Wednesday, June 30, 2004
I've been done
'Sir George Young, Conservative MP for NW Hants, and Derek Wyatt, Labour MP for Sittingbourne & Sheppey, are launching a debate in Parliament on Tuesday about premium rate scams. The MPs will also be focusing their attention on "rogue diallers" which connect computers to expensive phone numbers.
"We both have constituents who have been billed for calls they have never made, because a virus has been installed on their computer which dials a premium rate number," said the MPs in a joint statement.' (Read more)
My phone bill came in today and included £40 worth of premium rate calls that we had never dialled. It's a spin-off from the virus that took out my PC. BT say we must pay up. There is a lot of it about in Norfolk and I suppose it could have been worse. Checking at ICSTIS has established that the company that did it operates in Mallorca, I could chase them for a refund, but just imagine how far I'd would get with that idea! They are under investigation by ICSTIS already, so I have left a complaint there.
What I have done is to avoid future problems by getting BT to install premium rate barring on my line (£1.75 a month). I'm posting this as a warning about these ghastly scams
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Kim
Today I attended the funeral of an almost friend, a lovely woman who has died aged fifty of a rare condition, amyloidosis. She had a Humanist ceremony which was so moving and sincere that everyone in the crowded chapel wept; the testament of her husband, full of love and respect, was almost unbearable. This piece by Tagore was read at the end:
Today I attended the funeral of an almost friend, a lovely woman who has died aged fifty of a rare condition, amyloidosis. She had a Humanist ceremony which was so moving and sincere that everyone in the crowded chapel wept; the testament of her husband, full of love and respect, was almost unbearable. This piece by Tagore was read at the end:
Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
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Monday, June 28, 2004
"Thou shalt have no other gods before me."
Does a vacuum cleaner count as a graven image?
St Edmundsbury Cathedral
Services
3.30 pm. CHORAL EVENSONG (BCP)
Responses Sumsion
Psalm 147
Canticles Harris in G
Readings Genesis 1.1-2.3, Matthew 6.25-34
Anthem I will worship Dyson
Hymns 396, 466
Does a vacuum cleaner count as a graven image?
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Whiteout
I'm just about to move on to the next phase of home improvement - saying goodbye to my totally eau de nil coloured fifties bathroom. All original fittings in place, but now tired and too unyeildingly green.
Sanitary-ware catalogues are spread about and plumbers with big ideas take measurements. It is to become a white space, I think, continuing the process of simplification of this house.
It certainly will not resemble this unbelievable decor. Nor am I tempted to adopt any other interiors from this celebration of the seventies.
(via Things Magazine)
I'm just about to move on to the next phase of home improvement - saying goodbye to my totally eau de nil coloured fifties bathroom. All original fittings in place, but now tired and too unyeildingly green.
Sanitary-ware catalogues are spread about and plumbers with big ideas take measurements. It is to become a white space, I think, continuing the process of simplification of this house.
It certainly will not resemble this unbelievable decor. Nor am I tempted to adopt any other interiors from this celebration of the seventies.
(via Things Magazine)
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Friday, June 25, 2004
Buon compleanno
Michelangelo's 'David' is about to have his 500th birthday. The statue has popped up a few times in my life. It is a stunning piece of work; to stand beneath it is first to wonder how he achieved its sheer size, and then to marvel at the strength of the rendering of form. I've paid my dues in awe and admiration at Florence.
But David has also brought me a couple of laughs too. Working in an American library down in the South I was on the evening shift when I took a call on the social sciences desk. This is an honest to God enquiry. A lady said she was keen to win a bet made with her friend but was a bit embarrassed to ask me to help. "Go ahead," I said "Nothing bothers me at all." "Well, she thinks that Michelangelo's 'David' was circumcised and I am sure he was not, could you check it out?"
And here is an anecdote about a more visual involvement with the statue that came much later on when another David tried to wind me up. No wonder that I feel a great affection for the sculpture.
Michelangelo's 'David' is about to have his 500th birthday. The statue has popped up a few times in my life. It is a stunning piece of work; to stand beneath it is first to wonder how he achieved its sheer size, and then to marvel at the strength of the rendering of form. I've paid my dues in awe and admiration at Florence.
