Monday, September 29, 2003
Ohhhhh
Just look at the colour of the cranberry bogs on Nantucket. I long to see the dawns and the sunsets. Only two more days till we go. The house is hung round with ironed clothes, the underpants and shoes are in the suitcases, maps all over the the floor. We are 'eating up' odd mixtures of food to get rid of them - omelette and sprouts, anyone?
Just look at the colour of the cranberry bogs on Nantucket. I long to see the dawns and the sunsets. Only two more days till we go. The house is hung round with ironed clothes, the underpants and shoes are in the suitcases, maps all over the the floor. We are 'eating up' odd mixtures of food to get rid of them - omelette and sprouts, anyone?
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Current writers in conversation
I'm sampling some of the fifty or so author interviews from the vast Powell's Books of Portland. Chunky entertainment here and lots of names I don't know and might like to.
I'm sampling some of the fifty or so author interviews from the vast Powell's Books of Portland. Chunky entertainment here and lots of names I don't know and might like to.
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Unrequited
I close my eyes and so recall your face,
Set up the scenery, a wild green place.
I live no day without your shadow cast
Across my life. I long for moments irrevocably past.
The pebble path, stones shining in the rain,
My hand touched yours and felt your hand remain.
Your eyes, sharp blue, suddenly turning,
Rake cinders of a fire that hardly started burning.
Hands and mouth, each sense aware,
Such sorrow now to know you sorrow not, nor care.
Not patience, subtlety, nor sadness serve to twist
Your quiet indifference. Once kissed
My love was given to a ghost. That day and now
And every coming hour. Oh, tell me how
To break this pain you made unwittingly, and be again
The girl I was before our long walk in the rain.
The awful thing about this undated piece of agony from the old red exercise book is that I honestly can?t remember who inspired it. Mr. Blue Eyes? Not a clue.
I close my eyes and so recall your face,
Set up the scenery, a wild green place.
I live no day without your shadow cast
Across my life. I long for moments irrevocably past.
The pebble path, stones shining in the rain,
My hand touched yours and felt your hand remain.
Your eyes, sharp blue, suddenly turning,
Rake cinders of a fire that hardly started burning.
Hands and mouth, each sense aware,
Such sorrow now to know you sorrow not, nor care.
Not patience, subtlety, nor sadness serve to twist
Your quiet indifference. Once kissed
My love was given to a ghost. That day and now
And every coming hour. Oh, tell me how
To break this pain you made unwittingly, and be again
The girl I was before our long walk in the rain.
The awful thing about this undated piece of agony from the old red exercise book is that I honestly can?t remember who inspired it. Mr. Blue Eyes? Not a clue.
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Saturday, September 27, 2003
Bravo, Mum
Reading this in a short story by Elizabeth Taylor about a butler: '...he was so snobbish that he even looked down on himself', caused me to reflect on the different mindsets of some of my family who were in service to aristocratic families.
My grandmother had to rise at five to lay fires in a great house at the age of eleven. My fifteen year old mother was sent off to be a lady's maid, my aunt into a famous legal family to look after children, my uncle to be a valet. Inevitable destinations really; my grandfather was stud groom on one of the grand Norfolk estates and these were the immediate opportunities that presented. But all of them could somehow always see clearly the inequities of their positions, as well as the advantages. Ambivalently, they disliked the snobbery and privilege while acquiring many of the refinements of the lifestyle they 'shared'.
Our ordinary family, poor, from an agricultural past, took on by osmosis an elegance of mind and manner. They all spoke clear, clean English and had gentle manners. Products of only ten years in a rough, rural village school, they could all write well. They were easy in company, and gracious in their ways. Later, they all performed well in their chosen lifestyles - rounded people.
