Saturday, April 26, 2003
Oh the cuckoo she's a pretty bird....
She singeth as she flies
She bringeth good tidings
She telleth no lies
She sucketh white flowers
For to keep her voice clear
And the more she singeth 'cuckoo'
The summer draweth near. (Trad.)
I heard her for the first time this morning and felt pleased that the annual ritual is safely done. To be perfectly honest it would be OK with me if she would now put a sock in it. She is bang on on her time of arrival target
She singeth as she flies
She bringeth good tidings
She telleth no lies
She sucketh white flowers
For to keep her voice clear
And the more she singeth 'cuckoo'
The summer draweth near. (Trad.)
I heard her for the first time this morning and felt pleased that the annual ritual is safely done. To be perfectly honest it would be OK with me if she would now put a sock in it. She is bang on on her time of arrival target
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Tuesday, April 22, 2003
One to watch
A new blog - British eccentricity lives! Steve's public statement of his dress preference stands in a direct line to the bravery of dear old Quentin Crisp.
(On a (somewhat) related theme, doesn't Eddie look a treat!)
Nina
God, I'm sad that she's gone. A unique voice, a huge musical talent. A life of seventy amazing years. In my twenties I wore out her vinyl albums - played over and over to extinction. I heard "Strange Fruit" a short while ago on the radio and it brought tears. Such power she had to move the heart.
A new blog - British eccentricity lives! Steve's public statement of his dress preference stands in a direct line to the bravery of dear old Quentin Crisp.
(On a (somewhat) related theme, doesn't Eddie look a treat!)
Nina
God, I'm sad that she's gone. A unique voice, a huge musical talent. A life of seventy amazing years. In my twenties I wore out her vinyl albums - played over and over to extinction. I heard "Strange Fruit" a short while ago on the radio and it brought tears. Such power she had to move the heart.
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Saturday, April 19, 2003
Me, me, me, me - doh!
I have at last got round to producing a basic element of blogging etiquette - the self-profile. You will find my very hammy effort in the left hand column.
Weekly date
Courtney Pine is starting a new series of Jazz Crusade Radio 2, Mondays 9 p.m. I wish I knew someone round here who really liked modern jazz; Courtney is playing a summer concert in the forest and no-one wants to come. Well they would if it didn't cost and arm and a leg; it's a bit much to ask of someone who is tepid about the sound. We were asked to go to the Jools Holland evening, but I wouldn't cough up £28 for the privilege. Whatever turns you on.
Russell Hoban
As if I needed it with the name of this weblog as a daily reminder, I was steered back to one of my most beloved writers today. Radio 4 broadcast a dramatisation of his "Turtle Diary", and very well done it was too. It resisted the too easy climactic build up to the release of the zoo turtles into the sea, cutting from mundane conversation to the event without change of pace.
I got the book down from the shelf and read it again this evening. He is a total original in his use of English, full of ideas, wryness and humour. Every child should be given a copy of "The Mouse and His Child", one of the most untrumpeted of modern children's classics. I haven't read his latest novel "The Bat Tattoo" and must remember to reserve it on the library van next Monday.
I have at last got round to producing a basic element of blogging etiquette - the self-profile. You will find my very hammy effort in the left hand column.
Weekly date
Courtney Pine is starting a new series of Jazz Crusade Radio 2, Mondays 9 p.m. I wish I knew someone round here who really liked modern jazz; Courtney is playing a summer concert in the forest and no-one wants to come. Well they would if it didn't cost and arm and a leg; it's a bit much to ask of someone who is tepid about the sound. We were asked to go to the Jools Holland evening, but I wouldn't cough up £28 for the privilege. Whatever turns you on.
Russell Hoban
As if I needed it with the name of this weblog as a daily reminder, I was steered back to one of my most beloved writers today. Radio 4 broadcast a dramatisation of his "Turtle Diary", and very well done it was too. It resisted the too easy climactic build up to the release of the zoo turtles into the sea, cutting from mundane conversation to the event without change of pace.
I got the book down from the shelf and read it again this evening. He is a total original in his use of English, full of ideas, wryness and humour. Every child should be given a copy of "The Mouse and His Child", one of the most untrumpeted of modern children's classics. I haven't read his latest novel "The Bat Tattoo" and must remember to reserve it on the library van next Monday.