But David has also brought me a couple of laughs too. Working in an American library down in the South I was on the evening shift when I took a call on the social sciences desk. This is an honest to God enquiry. A lady said she was keen to win a bet made with her friend but was a bit embarrassed to ask me to help. "Go ahead," I said "Nothing bothers me at all." "Well, she thinks that Michelangelo's 'David' was circumcised and I am sure he was not, could you check it out?"
And here is an anecdote about a more visual involvement with the statue that came much later on when another David tried to wind me up. No wonder that I feel a great affection for the sculpture.
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Letter to KFC from a gentle man
Dear Mr. Novak,
On behalf of my friends at People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), I am writing to ask that KFC abandon its plan to open restaurants in Tibet, because your corporation?s support for cruelty and mass slaughter violate Tibetan value.
I have been particularly concerned with the sufferings of chickens for many years. It was the death of a chicken that finally strengthened my resolve to become vegetarian. In 1965, I was staying at a Government Guest House in south India. My room looked directly on to the kitchens opposite. One day I chanced to see the slaughter of a chicken, which made me decide to become a vegetarian.
Tibetans are not, as a rule, vegetarians, because in Tibet vegetables are often scarce and meat forms a large part of the staple diet. However, it was considered more ethical to eat the meat of larger animals such as yaks than small ones, because fewer large animals would have to be killed. For this reason, consumption of fish and chicken was rare, in fact traditionally we thought of chickens only as a source of eggs, not as
food themselves, and even eggs were seldom eaten because they were thought to dull the sharpness of mind and memory. Eating chicken only really began with the arrival of the Chinese communists.
These days, when I see a row of plucked chickens hanging in a meat shop it hurts. I find it unacceptable that violence is the basis of some ofour food habits. When I am driving through the towns near where I live in India I see thousands of chickens in cages outside restaurants ready to be killed. When I see them I feel very sad, because in the heat they have no shade or relief, and in the cold they have no shelter from the wind. These poor chickens are treated as if they were merely vegetables.
In Tibet, buying animals from the butcher, thereby saving their lives,and setting them free was a common practice. Many Tibetans, even in exile, continue this practice where practically possible. It is therefore quite natural for me to support those who are currently protesting against the introduction of industrial food practices into Tibet that will perpetuate the suffering of huge numbers of chickens.
Yours sincerely,
THE DALAI LAMA
June 22, 2004
Dear Mr. Novak,
On behalf of my friends at People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), I am writing to ask that KFC abandon its plan to open restaurants in Tibet, because your corporation?s support for cruelty and mass slaughter violate Tibetan value.
I have been particularly concerned with the sufferings of chickens for many years. It was the death of a chicken that finally strengthened my resolve to become vegetarian. In 1965, I was staying at a Government Guest House in south India. My room looked directly on to the kitchens opposite. One day I chanced to see the slaughter of a chicken, which made me decide to become a vegetarian.
Tibetans are not, as a rule, vegetarians, because in Tibet vegetables are often scarce and meat forms a large part of the staple diet. However, it was considered more ethical to eat the meat of larger animals such as yaks than small ones, because fewer large animals would have to be killed. For this reason, consumption of fish and chicken was rare, in fact traditionally we thought of chickens only as a source of eggs, not as
food themselves, and even eggs were seldom eaten because they were thought to dull the sharpness of mind and memory. Eating chicken only really began with the arrival of the Chinese communists.
These days, when I see a row of plucked chickens hanging in a meat shop it hurts. I find it unacceptable that violence is the basis of some ofour food habits. When I am driving through the towns near where I live in India I see thousands of chickens in cages outside restaurants ready to be killed. When I see them I feel very sad, because in the heat they have no shade or relief, and in the cold they have no shelter from the wind. These poor chickens are treated as if they were merely vegetables.
In Tibet, buying animals from the butcher, thereby saving their lives,and setting them free was a common practice. Many Tibetans, even in exile, continue this practice where practically possible. It is therefore quite natural for me to support those who are currently protesting against the introduction of industrial food practices into Tibet that will perpetuate the suffering of huge numbers of chickens.
Yours sincerely,
THE DALAI LAMA
June 22, 2004
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Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Visages trouves
I promised to post some 'found' photographs a while ago and I finally dug them out and set them up. A group are to be found here as 'Child Proof' and my favourite familiar strangers are here at 'Day Out'. Hope you enjoy them.
