Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

My most beloved book, Kingsley's "The Water Babies", has been illustrated by many of the big names. I have the versions of Heath Robinson and Jackson (in facsimile) and Mabel Lucy Attwell, but there are two others that I desire.

Margaret Tarrant, that prolific source of Medici greetings cards, took it on at age 20. It's not so much that I like her version of the story, but more that her work is grounded in that lost age when to be twee and tender was acceptable.

But the crowning glory, the reason that I am writing this, is the magnificent set of illustrations by Jessie Wilcox Smith, the very essence of waterbaby. I recently saw an early edition in a bookshop and asked to handle it outside the glass cabinet. It was marked at £80, no offers accepted. I virtually ate the thing, reluctantly handed it back and left. It nagged me for two weeks until I finally rang up to buy it. I had a bit of birthday money put by. It had been sold, of course. It wasn't a bad price and looked at that way, was a good investment..

Lesson, just do it and be damned.

I did my tax return this afternoon which had been left until the day before it must reach the Revenue if they are to calculate it. Mind you, it could be worked out just by using the one times table given current interest rates. I'm going to drop it into the office in Bury tomorrow. Brinkmanship's my game - committee papers and reports were always written 24 hours before deadline, revision for exams done on the bus to college. It's a common enough pattern, born not so much of procrastination as of the need for a final burst of adrenalin to get the thing done in style. I wish I were a different type - a prompt and organised, listy person. I won't change now, I suppose.

Before I leave the brief excursion into English usage, may I share with you this explanation of two verbs that have always given me trouble and may have done the same to you:

lay, lie.

The verb lay has an object; the verb lie does not have an object.
The principal parts of the verb lay are: lay ( present), laid ( past ), laid ( past participle), and laying ( present participle ).
The principal parts of the verb lie are: lie ( present ), lay ( past ), lain ( past participle ), and lying ( present participle ).

Wrong : I always lay down after I eat dinner.
Right : I always lie down after I eat dinner. ( present tense )

Wrong : He laid down because he had a headache.
Right : He lay down because he had a headache. ( past tense )

Wrong : The books are laying on the table.
Right : The books are lying on the table ( present paticiple )

Right : The teacher laid her books on her desk. ( past tense )
Right : The boys have lain under the tree for several hours. ( past participle )
Right : She has laid her head on the pillow. ( past participle )
Right : Her head lies on the pillow. ( present tense )

(From - English Daily's Glossary)

Do you get:

Fed up of
Fed up at
Fed up by
Fed up with?

I have heard all these in the media this week. Does it matter?

- The falls are whispering to me from Aniseed Valley, New Zealand.

- Tiny 'Cain' was born in the Oso Flaco Dunes nature preserve, California.

- Do sparrows prefer Switzerland - is this the reason why we haven't got any here?

Sam at 'Feral' encouraged us to post pictures of the spot where our blogging is done . Here's mine. Late as usual.

"Now that's my sister."

We had enjoyable wanderings in W.11 on Saturday along leafy streets and in sardine-packed crowds in Portobello Road. As far as antiques went, there was much overpriced tat among the unreachable goodies, but watching the antics of folks from all over the world trying to find something to take home was good value. I could have fancied a life-sized model of Elvis at two grand and an expensive Edwardian family photograph album featuring twins and a pair of pugs, but I desisted.

The guide on the "Notting Hill" tour was giving great spiel at the famous doorway and bookshop where Julia met Hugh as we bought lemony crepes dusted with icing sugar at a nearby stall. A distraught looking white 'human statue' on a plinth writhed her arms under the shade of a huge plane tree. She was worth fifty pence of anyone's money.

The doorway, where I used to sit as a kid and talk to the old tramp woman, was still there. Henekey's pub was being refurbished; Uncle Sam used to tease me that he'd seen my Mother Superior supping Guinness there and dancing on the tables with her habit tucked up. And, miracle of miracles, there was the Bike Shop open after fifty years trading despite the lure of gentrification; the owner knew tales of local characters, including my own family - he was tickled that I used to play 'dollies' with his mother.

We had lunch, passable Italian, at the old Whiteleys department store, now a shopping complex, then walked up Queensway to Kensington Gardens. The Colonel wanted to see Diana's fountain - we wished we had gone to Harrods instead, The thing is an embarrassment, a clinical watercourse stained and full of leaves, ring-fenced and featureless, guarded by four wardens. All around the same sentiment could be heard - "Surely they could have made something a bit better than this?" Whatever she was, she had beauty and elegance, virtues this memorial completely fails to exemplify.

After vast mugs of Costa coffee, the three footsore shoppers headed home in the National Express coach. The Colonel fell immediately asleep, but G. and I watched a spectacular sunset die out beyond Essex before we joined him.