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Tuesday, April 15, 2003
I'm not a lumberjack, and I'm OK
Wednesday morning 10 am. I walked over to the fence towards the yellow mechanical digger working next door. In two hours it had cleared half an acre of scrub and was now paused by my treeline. Treeline being the operative word for we are talking about twenty beautiful, twisted Scots pines which match up with a line of 49 on the Southern boundary. I would protect them with my life. They are already catalogued and photographed by the Tree Protection Officer, so I have backup.
A young boy got off the digger, slim, smiling, about fifteen - the son of our neighbour.
"Cor, it's hot, I got up at 5.30, but Dad wouldn't let me start work because of the noise. I'm getting on now though."
We chatted about brambles and leaf mould, old tin sheds and asbestos to dispose of. Oh, and of a well found under the undergrowth which would be great for watering the horses if it's still sweet. I said how I loved my trees. "Me. too", he said. And then - " Dad says I can make a wildflower meadow down the bottom. When we get this clear, I'm going to plough it and sow it, it will be lovely."
A friendly boy. A boy who likes flowers and trees. Praise the Lord.
Sisyphus
Had a strange dream (post chocolate). I was using the Rosetta Stone to stamp patterns on long rolls of wallpaper. It had a handle on its back & I kept pressing it on a giant red inkpad and then making the impression with the heavy lump of stone. It went on and on for miles. How very strange! Could it have something to do with the following?
Three days of heavy gardening
Every damned thing in this three acres needs attention. I tear around like a blue-arsed fly starting jobs, then being diverted by the sight of some other priority task. At any time I have about eight things on the go. I have to calm myself down by realising that I'm now retired, I have all the time in the world. Today I treated 7 pot-bound shrubs to new compost, cut grass for two hours, patched a big hole in the lawns, rubbed down the picnic table, started cutting down dead reeds & foliage along the stream bank. Got a bonfire going, picked up three barrowloads of fallen branches. My nails are gone, I have bites, blisters, aching wrists and a bad knee and I have enjoyed it all.
It was hot out there, so I sat down on the back seat with a cup of tea and gazed at what I had done. A brilliant blue head appeared through the tufts of old white grass, then a long shape glided over to the stream bank. It was the wild peacock; he is an escapee from a farm a few miles up the road & has been living rough around the woods and gardens for a year or more. We hear his harsh cry often. He certainly looked unsuitably exotic as he picked and pecked his way through the primroses to the bridge.
Change
We have news of the sale of the land adjacent to our plot; the dear lady who owned it has gone to live with her daughter. She was a little old roly poly Norfolk gal who lived in a bricked-round railway carriage. She seemed tightly pressed in the tiny house by an army of ornaments, piles of magazines and banks of utility style furniture. I went in one winter morning to find her at breakfast - blue cloth on the table, wedged on an old nursing chair, she was tucking in to an enamel mug of bronze tea, sausage, bacon, egg, fried bread and a big pile of bread & butter. The little open fire was blazing & sparking; there she sat, chewing, humming under her breath and and reading the Daily Mirror. A happy little party. I am sad to lose her, another of the old characters gone.
The land has been bought by neighbours one plot over who keep (deal in) horses. They manage their land very well. They came over to reassure and tell us that they are starting to clear a way through to the forest for the horses. The diggers went in today. I weep to see the beloved, messy wildness going, the straggly broom cleared, old willows being grubbed out. For twenty years this has been the cover for a million small mammals, for the nightingales, the pheasants, the deer. It will be tamed and tidied and fenced and civilized, and I am devastated at the loss of it. But I know that it is a good outcome - some stinking developer might have got his hands on it - this way it will be kept green and free and later the creatures will drift back as the edges blur. Only, I am trying hard not to look as it happens.
Wednesday morning 10 am. I walked over to the fence towards the yellow mechanical digger working next door. In two hours it had cleared half an acre of scrub and was now paused by my treeline. Treeline being the operative word for we are talking about twenty beautiful, twisted Scots pines which match up with a line of 49 on the Southern boundary. I would protect them with my life. They are already catalogued and photographed by the Tree Protection Officer, so I have backup.
A young boy got off the digger, slim, smiling, about fifteen - the son of our neighbour.
"Cor, it's hot, I got up at 5.30, but Dad wouldn't let me start work because of the noise. I'm getting on now though."