Gran and Granfer stayed put for their lifetimes, sometimes bitter, sometimes wistful for the old days. My mother finally refused to pick up discarded underwear from the floor- "Oh really, do it yourself, Madam." And so off she went up to London to start her own dressmaking business. Handsome Jack soon tired of grooming someone else and went off to try to be a film star. My aunt, however, liking the life, travelled with her employers and found a good time. She had a sort of innate hauteur that made her respected, immune to servitude. She stayed until life drifted her off in other directions and always spoke of those days as a golden time,
So what is one to make of this? They were exploited, yes, undervalued, underpaid; they were part of that vanished social web that created magnificent lifestyles from the sweat of little people. Yet what that regime left in its wake were beautiful places that still remain and traces of its finer qualities in the people who lived under it.
Reading this in a short story by Elizabeth Taylor about a butler: '...he was so snobbish that he even looked down on himself', caused me to reflect on the different mindsets of some of my family who were in service to aristocratic families.
My grandmother had to rise at five to lay fires in a great house at the age of eleven. My fifteen year old mother was sent off to be a lady's maid, my aunt into a famous legal family to look after children, my uncle to be a valet. Inevitable destinations really; my grandfather was stud groom on one of the grand Norfolk estates and these were the immediate opportunities that presented. But all of them could somehow always see clearly the inequities of their positions, as well as the advantages. Ambivalently, they disliked the snobbery and privilege while acquiring many of the refinements of the lifestyle they 'shared'.
Our ordinary family, poor, from an agricultural past, took on by osmosis an elegance of mind and manner. They all spoke clear, clean English and had gentle manners. Products of only ten years in a rough, rural village school, they could all write well. They were easy in company, and gracious in their ways. Later, they all performed well in their chosen lifestyles - rounded people.
Gran and Granfer stayed put for their lifetimes, sometimes bitter, sometimes wistful for the old days. My mother finally refused to pick up discarded underwear from the floor- "Oh really, do it yourself, Madam." And so off she went up to London to start her own dressmaking business. Handsome Jack soon tired of grooming someone else and went off to try to be a film star. My aunt, however, liking the life, travelled with her employers and found a good time. She had a sort of innate hauteur that made her respected, immune to servitude. She stayed until life drifted her off in other directions and always spoke of those days as a golden time,
So what is one to make of this? They were exploited, yes, undervalued, underpaid; they were part of that vanished social web that created magnificent lifestyles from the sweat of little people. Yet what that regime left in its wake were beautiful places that still remain and traces of its finer qualities in the people who lived under it.
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Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Frisson
I'm certainly not mentioning this to Gordon! We go by sea - but fog, eh? Step forward St Christopher, duty calls.
Critical Mass
So why am I worrying if my bum looks big in my new jeans?
I'm certainly not mentioning this to Gordon! We go by sea - but fog, eh? Step forward St Christopher, duty calls.
Critical Mass
So why am I worrying if my bum looks big in my new jeans?
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No One's Home
Photographs from the Glencoe Mill Project
".........What I discovered there, to my surprise, were the rich and vibrant colors on well-worn plaster walls, so layered with bits and pieces of torn wallpaper and debris. These humble cottages were tiny jewels hiding behind their weathered exteriors. I loaded my Pentax 67 with color film and began making pictures of the interiors..... "
Debe Hale
Little harvest
The blackberry crop has been good this year, there are still enough left to make this lovely cobbler- perfumed with almonds. (River Cottage.net is excellent, old Hugh F-W has got his mind right.)
Bramley apples that were felled yesterday by high winds must be gathered before the deer get their teeth into them; there are several pots of applesauce and bags of slices for pies safely in the freezer. I like to make apple jelly with the last windfalls.
As usual, all the cob nuts have been pinched by the squirrels - I often dig them up in the flower beds later, not really begrudging them since they work so hard. At Pat's this week two greater spotted woodpeckers worked in tandem taking nuts from her bird table and poking them into a hole in the larch and behind loose bark on an old stump.