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Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Rose and rooster
I cussed the thorns of a rambler rose stabbing through my gloves as I chopped off long untidy branches. A branch strafed my face and drew blood, spiteful, vengeful things, roses. Anyway I stowed the barrowful of clippings behind the shed and went off to do something else. When I returned, all the branches were scattered under the apple trees, every leaf had been stripped and eaten, all that was left were the stalks covered with thorn hooks. Now how can a soft-mouthed creature like a deer - for it was he - perform such a delicate thing without ripping his mouth to pieces?
Two hens are broody so I lifted them out of their warm straw, all dozy and soppy and took them out to the sunshine, water and corn. They went a little mad, ate heartily, made deep chirrups, took sudden erratic runs to chase flies, and took the tail-up stance to the cockerel. Then the whole entourage moved under a huge clump of Carex grass to have ecstatic sand baths in the hot dry earth. I tore up lettuce leaves for them and they ate half a Little Gem; Cocky, with the typical good manners of the male ached for some but stood back to let the hens eat. Finally they wandered off into the wood to kick back leaf mould and hunt for grubs. Chickens acting natural, happy chickens; watching their behaviour close-up makes knowing the plight of their broiler house cousins more terrible yet.
I cussed the thorns of a rambler rose stabbing through my gloves as I chopped off long untidy branches. A branch strafed my face and drew blood, spiteful, vengeful things, roses. Anyway I stowed the barrowful of clippings behind the shed and went off to do something else. When I returned, all the branches were scattered under the apple trees, every leaf had been stripped and eaten, all that was left were the stalks covered with thorn hooks. Now how can a soft-mouthed creature like a deer - for it was he - perform such a delicate thing without ripping his mouth to pieces?
Two hens are broody so I lifted them out of their warm straw, all dozy and soppy and took them out to the sunshine, water and corn. They went a little mad, ate heartily, made deep chirrups, took sudden erratic runs to chase flies, and took the tail-up stance to the cockerel. Then the whole entourage moved under a huge clump of Carex grass to have ecstatic sand baths in the hot dry earth. I tore up lettuce leaves for them and they ate half a Little Gem; Cocky, with the typical good manners of the male ached for some but stood back to let the hens eat. Finally they wandered off into the wood to kick back leaf mould and hunt for grubs. Chickens acting natural, happy chickens; watching their behaviour close-up makes knowing the plight of their broiler house cousins more terrible yet.
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This is Architecture Week
If I could have three celebratory wishes I would:
- Make Norman Foster take down that vulgar, gaudy, posey, shiny, brass and glass Faberge-eggy pickle and rebuild it ? where? Las Vegas, Blackpool, Mongolia, who cares if it ceases to wreck the London skyline. Look how it fouls everything before it; and this is the architect who made, among other wonderful things, the magical British Museum Great Court.
- Be whisked off to Surrey to see The Butterfly House ? wherein another architect goes potty on a smaller scale. I?d like to check it out, biologically.
- Acquire small pad up the road in Norwich (for study purposes, of course!) close to this terrific building which has won a 2004 regional award from RIBA.
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Monday, June 21, 2004
Comes the dawn
Another bit from the K. Amis 'Memoir' pleased me today, some advice to his best friend Philip Larkin about his fear on waking:
'I should have found a way of telling you that depression among the middle-aged and elderly is common in the early morning and activity disperses it, as you tell us in your last stanza ("Aubade"). So if you feel as bad as you say then fucking get up, or if it's too early or something then put the light on and read Dick Francis.'
It stiffens your spine to know you aren't the only one. Kingsley wasn't one to whinge. Since an illness years ago, I have woken to a strong feeling of foreboding. He's right, reading or rising sends it packing fast.
Another bit from the K. Amis 'Memoir' pleased me today, some advice to his best friend Philip Larkin about his fear on waking:
'I should have found a way of telling you that depression among the middle-aged and elderly is common in the early morning and activity disperses it, as you tell us in your last stanza ("Aubade"). So if you feel as bad as you say then fucking get up, or if it's too early or something then put the light on and read Dick Francis.'
It stiffens your spine to know you aren't the only one. Kingsley wasn't one to whinge. Since an illness years ago, I have woken to a strong feeling of foreboding. He's right, reading or rising sends it packing fast.