Oh dear, I was going to write properly about the tasty looking Johns exhibition coming later this month, but it's so late and I have to be up early. I'll do it another time. We are taking the Colonel to the Portobello Road market, going down on the early coach to avoid the parking thing. He has been hinting about it for weeks. He's sure to want to buy a statue, or a set of lead weights, or a stuffed rhino that we will have to lug about all day.

I'll take a look at the first home of my childhood, number 292, Westbourne Grove - once a flat above an electrician's shop, now gone up in the world as the home of the Arbras Gallery. I wonder if, in the refit, they found my clockwork mouse that fell down a hole in the floorboards when I was six?

I found that I had several biscuit tins full of buttons, the legacy of four long-living sewing women. I put a sheet over the kitchen table, tipped and spread them out. The first response was to pick out memories; forgotten frocks, mother's winter coat and the malteser buttons from her beige wool dress, tiny pearls from baby clothes, gold anchor buttons from Sam's naval uniform.

Strung together with thread were eight exquisite art deco glass bubbles, plastic monstrosities from fifties cardigans, wooden bars from a duffel coat, glorious square-cut jet discs and perished rubber buttons from a liberty bodice. The common coin of the collection was the pearl button - hundreds gleaned from shirts and underwear, quite enough to cover a couple of pearly kings.

An hour passed as I enjoyed them in a wholly desultory way, until an urge to classify gripped and made me start sorting like with like. As the piles grew I suddenly saw that it was futile, I would never use them, who would ever want them again? Their virtue lay only in their randomeness. I hunted out a tall glass sweet-jar and, jettisoning some of the sadder old specimens, I poured handfuls of rainbow colours until it was full to the top. Now the buttons sleep in the back of the wardrobe till I desire more reminiscence; Ted Kooser's poem describes it well -

A Jar of Buttons

This is a core sample
from the floor of the Sea of Mending,

a cylinder packed with shells
that over many years

sank through fathoms of shirts -
pearl buttons, blue buttons -

and settled together
beneath waves of perseverance,

an ocean upon which
generations of women set forth,

under the sails of gingham curtains,
and, seated side by side

on decks sometimes salted by tears,
made small but important repairs.

Oh, what's the point.

- start to do something
- write a tag for the Tate
- read some very short short stories
- be silly with David
- look up something on Babieca
- try entering the word 'angst' here

At least and at last a step has been taken on the Hunting With Dogs Bill. It remains to be seen how, when adopted, it will be enforced in the face of vehement protest and potential civil disobedience.

We know that, in spite of legislation, wildlife continues to suffer at the hands of thrill seekers. There is evidence that badger baiters, for example, are active in this county, disabling animals before the dogs start on them. There are simply not enough wardens available now to police the vast rural areas in which these things occur, let alone to watch for illegal hunts and terriermen. However, it is very important to get the principle of humane treatment enshrined.

I affirm that there is absolutely no justification for taking pleasure from the death of any living creature. I care not a jot about our colourful history or the preservation of the rural way of life, such arguments have been used over centuries to defend outrageous cruelties that were eventually outlawed. If I needed a testament to reinforce this view, it came from within my own family.

My uncle was a career horseman and hunted foxes in his youth, his walls were decorated with hunting prints and horns. In his final months I sat with him often and on one night he held my hand and wept. He had been thinking about the things he had witnessed over many years of riding out, haunted by memories of creatures run ragged and torn apart, and by the memory of people laughing with pleasure at their end. He could hear the yapping of the terriers on the digs and the brutishness of men who enjoyed the sport. "Anna, it is a wrong thing, I loved the glamour of it all when I was young, but I did a wrong thing and I am truly sorry for it."

My niece's wedding was a delightfully original affair, a day with a satisfying mix of emotion, laughter and fun. The morning started with thunder and heavy rain and our hearts fell - the wedding breakfast was planned for outdoors. But as we drove to the coast from Hampshire, clouds rolled back, the sun shone and it stayed fair for the afternoon.

The lovely old castle made a fine setting, a string quartet played, all the speeches were witty, the champagne dry and cold. After the ceremony and toasts in the arched hall, guests collected wine and wicker hampers packed with fabulous food and sat in lively groups on the wide lawns. The bride looked very beautiful, slim as a willow in a cleverly cut beaded dress. The couple were perfect together, smiling and happy, so very happy.

In the evening everyone chattered madly, danced to great disco music and watched fireworks. G & I got to bed at 2 a.m. and I am pleased to report that not one stain sullied my wedding outfit - some achievement. I will post some more photographs when I get them back.

Well I'll be darned - these coincidences are very strange, I posted yesterday about paper dolls and Amy comes up with this too. Her link is to a site of great dolly sophistication.

A fantastic bird shot.