My bad pruning resulted in a huge crop of puny, unripe figs. I had dozens of naughty purple fruits last year, but only four this season. We had the last of the runner beans today and two succulent sweetcorns. I am hoping for puffballs - Jim brought a basket of them last year and I shook them a
Photographs from the Glencoe Mill Project
".........What I discovered there, to my surprise, were the rich and vibrant colors on well-worn plaster walls, so layered with bits and pieces of torn wallpaper and debris. These humble cottages were tiny jewels hiding behind their weathered exteriors. I loaded my Pentax 67 with color film and began making pictures of the interiors..... "
Debe Hale
Little harvest
The blackberry crop has been good this year, there are still enough left to make this lovely cobbler- perfumed with almonds. (River Cottage.net is excellent, old Hugh F-W has got his mind right.)
Bramley apples that were felled yesterday by high winds must be gathered before the deer get their teeth into them; there are several pots of applesauce and bags of slices for pies safely in the freezer. I like to make apple jelly with the last windfalls.
As usual, all the cob nuts have been pinched by the squirrels - I often dig them up in the flower beds later, not really begrudging them since they work so hard. At Pat's this week two greater spotted woodpeckers worked in tandem taking nuts from her bird table and poking them into a hole in the larch and behind loose bark on an old stump.
My bad pruning resulted in a huge crop of puny, unripe figs. I had dozens of naughty purple fruits last year, but only four this season. We had the last of the runner beans today and two succulent sweetcorns. I am hoping for puffballs - Jim brought a basket of them last year and I shook them a
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Monday, September 22, 2003
Joyful noise
Listen to REM's 'Bad Day' here
HoseAnna
A Google search for 'support stockings' (for the flight) turned up some incidental kinky sites. There are blokes out there who are hot for ageing rolypolys in white elastic hose. Blimey. I remember years ago finding a copy of Krafft-Ebbing in a library back-room and being gobsmacked to discover for the first time the vast diversity of fantasy lives. I was particularly taken with the one about being pelted with cream buns - an activity I could subscribe to I think! Even now, post Nancy Friday et al, one is puzzled by the roots of such odd desires.
Quiet - sometimes. Sweet - no chance
Quiet Girl
What kind of little girl were YOU?
brought to you by Quizilla
Listen to REM's 'Bad Day' here
HoseAnna
A Google search for 'support stockings' (for the flight) turned up some incidental kinky sites. There are blokes out there who are hot for ageing rolypolys in white elastic hose. Blimey. I remember years ago finding a copy of Krafft-Ebbing in a library back-room and being gobsmacked to discover for the first time the vast diversity of fantasy lives. I was particularly taken with the one about being pelted with cream buns - an activity I could subscribe to I think! Even now, post Nancy Friday et al, one is puzzled by the roots of such odd desires.
Quiet - sometimes. Sweet - no chance
Quiet Girl
What kind of little girl were YOU?
brought to you by Quizilla
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An unlikely hit
What would a fifteen year old boy like for his birthday? You'll not guess. This kid reads only the Argos catalogue. Growing things, nature, being in the air are what please him; always up early, impatient to get the tractor out on the land.
Tucking a fiver in as a sweetener, I wrapped up The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady and gave it to him with some trepidation a couple of weeks ago. Nothing was said until today.
"I liked that book."
"Good, have you actually read any of it, or just looked at the pictures?"
"No, I been reading. The drawings are fantastic. She was pretty good - I tried to copy the foxglove ones. I'm up to February in the writing, it's hard to read but it's really interesting. "
"I thought it might be too girly for you?"
"Yeah, I thought so, but I never seen anything like that before, the writing like, done in proper writing, and when you see what she says, there's a lot in there. We got a lot of that stuff round here, haven't we?"
"Yes, we have, especially the birds."
"The one of the nest's good, too and the one on the cover. My Nan read some of it, she wants to borrow it when I've finished."
"You know, we could make a diary, and do drawings and things of what we see?"
"Nnnn. I'm a bit busy. I got a giant Toblerone with the fiver."
What would a fifteen year old boy like for his birthday? You'll not guess. This kid reads only the Argos catalogue. Growing things, nature, being in the air are what please him; always up early, impatient to get the tractor out on the land.