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Saturday, June 19, 2004
The past is a bucket of ashes
At twelve or so, like many girls, I had a diary with a little lock attached. Here I wrote secrets so mundane that, finding it again in my twenties, I tore it up in embarrassment. It didn?t endear me to me at all. Over the years my few attempts at keeping a journal petered out, the routine became a chore.
In the preface to Kingsley Amis? ?Memoirs? I found this: ?I have tried to focus on others rather than myself. I have done so not out of self-effacement but for several other reasons. Most writers lead dull lives?.writing directly about my own would anyway not appeal to me, even if I had a good memory for that kind of thing and had kept diaries with any persistence. For the weeks and months that I have done so it was, as so often, only to relieve my feelings over some personal problem.?
Being a bit grumpy like him and inclined to self-deprecation, I rather agree. My memory is, fortunately, highly selective, blurred in all the right places. Life?s flashes of fear, of anger, pain and pleasure have been survived through the oyster and pearl mechanism. Time coats the grain of grit until it is comfortable, sometimes beautiful. I don?t want a written record of the whole business, don?t want to look back on specifics, don?t want check on what I, or those around me, once were. Good or bad.
Funnily enough, I am now being cheated in this desire. That strange phenomenon of age begins as my brain releases bubbles of ancient memory ? things long forgotten returning involuntarily in full Technicolor. So far they have been pleasant, but cans of worms will surely pop up one day soon.
The great journals of history and literature are indispensable - Pepys, Evelyn, Kilvert- providing as they do a platform of personal evidence that amuses readers, fascinates scholars and feeds researchers. Truth at last emerges to some degree in the diaries of our contemporary politicians ? Castle, Crossman, Clark; Tony Benn?s great labour to make an important record of events on tape and paper will join the big league of diarists.
Sometimes among the weblogs, the teeming self-chroniclers, there is that particularly compelling feature, the sharing of a hard-copy, hand-made journal. A diary within a diary. A great exponent is Danny Gregory whose illustrated journals record both everday life and major travels. His current Jerusalem Journal is a revelation.
It's a good job that not everyone feels the same about living strictly ?off record? as I do. Anyway, according to dear old Nietzsche I haven't got a prayer, 'Man cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him'.
At twelve or so, like many girls, I had a diary with a little lock attached. Here I wrote secrets so mundane that, finding it again in my twenties, I tore it up in embarrassment. It didn?t endear me to me at all. Over the years my few attempts at keeping a journal petered out, the routine became a chore.
In the preface to Kingsley Amis? ?Memoirs? I found this: ?I have tried to focus on others rather than myself. I have done so not out of self-effacement but for several other reasons. Most writers lead dull lives?.writing directly about my own would anyway not appeal to me, even if I had a good memory for that kind of thing and had kept diaries with any persistence. For the weeks and months that I have done so it was, as so often, only to relieve my feelings over some personal problem.?
Being a bit grumpy like him and inclined to self-deprecation, I rather agree. My memory is, fortunately, highly selective, blurred in all the right places. Life?s flashes of fear, of anger, pain and pleasure have been survived through the oyster and pearl mechanism. Time coats the grain of grit until it is comfortable, sometimes beautiful. I don?t want a written record of the whole business, don?t want to look back on specifics, don?t want check on what I, or those around me, once were. Good or bad.
Funnily enough, I am now being cheated in this desire. That strange phenomenon of age begins as my brain releases bubbles of ancient memory ? things long forgotten returning involuntarily in full Technicolor. So far they have been pleasant, but cans of worms will surely pop up one day soon.
The great journals of history and literature are indispensable - Pepys, Evelyn, Kilvert- providing as they do a platform of personal evidence that amuses readers, fascinates scholars and feeds researchers. Truth at last emerges to some degree in the diaries of our contemporary politicians ? Castle, Crossman, Clark; Tony Benn?s great labour to make an important record of events on tape and paper will join the big league of diarists.
Sometimes among the weblogs, the teeming self-chroniclers, there is that particularly compelling feature, the sharing of a hard-copy, hand-made journal. A diary within a diary. A great exponent is Danny Gregory whose illustrated journals record both everday life and major travels. His current Jerusalem Journal is a revelation.
It's a good job that not everyone feels the same about living strictly ?off record? as I do. Anyway, according to dear old Nietzsche I haven't got a prayer, 'Man cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him'.
