Sorry, Pseu and hands up by me for my total failure to lend any sort of hand of support to your competitions until tonight. As the hands of the clock move inexorably towards midnight, I genuinely feel all thumbs about not knuckling down and pulling my finger out to make a fist at some sort of entry.
The truth is that I have been far too limp-wristed in my charioteering this month, although I could hold out the excuse that I have had my hands full at work as our IT is handed over to a new ham-fisted and cack-handed bunch of incompetents who could not find their own back passages even if they used both hands. Sorry if I’m being a bit off hand about them but the digital age can be a right pain sometimes. In my hands on experience.
Anyhow, on the one hand, I do not now have sufficient time to enter the Creative Writing competition and presume that JW will be fingered as winner. I applaud his triumph.
But, on the other hand, there’s still the photo oppurchancity.
So, I’ve been lightly thumbing through the index of my extensive collection of photos (handily located on my hard drive) from trips past and would like to hand over the following for your even-handed judgement.
The first is from the Eden project. Palm trees would have been too obvious so it’s hands of bananas,
Swaziland next and the House of Fire which ‘Lonely Planet’ apparently nails as the best tourist visit in the Kingdom. Didn’t have a copy to hand when we wafted in there, being old ‘Rough Guide’ hands ourselves, but LP deserves a standing ovation. This was a local artist whose handiwork was worth major hand clapping.
And so to Stoke this year and its history of pottery, whether hand thrown, hand produced or handily priced as a result of the Industrial Revolution and so many factory hands. Stoke was our hand-selected venue for our yearly emancipated handover to hedonism when our fellow hands from our joint voyage through the Uni of Embra get together to mutually clasp the memory of those happy days to our collective bosom.
Stoke won hands over fist when compared to past trips in one way. The last event this year was a Sunday evening finger buffet at the house of the sister of one of us. The house and contents were magnificent and had had a certain hand in the history of handcraft in the area. One of the former owners had carved her handwritten name into the glass of one of the kitchen windows.
To lend a hand to those who do not recognise the signature, her maiden name was ‘Cliff’.
Boadicea's Chariot 
Very handy to have such an extensive digital collection immediately to hand.
Great pics
I have some Clarice Cliff pieces which belonged to my mother. Unfortunately she gave away quite a few to the local Scout jumble sale, not realising that they had become collectors’ items. Grrr!