We chatted about brambles and leaf mould, old tin sheds and asbestos to dispose of. Oh, and of a well found under the undergrowth which would be great for watering the horses if it's still sweet. I said how I loved my trees. "Me. too", he said. And then - " Dad says I can make a wildflower meadow down the bottom. When we get this clear, I'm going to plough it and sow it, it will be lovely."
A friendly boy. A boy who likes flowers and trees. Praise the Lord.
Sisyphus
Had a strange dream (post chocolate). I was using the Rosetta Stone to stamp patterns on long rolls of wallpaper. It had a handle on its back & I kept pressing it on a giant red inkpad and then making the impression with the heavy lump of stone. It went on and on for miles. How very strange! Could it have something to do with the following?
Three days of heavy gardening
Every damned thing in this three acres needs attention. I tear around like a blue-arsed fly starting jobs, then being diverted by the sight of some other priority task. At any time I have about eight things on the go. I have to calm myself down by realising that I'm now retired, I have all the time in the world. Today I treated 7 pot-bound shrubs to new compost, cut grass for two hours, patched a big hole in the lawns, rubbed down the picnic table, started cutting down dead reeds & foliage along the stream bank. Got a bonfire going, picked up three barrowloads of fallen branches. My nails are gone, I have bites, blisters, aching wrists and a bad knee and I have enjoyed it all.
It was hot out there, so I sat down on the back seat with a cup of tea and gazed at what I had done. A brilliant blue head appeared through the tufts of old white grass, then a long shape glided over to the stream bank. It was the wild peacock; he is an escapee from a farm a few miles up the road & has been living rough around the woods and gardens for a year or more. We hear his harsh cry often. He certainly looked unsuitably exotic as he picked and pecked his way through the primroses to the bridge.
Change
We have news of the sale of the land adjacent to our plot; the dear lady who owned it has gone to live with her daughter. She was a little old roly poly Norfolk gal who lived in a bricked-round railway carriage. She seemed tightly pressed in the tiny house by an army of ornaments, piles of magazines and banks of utility style furniture. I went in one winter morning to find her at breakfast - blue cloth on the table, wedged on an old nursing chair, she was tucking in to an enamel mug of bronze tea, sausage, bacon, egg, fried bread and a big pile of bread & butter. The little open fire was blazing & sparking; there she sat, chewing, humming under her breath and and reading the Daily Mirror. A happy little party. I am sad to lose her, another of the old characters gone.
The land has been bought by neighbours one plot over who keep (deal in) horses. They manage their land very well. They came over to reassure and tell us that they are starting to clear a way through to the forest for the horses. The diggers went in today. I weep to see the beloved, messy wildness going, the straggly broom cleared, old willows being grubbed out. For twenty years this has been the cover for a million small mammals, for the nightingales, the pheasants, the deer. It will be tamed and tidied and fenced and civilized, and I am devastated at the loss of it. But I know that it is a good outcome - some stinking developer might have got his hands on it - this way it will be kept green and free and later the creatures will drift back as the edges blur. Only, I am trying hard not to look as it happens.
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Friday, April 11, 2003
'A great man's memory may, at the common rate, survive him half a year.'
But not William Hazlitt, who was remembered in Soho this week 170 years after his death.
My English teacher was passionate for Hazlitt -" There's gold in those long paragraphs, press on". I have always liked essays, compact things, well-formed and concentrated. After Charles Lamb, I think Hazlitt gave me the most, but it's ages since I took them down from the shelf.
The Fear of Death is one that I have looked up again and found very powerful.
The words on his monument are a great testimony:
A despiser of the merely Rich And Great:
A lover of the People, poor or oppressed:
A hater of the Pride and Power of the Few,
As opposed to the happiness of the Many;
A man of true moral courage,
Who sacrificed Profit and present Fame
To Principle,
And a yearning for the good of Human Nature.
Who was a burning wound to an Aristocracy,
That could not answer him before men,
And who may confront him before their maker.
He lived and died
The unconquered champion
Of
Truth, Liberty, and Humanity.
But not William Hazlitt, who was remembered in Soho this week 170 years after his death.
My English teacher was passionate for Hazlitt -" There's gold in those long paragraphs, press on". I have always liked essays, compact things, well-formed and concentrated. After Charles Lamb, I think Hazlitt gave me the most, but it's ages since I took them down from the shelf.
The Fear of Death is one that I have looked up again and found very powerful.