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Friday, June 18, 2004
Cured
Ooh, I feel quite trembly typing this, as when you've been ill in bed and your knees give way on walking for the first time. Two weeks without laying down a word, I hardly know how to start writing again.
My PC came home at last. It had been very sick indeed, 325 embedded objects, spyware, Trojan horses. The good guys at Computer Corner purged them without wiping my files. They warned me off Norton, too much gets past it, instead they have installed AVG and Adaware. Download speed is wonderful and will be even better when I get broadband in a week or so.
I have just spent an hour or two catching up with my links, so many images, so much good writing out there. These have made me glad to be back:
- Damp Lane from Sensitive Light. A photograph that carries the actual smell of foliage in the rain.
- Me and My Gran from my nephew Mark.
- The arrival of the wonderfully long-fingered Rosie Jones; I missed all the fun.
- Purging at Wish Jar Journal echoes my current preoccupation with seeking simplicity and puts the case very well.
- Mr. Zip visits his Mum.
Ooh, I feel quite trembly typing this, as when you've been ill in bed and your knees give way on walking for the first time. Two weeks without laying down a word, I hardly know how to start writing again.
My PC came home at last. It had been very sick indeed, 325 embedded objects, spyware, Trojan horses. The good guys at Computer Corner purged them without wiping my files. They warned me off Norton, too much gets past it, instead they have installed AVG and Adaware. Download speed is wonderful and will be even better when I get broadband in a week or so.
I have just spent an hour or two catching up with my links, so many images, so much good writing out there. These have made me glad to be back:
- Damp Lane from Sensitive Light. A photograph that carries the actual smell of foliage in the rain.
- Me and My Gran from my nephew Mark.
- The arrival of the wonderfully long-fingered Rosie Jones; I missed all the fun.
- Purging at Wish Jar Journal echoes my current preoccupation with seeking simplicity and puts the case very well.
- Mr. Zip visits his Mum.
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Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Boogie down the garden
A slightly bizarre gardening conversation is going on over at Boogie Street involving All-Bran and monoliths. Should any of the participants call in here, I recommend a marvellous book called Gardens of Obsession by that odd couple Guy Cooper and Gordon Taylor. At £25 I persuaded the library to buy a copy and passed it round gardening friends who devoured it like Belgian chocolate. If you cherish the eccentric this is crammed with odd ideas and creative stimulus.
I kept a review of the book which featured a picture of this marvellous piece of turf sculpture achieved by using plastic pipes moulded up with compost & grass. I tried a few simple forms myself using this method - three old colanders made a series of beautiful green half spheres. They lasted quite a while till someone mowed over them with the ride-on by mistake. A grass bench built up on plastic milk-crates is quite effective too, but you get a wet bottom if you try to use it.
A slightly bizarre gardening conversation is going on over at Boogie Street involving All-Bran and monoliths. Should any of the participants call in here, I recommend a marvellous book called Gardens of Obsession by that odd couple Guy Cooper and Gordon Taylor. At £25 I persuaded the library to buy a copy and passed it round gardening friends who devoured it like Belgian chocolate. If you cherish the eccentric this is crammed with odd ideas and creative stimulus.
I kept a review of the book which featured a picture of this marvellous piece of turf sculpture achieved by using plastic pipes moulded up with compost & grass. I tried a few simple forms myself using this method - three old colanders made a series of beautiful green half spheres. They lasted quite a while till someone mowed over them with the ride-on by mistake. A grass bench built up on plastic milk-crates is quite effective too, but you get a wet bottom if you try to use it.
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Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Forgotten
Can anyone add to this list of 20th century artists (major or minor) who had a huge tide of popularity, massive exposure and who have now vanished from public consciousness? I was asked for ideas by someone doing an article on the Momart fire; she wants to make a point about passing fancies in art. I could only think of these on the spot:
Pietro Annigoni
Bernard Buffet
Vernon Ward
Important, but faded:
Modigliani
Can anyone add to this list of 20th century artists (major or minor) who had a huge tide of popularity, massive exposure and who have now vanished from public consciousness? I was asked for ideas by someone doing an article on the Momart fire; she wants to make a point about passing fancies in art. I could only think of these on the spot:
Pietro Annigoni
Bernard Buffet
Vernon Ward
Important, but faded:
Modigliani