Another fantastic bird shot - of my niece. I am leaving tomorrow for her wedding on Friday in Dorset. In case anyone is interested I will be wearing a pale almond crepe trouser suit and NO hat. I have some very high-heels which I am now unused to wearing, I fear I may fall over at a crucial moment - quite a good alibi if the champagne flows. As to food, my friends here have all placed bets as to how soon I will drop something down my (very expensive) front, I have lately become a messy eater to the extent of three tee-shirts a day if I have something like soup or gravy, I seem to miss my mouth. G is buying me a bib for Christmas. Anyway, we are looking forward to a happy occasion and will be away for a few days.

Do you remember playing with those cardboard cut-out dolls that you dressed up by attaching wardrobes of clothes to them with bendy paper tags? You bought the book and cut round the pictures. I loved them and used to draw and cut out my own styles, including shoes and handbags. So of course I would like playing around with the Candybar Doll Maker for at least half an hour this evening. Why do I muck about with these trivial things, instead of writing incisive posts about the state of the world? Worse, why do I encourage you to do the same? Ignore me.

The earth hides the children,
Covers limbs that will stretch no more,
Run no further.
Eyes death-dull,
The children sleep,
As those who survive them
Will not. Not for many a night,
For many a year.

Vigils are kept in the dark,
Agonies of love, of longing
For little ones unfound.
Ashes of love, ashes of hope.

Mothers in black remember,
Hatred burns in their eyes.
Men who have no city,
No country, no pity remaining,
Remember
When the earth hid their children also
And covered limbs that would stretch no more,
Run no further.

Full circle comes the pain,
In revenge no solace found,
Rage the only salve.
The powerful sit on their hands,
And will not talk.
The children, somewhere, listen
And wait for them to start.

I had heaps of time to watch the fun in Marks and Spencers while G. tried on suits. The tailoring department was heaving with male unpulchritude, exemplified by a small roly poly trying on a white tuxedo, the hem of the jacket reached the back of his knees. He had quite a preen though, no doubt seeing the James Bond version of himself in the mirror. At least he was alone, unhassled, with no-one to spoil his illusion.

Not so the half dozen adolescents searching out their regulation (private) school suits; all had mothers in tow, mothers with cheque books and strong ideas. The most touching figure, a gangly boy, stood in misery, buttoned tight into a grey washable number. His hair stuck up in all directions, and from the bottom of the smart trousers poked a pair of filthy white trainers. "It's vile, it's too tight." "Well try the blue one, then," said the mother "And leave the jacket undone. You look like a parcel. I'll go and find a tie."

As he sloped off she sighed deeply. "To university?" I asked. "No, no such luck, that would have been just jeans. No, this is school formal. We've already had two rows, he stalked off and left me just now. I'm going home if this one's no good."

On the chairs by the changing room a very glam' mum and daughter sat sorting through a selection of belts, arguing gently. A youth emerged knowing that he looked pretty terrific in a dark grey number. "Yes, Alex, I know it's nice, but it's too expensive, put it back." "Bloody hell, Mum, it's only another fifty quid. The others are rubbish." Another deep sigh.

At this point a very, very smart, slim older man in a perfectly fitting suit came towards me. "That's nice", I thought, then realised it was G. Being used to him in gardening clothes, and comfy casualness, it was quite a shock to see the city version again.

My absence has been due to several days out, then to being a bit poorly. I usually tend to blog late and so an early collapse under the duvet puts the brakes on. I have gathered some wonderful writing material from the various visits, but I just forget what it is at the moment. The duvet is calling now as I have the same headache that I have carried for three days, I rarely suffer from them and tolerate them badly. But there are a few odds and ends I'll share:

- I'm a little punchdrunk from seeing Paul Newman on Jonathan Ross tonight, I always did, still do, find him the most beautiful man on earth.

- Fans of Little Black Hen will like to know that she deposited an egg in the peg basket which was left out under the washing line. My hand went in for a peg and brushed a smooth roundness. They are all in full lay again - so three beautiful little eggs with deep golden yolks are gathered every day. I cleared the herb garden and left some bare earth on which they really went to town - pecking out plenty of lovely protein - big fat woims.

- That is a lovely job, by the way, cutting back the great pads of marjoram, mint, lemon balm, chives, camomile and tansy - the smell blooms in the warm air and lingers through the evening. I planted some new sage and lemon thyme and nibbled the last leaves of rocket. The tall fennels have ripened seeds and I must gather them quickly, I love pulling a handful to chew.

- Now the late afternoon autumn sunlight slants at a dramatic angle, flaring up the red of the pine trunks and making deep shadows fall across the grass. The robin sings all day on a note that pierces, the sound that marks the summer dying. Apples fall with regular thuds, the blackberries are alive with wasps. Everywhere great webs are strung, catching the dew, centred with fat spiders. The birches are scattering yellow leaves. Mellow, mellow time.