Tucking a fiver in as a sweetener, I wrapped up The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady and gave it to him with some trepidation a couple of weeks ago. Nothing was said until today.
"I liked that book."
"Good, have you actually read any of it, or just looked at the pictures?"
"No, I been reading. The drawings are fantastic. She was pretty good - I tried to copy the foxglove ones. I'm up to February in the writing, it's hard to read but it's really interesting. "
"I thought it might be too girly for you?"
"Yeah, I thought so, but I never seen anything like that before, the writing like, done in proper writing, and when you see what she says, there's a lot in there. We got a lot of that stuff round here, haven't we?"
"Yes, we have, especially the birds."
"The one of the nest's good, too and the one on the cover. My Nan read some of it, she wants to borrow it when I've finished."
"You know, we could make a diary, and do drawings and things of what we see?"
"Nnnn. I'm a bit busy. I got a giant Toblerone with the fiver."
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Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Isabels
Will there be any leaves left when we arrive in Vermont on October 8? Isabel's blowing further south but there will be spin-off to adjacent states. A lot of rain is forecast, so with luck that will encourage the trees to hang on. Lap of the Gods.
Thank heaven we are not taking the ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket this week! I don't get sick in rough sea, but Gordon does.
Coincidentally, I have gone into a Bjork phase. Sean made me a compilation CD of her best tracks that I have been playing on a loop in the stilly night. Phrases stick; I was singing and weeding out dead poppy stalks and ripe fennel before it seeds a million. My vocal loop stuck on:
'In a forest pitch-dark
Glowed the tiniest spark
It burst into flame
Like me
Like me
My name Isabel
Married to myself
My love Isabel
Living by herself.'
Gordon, eating muesli and reading the paper at the picnic table, said "And I wish you were..." Why does nobody like my singing, it sounds OK to me?
Scalped
I have been growing my hair down and went contentedly to the hairdresser in Brandon for a cut and blow. "Don't take much off," I said "Just shape up the back and feather the sides. I'm going on holiday and don't want grey wings showing. Did she, hell? In spite of hissing "Stop right there," the sadistic beggar mowed my above ear region; l I look like a female Stewart Granger. May her scissors go blunt and may her tints go green. I have two weeks to grow.
Campari sky
Leaving the pub after dinner, the sunset made us head out to the fen into the exciting dusk; soft light lay across the fields, the hazy pink horizon trailing red and lemon in the west. The bowl of the fenland sky crowned us with freedom and space. The talkers fell quiet and breathed deeply.
Driving back through dusky villages, past brightly lit cottages, we trailed our arms through the silky rush of air and sang songs - old music hall songs all the way home;
'There was me and the missus
And our ?alf a dozen kids
And nothing in the bottle but the bung,
So to give the kids a treat
We took ?em down to Dooley Street
To show ?em where their Uncle Bert was hung.
Then Hampstead, Ealing, Shepherds Bush as well,
And up to Crystal Palace we wended our way.
We got dizzy on our pins,
And we lost one of the twins
But I?m glad we had a nice, bright day.'
Will there be any leaves left when we arrive in Vermont on October 8? Isabel's blowing further south but there will be spin-off to adjacent states. A lot of rain is forecast, so with luck that will encourage the trees to hang on. Lap of the Gods.
Thank heaven we are not taking the ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket this week! I don't get sick in rough sea, but Gordon does.
Coincidentally, I have gone into a Bjork phase. Sean made me a compilation CD of her best tracks that I have been playing on a loop in the stilly night. Phrases stick; I was singing and weeding out dead poppy stalks and ripe fennel before it seeds a million. My vocal loop stuck on:
'In a forest pitch-dark
Glowed the tiniest spark
It burst into flame
Like me
Like me
My name Isabel
Married to myself
My love Isabel
Living by herself.'
Gordon, eating muesli and reading the paper at the picnic table, said "And I wish you were..." Why does nobody like my singing, it sounds OK to me?
