Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

I'm off to see a man about a leg. Back soon.

My eye caught a movement outside the dining room window where a couple of big sunflowers had died back. At the top of a ten foot stem a grey squirrel hung by the tail nibbling seeds, he knew I was there and from his sideways glance I knew that he could care less.

        

Watching him feed was interesting, but to see him thinking was more so. He worked out that in order to reach the remaining seeds in the centre of the head he must perch on top and chew systematically round its edge; he set to, spitting out the pith as he went. After an hour's circular pith nibbling and seed eating he was finally perched precariously on a tiny disc, all that was left of the seed head. On the last grab he slipped and scrambled clumsily down the bending stem.

I fell for Castle Howard in a big way; even on a wet afternoon the wide lakes and lawns, the topiary and great fountain draped in moss were elegant foil to the house.


Peacocks slept on its steps and a rainbow arched above distant fields. The theatrical brilliance of Vanbrugh's first attempt and the the practical nous of Nicholas Hawksmoor with his Wrennish skills combined to make something very special. Inside, rooms were presented so tastefully, someone with an eye for colour had done subtle restoration; unusually witty guides were happy to spiel away the day. The picture collection is to die for, Brueghel beside the bed, Canaletto above the breakfast table and the wonderful Holbein portrait of an aged Henry VIII glowered flat-faced amid the Howards in the library.

A wet Monday in Cambridge found us dodging bicycles, wandering around St John's and the almost deserted Backs. Memorable was the beautiful young girl with long brown hair under a mortar board, as she walked in animated conversation with another, her gown with it's blue and yellow collar blew out in the wind. The picture of a young intellectual in a great seat of learning. As she passed I heard her say to her friend "It's...like like I'm f-----g p----ed off." Illusion departed.

First in the queue for evensong at King's College Chapel, Bill and Ben, both organists, were impatient to hear the instrument. In the candlelight, as the choir reached the Nunc Dimittis, I realised that the special quality of singing here is made because the acoustic allows power without effort. So the voices are not straining, are within themselves. I was aware, just above me, of the sweetest counter tenor voice playing out the line between tenors and trebles. The last piece, an Ave Maria by Verdi, finished on notes so tender that tears came at once.

Is it a bird, is it a plane?
No it's the new tower of St Edmundsbury Cathedral, still swathed in plastic and scaffolding, but rising fast. B & B loved beautiful Bury St Edmunds, its unspoilt lanes and shopfronts. It was market day, and the town buzzed with people. We missed little and finished up footsore in Thornton's especially for Bill to have hot chocolate with cream and cinnamon. We sure did get about a bit.

When you go on a week-end break in a hotel peopled by a couple of hundred retired guests, you don't go downstairs for evening drinks in your jeans.


No, a bit of tarting up is definitely de rigeur.

I can't really believe that I now qualify for inclusion in this age-group. We went on our first coach trip with the same company a while ago (excellent value, by the way) and G. said, looking at the queue for the bus, "God, are we going to St Ives or Lourdes?" But they turned out to be a wonderful bunch.

And so it was in Whitby, as the crowds of well turned-out seniors flocked to the bar at 6.30 p.m. it could have been terrifyingly stuffy, yet the atmosphere was sociable, animated, no-one was left on their own; alcohol flowed freely, we noticed "a triple Glenfiddich and a pint of stout", a bizarre order that cost thirteen pounds. Our table first attracted a dishy Welsh violinist who looked like a white-haired Charlton Heston, and two small, robust men who had been driving round Canada in a camper.

On Sunday evening I and my three companions, who also feel about twenty-five, drifted into the in-house dancing and cabaret; we went in much the same spirit that relishes the joy of amateur concerts with their reedy sopranos and home-made backcloths. It wasn't bad at all. A pair of competent dancers with lithe legs did the splits, were followed by a crooner of romantic ballads and a group who rocked the chandeliers.

When the inevitable Abba tribute started, we all crept out for a walk on the windy clifftop. Enough is enough. It was all the greatest fun, a good-value chuckle for our Americans, and it did make a change to change for dinner.

I won't be about for a bit. Two American friends are meeting us tomorrow in Ashford in the Water where we will stay overnight and then head to Whitby for the week-end, We are the middle of their itinerary which takes in London, Berwickshire and Durham. Bill and Ben(honestly) will be with us until next Thursday; they are musicians, passionate about our
cathedrals, so I am instructed to drive to Cambridge for evensong at King's College next Tuesday and there will be a toss of the dice between Ely and Norwich for Wednesday.

I have been slaving over a moderately grubby house to make it presentable and have lined up some nice grub and plenty of gin/vermouth/olives for Bill's evil martinis. The garden looked wonderful for five minutes after the ride-on went round, but it is covered with leaves again - not at its best for visitors. Like a sweet child who get snotty as soon as you ask it to behave.

Off now to have a bath and make some sense of my appearance - the house looks great but just look at my fingernails. Back in a while.

Back in March I wrote about a mangy pheasant who had lost most of his feathers. Though full of himself, he was having trouble with courting and achieving the ritual 'puff-up' with the little equipment he had remaining. Well, here he is fully restored to beauty, cocky as ever, strutting to have a feed in the chickens' corn bowl. Good food and confidence brought him through. If he gets through the winter he's handsome enough now to have the pick of the hens in spring.

