty bit of wood on the verge, now a coffee table with vintage iron legs.

It's been a while since I've had a chance to make it to the local tip shop, and a quick visit this weekend was less than productive.  But a short and unexpected outbreak of sunshine and a spare minute to record the graveyard of gas bottles let me record something I've meant to for ages.  I'll come back to them sometime, I'm sure.