Scalped
I have been growing my hair down and went contentedly to the hairdresser in Brandon for a cut and blow. "Don't take much off," I said "Just shape up the back and feather the sides. I'm going on holiday and don't want grey wings showing. Did she, hell? In spite of hissing "Stop right there," the sadistic beggar mowed my above ear region; l I look like a female Stewart Granger. May her scissors go blunt and may her tints go green. I have two weeks to grow.
Campari sky
Leaving the pub after dinner, the sunset made us head out to the fen into the exciting dusk; soft light lay across the fields, the hazy pink horizon trailing red and lemon in the west. The bowl of the fenland sky crowned us with freedom and space. The talkers fell quiet and breathed deeply.
Driving back through dusky villages, past brightly lit cottages, we trailed our arms through the silky rush of air and sang songs - old music hall songs all the way home;
'There was me and the missus
And our ?alf a dozen kids
And nothing in the bottle but the bung,
So to give the kids a treat
We took ?em down to Dooley Street
To show ?em where their Uncle Bert was hung.
Then Hampstead, Ealing, Shepherds Bush as well,
And up to Crystal Palace we wended our way.
We got dizzy on our pins,
And we lost one of the twins
But I?m glad we had a nice, bright day.'
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Talking of tits...
- Mark found some nice ones. A spoof, of course, but a clever one.
- But I can't find any of these at all. In a fir tree close to the house we had willow tits and goldcrests for years. They have completely vanished from the garden, along with starlings, dunnocks and nightingales.
- I much dislike Gilbert and Sullivan - the lyrics especially. This 1962 Mikado pastiche must have been a real stinker! The terrible Michael Winner directed, Lionel Blair played Nanki-Poo, Frankie Howerd sang 'Tit Willow'- horrible. I had never heard of it, thank God I was out of the country at the time.
- Mark found some nice ones. A spoof, of course, but a clever one.
- But I can't find any of these at all. In a fir tree close to the house we had willow tits and goldcrests for years. They have completely vanished from the garden, along with starlings, dunnocks and nightingales.
- I much dislike Gilbert and Sullivan - the lyrics especially. This 1962 Mikado pastiche must have been a real stinker! The terrible Michael Winner directed, Lionel Blair played Nanki-Poo, Frankie Howerd sang 'Tit Willow'- horrible. I had never heard of it, thank God I was out of the country at the time.
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Well, have you heard of the Boxcar Children?
It's really not fair to reproach Madonna about her Enid Blyton blind spot. Chorion, who hold the US rights to Blyton are mostly into media merchandising and haven't really exploited the US market. What long-term impact Enid did have in the States peaked back in the seventies when she was on the list at Chicago Children?s Press. Michael Dirda, a senior Washington Post literary editor, wrote on 3 July 03:
?Blyton simply isn't very well known in America. She's really a very English phenomenon and not much of her work seems to have penetrated our consciousness. We had the Happy Hollisters and the Boxcar Children and the like instead. Not that she is totally unknown or anything, but nowhere like the figure she is in Britain and her former colonies.?
It's really not fair to reproach Madonna about her Enid Blyton blind spot. Chorion, who hold the US rights to Blyton are mostly into media merchandising and haven't really exploited the US market. What long-term impact Enid did have in the States peaked back in the seventies when she was on the list at Chicago Children?s Press. Michael Dirda, a senior Washington Post literary editor, wrote on 3 July 03:
?Blyton simply isn't very well known in America. She's really a very English phenomenon and not much of her work seems to have penetrated our consciousness. We had the Happy Hollisters and the Boxcar Children and the like instead. Not that she is totally unknown or anything, but nowhere like the figure she is in Britain and her former colonies.?
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Sunday, September 14, 2003
Australia last year exported 1.8 million sheep, worth $122 million, to Saudi Arabia....
If you are outraged by this cruelty and greed please take half an hour to email the contacts linked on this site.
If you are outraged by this cruelty and greed please take half an hour to email the contacts linked on this site.
