Anna Chinn's blog

The dismantling of a home continues. A website where you can list stuff you are giving away has made it easy for me to dispel plenty without even leaving the wadding of my futon, on which I am now sleeping having given away the bed.

The Sanyo Telecolor showed me my earliest telly visions.

Your blogger has been grumpy in recent weeks, no denying it. Easily irritated, quick to cantanker: good for nobody's company but my own.

So, in the public gallery of a courtroom, a woman breast-feeds her baby.

"$10.80," I said to my Nana, the everynana. "What do you think of that for a minimum wage?"

The green expanse of the Edgar Centre floor is an artificial turf, meant to stimulate, somewhere in the brain, memories of lawn. Lawn, in real life so often spring-loaded with daffodils. Therefore it was apt to hold the World Daffodil Convention at this vast nylon-scented indoor sports venue.

"Oh all right," I said to subeditor Peter, who had been insisting I inspect the bag of books at the bottom of my garden.

From its packet in the pantry, I unsheathed a dried spaghetti stick. Ran my finger along it: good, a worthy if brittle baton.

A beauty routine: yes, I do have one.

In the incessant rain, my favourite 75-year-old came to visit. I think of her as my spiritual grandmother. A child of the Great Depression, she knows the dying arts of frugality such as preserving, baking, knitting, sewing and other forms of stitching. A helpless child of the roaring 1980s, I dabble in some of those arts by reading how-to pages online sometimes.