The words on his monument are a great testimony:
A despiser of the merely Rich And Great:
A lover of the People, poor or oppressed:
A hater of the Pride and Power of the Few,
As opposed to the happiness of the Many;
A man of true moral courage,
Who sacrificed Profit and present Fame
To Principle,
And a yearning for the good of Human Nature.
Who was a burning wound to an Aristocracy,
That could not answer him before men,
And who may confront him before their maker.
He lived and died
The unconquered champion
Of
Truth, Liberty, and Humanity.
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Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Borne back to Breckland
I found a slim book of verse in the Brazen Head Bookshop at Burnham Market this morning - three quid well spent. Breckland Poems by Peggy Adams. 1968. I know nothing about her, but she could certainly catch the spirit of place all right. This leapt out of the page:
'Dark is not dark, although men think it so.
Imprisoned by harsh walls of light
They do not see the subtle shadows flow
Through glimmering pools
Before birds chorus into day.
They do not know
That under feathered clouds,
Dark moths of night
The trees glide forward,
Soft as lovers' touch.
The milky way
Now lies at foot,
And dusky bracken shrouds
The innocent world of sleep....
How much they miss
Who fear the gentle dark.'
I found a slim book of verse in the Brazen Head Bookshop at Burnham Market this morning - three quid well spent. Breckland Poems by Peggy Adams. 1968. I know nothing about her, but she could certainly catch the spirit of place all right. This leapt out of the page:
'Dark is not dark, although men think it so.
Imprisoned by harsh walls of light
They do not see the subtle shadows flow
Through glimmering pools
Before birds chorus into day.
They do not know
That under feathered clouds,
Dark moths of night
The trees glide forward,
Soft as lovers' touch.
The milky way
Now lies at foot,
And dusky bracken shrouds
The innocent world of sleep....
How much they miss
Who fear the gentle dark.'
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Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Small Nell
What a powerful adjective little is ? the ultimate diminutive for pulling the emotions. Substitute small, short or young and the instant softening is lost. The rather more twee tiny comes in poor second - Tiny Tim's Ok, but it's the alliteration that works..
- 'our little life is rounded with a sleep'
- Little man, you?ve had a busy day.?
- Good morning, Little Piglet?, said Eeyore
- The Little Prince
- Suffer the little children
- Dirty little secret
- Little Hitler
- 'Why should anyone want to hurt my little heart, my feet, my little hands?? (Kerouac)
What a powerful adjective little is ? the ultimate diminutive for pulling the emotions. Substitute small, short or young and the instant softening is lost. The rather more twee tiny comes in poor second - Tiny Tim's Ok, but it's the alliteration that works..
- 'our little life is rounded with a sleep'
- Little man, you?ve had a busy day.?
- Good morning, Little Piglet?, said Eeyore
- The Little Prince
- Suffer the little children
- Dirty little secret
- Little Hitler
- 'Why should anyone want to hurt my little heart, my feet, my little hands?? (Kerouac)
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Friday, April 04, 2003
Imprinted
I guess that most peripatetic Londoners could draw a passable map of the central bit of the Underground from memory and it would, of course, be based Harry Beck's 1930's design. Its concept is mnemonic anyway. But as this snazzy presentation shows, it twists the topography quite a bit.
I guess that most peripatetic Londoners could draw a passable map of the central bit of the Underground from memory and it would, of course, be based Harry Beck's 1930's design. Its concept is mnemonic anyway. But as this snazzy presentation shows, it twists the topography quite a bit.
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Thursday, April 03, 2003
Maquillage
I used to smile at poor old girls,
Their oddly-pencilled brows
And orange folds
Where powder lay in streaks.
?How grim?, I?d think.
Twin dabs of rouge in Cartland pink
Unblended on the wrinkled cheeks.
I put my glasses on today
And mirror-checked (thank God) before I left;
I saw a floury nose - too pale a dust,
A streak of tint on chin and just
A smudge of something black, an ill-placed line.
Blur-eyed oblivion has arrived,
I?d thought I looked just fine
Cadeaux
Prince Charles should perhaps follow Le President's example?
Being boring
The dullest blog in the world puts me in mind of Peter Cook's E.L. Wisty, that consummate purveyor of trivia. Do you remember his diary piece, approximately rendered here?
"This dairy (sic) is unbelievably boring. Listen to this. Monday. Got up, went for a walk, came home, went to the lavatory, went to bed. Then - Friday. Got up, went for a walk, came home, went to bed. I didn't even go to the lavatory. So-oo boring."