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True story
Judith offered a gold-dust ticket for the musical "Hair" two weeks after its London opening. I didn't know her at all except for brief chats about her books. "Four of us are going, meet you outside the theatre."
She was Anglo-Indian, about my height - five ten, plus stilettos. In the foyer she introduced me to her friend and her husband, Charles who had a beautiful voice, longish dark hair and a black velvet suit. Charles was a dwarf.
A few minutes' conversation got him interested in something I said, so when the bell rang we moved into the auditorium. He took my arm, somehow tucked it through his and started down the aisle to the front stalls.
Before performances the "Hair" actors were dotted about the theatre to interact with the audience. We must have presented an irresistible opportunity. One beelined Charles and put a balloon on a string in his hand. Bastard!
You get the picture - tall lady bent sideways, small fellow with red balloon straining upwards. It looked like he might have taken off but for me. Amused glances turned on us from all around the theatre. We reached our row, Charles drifted the balloon down the aisle and bowed us into our seats.
I was only ever acquainted with one dwarf. Unforgettably.
Judith offered a gold-dust ticket for the musical "Hair" two weeks after its London opening. I didn't know her at all except for brief chats about her books. "Four of us are going, meet you outside the theatre."
She was Anglo-Indian, about my height - five ten, plus stilettos. In the foyer she introduced me to her friend and her husband, Charles who had a beautiful voice, longish dark hair and a black velvet suit. Charles was a dwarf.
A few minutes' conversation got him interested in something I said, so when the bell rang we moved into the auditorium. He took my arm, somehow tucked it through his and started down the aisle to the front stalls.
Before performances the "Hair" actors were dotted about the theatre to interact with the audience. We must have presented an irresistible opportunity. One beelined Charles and put a balloon on a string in his hand. Bastard!
You get the picture - tall lady bent sideways, small fellow with red balloon straining upwards. It looked like he might have taken off but for me. Amused glances turned on us from all around the theatre. We reached our row, Charles drifted the balloon down the aisle and bowed us into our seats.
I was only ever acquainted with one dwarf. Unforgettably.
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Friday, September 12, 2003
Chocolate box with some hard centres
A small picture on my wall of a grumpy girl in a blue apron by Mary Cassatt pleases me every day. A painter who could transmit the essence of a child, she sometimes preferred the stroppy to the sweet. Baby Bill looks doubtful about the future. Ellen Mary's portrait signals precisely what she will be like aged fifty. I shall certainly make a pilgrimage to see her in Boston next month.
A small picture on my wall of a grumpy girl in a blue apron by Mary Cassatt pleases me every day. A painter who could transmit the essence of a child, she sometimes preferred the stroppy to the sweet. Baby Bill looks doubtful about the future. Ellen Mary's portrait signals precisely what she will be like aged fifty. I shall certainly make a pilgrimage to see her in Boston next month.
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Not yet quite inured
Do I care if a kid perches his Coke can and half a sandwich on my reference desk while he asks a question? Do I mind my birthday dinner being wrecked by a petulant six year-old who dominates the neighbouring table for two hours unchecked? Was I shocked in the crowded Tube when a teenage boy, devouring his girlfriend, opened the front of her blouse and plunged in? Nah! I'm used to it all, you can't faze me. We mustn't be stuffy and censorious.
So why was I shocked today? At a funeral I watched the deceased's grandchildren sitting in front of me. One in a crop top, midriff bare, chewed gum all through the service. In the whole pew line of children not one joined in the hymns, attempted the Lord's prayer, nor knelt and rose at the appropriate times - they sat bored and chewing through their Gran's departure. My reaction convinced me that a raging old fogey lurks not far under my surface calm.
Do I care if a kid perches his Coke can and half a sandwich on my reference desk while he asks a question? Do I mind my birthday dinner being wrecked by a petulant six year-old who dominates the neighbouring table for two hours unchecked? Was I shocked in the crowded Tube when a teenage boy, devouring his girlfriend, opened the front of her blouse and plunged in? Nah! I'm used to it all, you can't faze me. We mustn't be stuffy and censorious.