Today I had planned to take G. out to dinner for his birthday, in fact I booked a table and then cancelled it. What he really fancied, I discovered, was a special dinner at home cooked by the resident Chef with all his favourite things and a bottle of wine with friends afterwards.

So, laying a candle-lit table for two with the last red roses from the climber by the window, I put together the simplest meal; a fillet steak with crushed black pepper- perfectly cooked in a little butter, its juices deglazed with white wine; big, black locally grown mushrooms, sugar snap peas left sweet and crisp; tiny tomatoes on the vine steamed with a few basil leaves, his favourite young spinach leaves left whole and a mound of fluffy mashed potato whisked with a touch of cream. There was a bottle of very good Australian Merlot and some iced water.

For pud' the ice cream freak had to have a special fix and understandably failed to clear the final hurdle of a ripe piece of Stilton.

The meal took half an hour to cook and the bill for two was what the restaurant would have charged for one; it was piping hot, fresh and made with organic produce. Around us the house was warm and cosy, threads of John Williams drifted through from the sitting room and G said "That was the best nosh in Norfolk, and we didn't have to get all dressed up to eat it, smashing."

I wondered why Tim the mechanic was laughing as I left the car for service. Later he told me that he had checked the after-shave level as I had requested. I was attempting to ask for a winter check-up on my anti-freeze. What's happening to me?

Some British men in the street were asked to identify the painter of 'Water Lilies' and nominated Rolf Harris; obviously this was the result of desperation at being unable to dredge up from the grey matter the name of any other artist at all.

Given this evidence of the scary effectiveness of a blatant populist, I have been puzzling why I continue to think of Rolf as wholly benign, a beneficial promoter of art appreciation and participatory art. Well, he's a competent painter for starters (don't sniff), and can produce the goods nervelessly on TV (a fair old self-portrait and a stab at etching last Saturday), he turns his hand to copying, painting in the style of, cartooning, print-making, knocking up murals; he can sculpt and craft.

In love with painting, his pleasure in seeing great technique is tangible. He fronts interesting presentational formats - as in the fascinating Star Portraits series. The Rolf on Art programmes are tasty introductions to great painters. Such things are also done by others with greater depth of knowledge, by artists of greater quality. But no one can touch him as a popular communicator, easy with all ages, all types; able to take the dryness out of art history, to command interest by dispensing with the pretentiousness that is always close to the descriptive language of art.

Our performance in that Britannica poll makes me wonder why our primary and secondary school art teachers cannot achieve something of this? Imagine if there were a Rolf in every art classroom in the land. Do you think then that many kids would leave school not knowing who Monet was?

I have been on the local NHS hospital's waiting list for a few months for surgery on my leg. I was astonished to get a 'phone call from a charming woman offering me a place at a private hospital some fifty miles from here. Apparently our hospital has been allocated funding to farm out a block of operations to the private sector.

"Lucky beggar" and "Grab it" have been the typical reactions of friends, but I must admit to an automatic guilty feeling about the idea. I have had a life-long aversion to jumping queues using private resources, feeling that the ethic of private medicine was not for me. A wealthy lady offered me the cash to speed an operation I needed years ago and I refused it on principle, though I didn't give her that reason, of course. I'm not stuffy, just holding on to a conviction. Probably if the special treatment were needed for someone dear to me in danger I would change my mind.

As my 'leg-up' is being arranged entirely at the behest of the NHS and will be done by one of a team of its surgeons, I decided to go for it and rang up this morning to accept. I have just been looking at the very swish premises on the private hospital's website. After viewing that, I see that I absolutely need some new nighties and, blast, my slippers have a hole in the toe.

I am so pleased to settle into this long-promised change of scene, a softer environment with a bit more style. Mark has designed it for me and I really like the result. Thank you, Neffe, very much indeed.

Two years ago Mark gave me as a birthday present the domain that I am using now -patriciascott.org. Patricia is my given name but most people know me as Anna. My mother's second marriage brought me a step-sister, also called Patricia, so I use my second name to avoid confusion.

My old blog's generic name at Blogger was 'mousechild', this will now vanish. I do so hope that my friends will stay with me and adjust their links to the new URL and the title Self-Winding.

Hello, Neffe here! A guest post on behalf of my aunt, to tell you that her observations are moving into a new home of their own this evening. Once the transformation is complete, and the golden handshake from Blogspot has been duly received for outstanding service over the past two years, I'll return and update this post to advise you all of the new website address.

Meanwhile, later that evening: the new website is now online at

www.patriciascott.org/winding/

You are here! Extra content, such as my aunt's photos, the section for Thomas Shakespear's Diary, and the weblog archives will be migrated into the new website over the weekend. Contents may have shifted during flight, so please keep your seatbelts fastened until the captain has switched off the illuminated sign.

'In the UK in the decade ending in 2001, prescriptions for the anti-depressant fluoxetine rose from 9 million to 24 million per year.

Environmental experts noted the drug finds its way into rivers and water systems from treated sewage water. Treatment systems were never designed to eliminate pharmaceutical residues in drinking water and it is likely that other drugs are present as well. ' (Psychiatric News. 3.9.04)

I'll swig my daily litre of happy water, put on my boots and be off for a walk along the river bank to look for geese with a grip on life, peaceful pike, cheerful chubb and optimistic otters.