By the way, I note that today the dullest blog reminded "new things" of "Diary of a Nobody". I have nearly worn out a taped version of this wonderful book, read by the deliciously apt Arthur Lowe.
I used to smile at poor old girls,
Their oddly-pencilled brows
And orange folds
Where powder lay in streaks.
?How grim?, I?d think.
Twin dabs of rouge in Cartland pink
Unblended on the wrinkled cheeks.
I put my glasses on today
And mirror-checked (thank God) before I left;
I saw a floury nose - too pale a dust,
A streak of tint on chin and just
A smudge of something black, an ill-placed line.
Blur-eyed oblivion has arrived,
I?d thought I looked just fine
Cadeaux
Prince Charles should perhaps follow Le President's example?
Being boring
The dullest blog in the world puts me in mind of Peter Cook's E.L. Wisty, that consummate purveyor of trivia. Do you remember his diary piece, approximately rendered here?
"This dairy (sic) is unbelievably boring. Listen to this. Monday. Got up, went for a walk, came home, went to the lavatory, went to bed. Then - Friday. Got up, went for a walk, came home, went to bed. I didn't even go to the lavatory. So-oo boring."
By the way, I note that today the dullest blog reminded "new things" of "Diary of a Nobody". I have nearly worn out a taped version of this wonderful book, read by the deliciously apt Arthur Lowe.
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Tuesday, April 01, 2003
Orspitality
I have been entertaining Carol, my library friend from Port Townsend, Washington here this week on a brief visit to her old English haunts. She has a deep attachment to England and her American friends contributed their air miles to enable her therapeutic trip. Her face showed a little of her troubles; two years married to the great love of her life, she lost him to a sudden heart attack last year. I never got to meet Patrick, but she talked freely about him and the cruelty of separation was tangible.
We had a packed day in Norwich, hoofing it around the sights of the city, including a tour of the Forum. The city was buzzing on a Saturday morning ? the great warren of the market vibrant with chatter & delicious cooking smells. In the central square vanloads of police arrived to monitor a peace protest and coincidentally, a convention of rather grizzled old Hells Angels who had piled a big snarl of bikes close by St Peter Mancroft.
Wandering through Tombland, we found book bargains and some good coffee, winding up at the Cathedral. Our luck was in as a visiting choir was rehearsing for evensong; the thread of their singing followed us around, even to the cloister where we got stiff necks looking at the fantastic roof bosses.
In the evening, the Marquis de Bungalow (Jim) made up a foursome for a good meal at the Red Lion in a neighbouring village of Hockwold ? quite the best nosh around these parts. The conversation flowed easily and we stretched it out quite late. Sunday evening I felt reluctant to hug her goodbye on the quiet Suffolk village street at Ixworth, we had only just got started again and I will miss her.
The bridge at Nasiriya
This affecting article is worth reading, underlining the brutalising effects of trauma on ordinary, decent men.
I have been entertaining Carol, my library friend from Port Townsend, Washington here this week on a brief visit to her old English haunts. She has a deep attachment to England and her American friends contributed their air miles to enable her therapeutic trip. Her face showed a little of her troubles; two years married to the great love of her life, she lost him to a sudden heart attack last year. I never got to meet Patrick, but she talked freely about him and the cruelty of separation was tangible.
We had a packed day in Norwich, hoofing it around the sights of the city, including a tour of the Forum. The city was buzzing on a Saturday morning ? the great warren of the market vibrant with chatter & delicious cooking smells. In the central square vanloads of police arrived to monitor a peace protest and coincidentally, a convention of rather grizzled old Hells Angels who had piled a big snarl of bikes close by St Peter Mancroft.
Wandering through Tombland, we found book bargains and some good coffee, winding up at the Cathedral. Our luck was in as a visiting choir was rehearsing for evensong; the thread of their singing followed us around, even to the cloister where we got stiff necks looking at the fantastic roof bosses.
In the evening, the Marquis de Bungalow (Jim) made up a foursome for a good meal at the Red Lion in a neighbouring village of Hockwold ? quite the best nosh around these parts. The conversation flowed easily and we stretched it out quite late. Sunday evening I felt reluctant to hug her goodbye on the quiet Suffolk village street at Ixworth, we had only just got started again and I will miss her.
The bridge at Nasiriya
This affecting article is worth reading, underlining the brutalising effects of trauma on ordinary, decent men.