So why was I shocked today? At a funeral I watched the deceased's grandchildren sitting in front of me. One in a crop top, midriff bare, chewed gum all through the service. In the whole pew line of children not one joined in the hymns, attempted the Lord's prayer, nor knelt and rose at the appropriate times - they sat bored and chewing through their Gran's departure. My reaction convinced me that a raging old fogey lurks not far under my surface calm.
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Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Two sorts of lunch
For Joyce's birthday today I cooked her favourite roast beef/roast vegetables and all the trimmings. Then drove to Welney Washes and walked along the dykes in spitting rain. From the hide we scanned the main lagoon where an elderly heron provided grisly entertainment; he had speared a huge eel in the shallows and took ten minutes to negotiate the end into his beak. The poor creature had a protracted, hideous end. Gordon muttered about the long trip from Sargasso Sea to heron gullet. Head up the bird gradually swallowed the body and pleated his neck to force the head down. He stood there legs braced wide apart for ages as the throat contractions went on. After half an hour, although his intestines must have been solid eel from end to end, he waded out and started fishing again.
For Joyce's birthday today I cooked her favourite roast beef/roast vegetables and all the trimmings. Then drove to Welney Washes and walked along the dykes in spitting rain. From the hide we scanned the main lagoon where an elderly heron provided grisly entertainment; he had speared a huge eel in the shallows and took ten minutes to negotiate the end into his beak. The poor creature had a protracted, hideous end. Gordon muttered about the long trip from Sargasso Sea to heron gullet. Head up the bird gradually swallowed the body and pleated his neck to force the head down. He stood there legs braced wide apart for ages as the throat contractions went on. After half an hour, although his intestines must have been solid eel from end to end, he waded out and started fishing again.
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Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Another "Bit of Life"
A memory of a year au pair in Haute Savoie. Not much 'ooh la la' about in 1961.
A memory of a year au pair in Haute Savoie. Not much 'ooh la la' about in 1961.
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Monday, September 08, 2003
At a bit of do in the village
"Hello, Anna, thass a nice afternoon."
"Yes, Mrs. B, a blooming good turn out. How are you keeping?"
"Well thass my blasted owd leg. Thass hulcerated. I'm stuck at hoom till that heals."
"Can I get you another glass of wine?"
"Don't mind if I do, kind on you. And one of them ayclares, I had two on em already."
"Here you are, Mrs. B., I got you sparkling. We've just had a good laugh over there."
"Mmm nice. What's goin orf then?"
"Well, see the poles holding up the marquee? Old Audra and Pammie say they're going to do a pole dance later, Bob says he'll pay to see their drawers.
"Pole dance. Oh. Mmm. Yes. We had a lot o' Poles round here in the wartime. Real gentlemen, used to bow to yer. They used to go the village dances. A lot of 'em stayed after the war. Mmm, I liked the Poles."
"Hello, Anna, thass a nice afternoon."
"Yes, Mrs. B, a blooming good turn out. How are you keeping?"
"Well thass my blasted owd leg. Thass hulcerated. I'm stuck at hoom till that heals."
"Can I get you another glass of wine?"
"Don't mind if I do, kind on you. And one of them ayclares, I had two on em already."
"Here you are, Mrs. B., I got you sparkling. We've just had a good laugh over there."
"Mmm nice. What's goin orf then?"
"Well, see the poles holding up the marquee? Old Audra and Pammie say they're going to do a pole dance later, Bob says he'll pay to see their drawers.
"Pole dance. Oh. Mmm. Yes. We had a lot o' Poles round here in the wartime. Real gentlemen, used to bow to yer. They used to go the village dances. A lot of 'em stayed after the war. Mmm, I liked the Poles."
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Saturday, September 06, 2003
Oh give me strength!
I'd like to stick pins into Nancy Pearl
Streatham Cemetery
This photographic essay teeters on the edge of kitsch, but the fine photographs lift it away. There's a soundtrack that adds to the atmosphere. I find that I have become addicted to this site, especially the winter group - I must have clicked through it a dozen times now, and the images haunt me.
The last summer BBQ
Have just walked back at 11'ish from a neighbour's party, leaving the coloured lights, chatter and music behind the hedges. Summer's waning and our breath made steam in the cold air. Mars shone out brightly in the South Western sky. It had been a good evening, people getting progressively mellow and conversational. An unpromising little man turned out to have a job in art restoration, a shaven-headed Scot holding a bottle went on flights of Billy Connolly fantasy. A mild woman in very high heels, a police administrator had tales of Tony Martin seen from inside the investigation. M had just come back with her daughter from the Burghley Horse Trials, bone weary with six horses still to put to bed.
The delicious food included a "Black Forest Trifle" - so easy to make; chocolate chip muffins, black cherry pie filling, scatter of liqueur, sandwich with equal parts cream and mascarpone whipped together, chocolate flake crumbled on top.
I'd like to stick pins into Nancy Pearl
Streatham Cemetery
This photographic essay teeters on the edge of kitsch, but the fine photographs lift it away. There's a soundtrack that adds to the atmosphere. I find that I have become addicted to this site, especially the winter group - I must have clicked through it a dozen times now, and the images haunt me.
The last summer BBQ
Have just walked back at 11'ish from a neighbour's party, leaving the coloured lights, chatter and music behind the hedges. Summer's waning and our breath made steam in the cold air. Mars shone out brightly in the South Western sky. It had been a good evening, people getting progressively mellow and conversational. An unpromising little man turned out to have a job in art restoration, a shaven-headed Scot holding a bottle went on flights of Billy Connolly fantasy. A mild woman in very high heels, a police administrator had tales of Tony Martin seen from inside the investigation. M had just come back with her daughter from the Burghley Horse Trials, bone weary with six horses still to put to bed.
The delicious food included a "Black Forest Trifle" - so easy to make; chocolate chip muffins, black cherry pie filling, scatter of liqueur, sandwich with equal parts cream and mascarpone whipped together, chocolate flake crumbled on top.
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Thursday, September 04, 2003
Are you a pukka Brit?
I scored 7/10, so I guess I qualify. You can take the test here. I feel ambivalent about the imposition of such questions on new arrivals. A bit of bonding with the receiving culture is a good thing but this wheeze smacks too much of the classroom.
I scored 7/10, so I guess I qualify. You can take the test here. I feel ambivalent about the imposition of such questions on new arrivals. A bit of bonding with the receiving culture is a good thing but this wheeze smacks too much of the classroom.
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Copied a while ago, provenance lost
Mans-
laughter
not-
iced
the-
rapist
to-
wed
ex-
porter
the leg-
end of King Arthur's table
gene-
ration
one of the male-
factors
no-
table
Mans-
laughter
not-
iced
the-
rapist
to-
wed
ex-
porter
the leg-
end of King Arthur's table
gene-
ration
one of the male-
factors
no-
table
| Permanent link
Monday, September 01, 2003
Three to view
► Make over the Mona Lisa. Ghastly, but fun(and obviously besieged after a Yahoo tip-off).
► The Indian Parliament page - my idea of the right way to expose a mass of information.
► Luciferous Logolepsy - browsing heaven if you have a penchant for obscure words. I love sardanapalian (luxuriously effeminate); galeanthropy(the delusion that one has become a cat); and the very useful hamartithia (mistake prone).
► Make over the Mona Lisa. Ghastly, but fun(and obviously besieged after a Yahoo tip-off).
► The Indian Parliament page - my idea of the right way to expose a mass of information.
► Luciferous Logolepsy - browsing heaven if you have a penchant for obscure words. I love sardanapalian (luxuriously effeminate); galeanthropy(the delusion that one has become a cat); and the very useful hamartithia (mistake prone).