Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

Laszlo Tar The Kitchen Window

Among Ted's prisoner of war papers was a copy of the Syonan Times for June 21 1942. (Japanese occupied Singapore was renamed Syonan-to, Light of the South.) He must have picked it up after being taken as a prisoner to Singapore after his own boat was sunk in February 1942. The pages are full of war propaganda items, urgings to Chinese, Malay and Tamil speakers to take language lessons in Nippon-Go and reports of Japanese successes against Allied forces. One disaster report has stayed with me because of the way it was written. This is the end of just one ship among the hundreds that went down.


A Dutch Destroyer's End

'The harrowing experiences of eleven Dutch naval officers of the Netherlands destroyer 'Piet Hein' of 1,310 tons which suffered the misfortune of encountering the might of our invincible Navy, were recounted to a naval correspondent, states a Domei report from Lombok Island. The destroyer was sunk in a naval battle off Bali Island in the middle of February.

The men, now prisoners of war, said that on the night of February 19 "Piet Hein" was steaming eastward abreast of another Dutch warship. The night was starry and moonlit although the sea itself was dark.

It must have been abouut 11.30 p.m, they declared, when a lightning glare suddenly illuminated the warship. The members of the ship's crew jumped excitedly to their feet and scurried about shouting, the prisoners said. One Dutch officer added wryly "We didn't have time to see where the opposing warship was. A salvo of shells rained down, blasting the ship's steel frame and woodwork. The first shell scored a direct hit on the destroyer's funnel, while the second destroyed the cadet's quarters with deadly precision. The accurate bombardment made me jump out of my skin."

Another officer, taking up the account, said that almost immediately a third shell blew a big hole amidships and flung the officer and men overboard. While they struggled for their lives in the swirling current, the warship quickly settled and disappeared into the sea. Many of the crew went down with the "Piet Hein" for only a very small number floated on the sea surface yelling for help.

The rescued men said they became very hungry as they floated on the sea and when dawn broke no land could be sighted. He declared that the scorching heat was unbearable and men had to immerse themselves often to allay it.

He said, that night, the captain of the "Piet Hein" became insane and ripped his life preserver, gulped sea water and finally disappeared into the water. The rest lapsed into a stupor-like sleep. The men said that, on the following day the current drifted about forty of them to the shore of a tiny island. Part of them came to Lombok, while the rest went on to Java.'

It's probably impossibly old hat now, but I had never come across the "Where I'm From" meme. Fred Floyd started it in 1993. I picked up its trail at Tabor's blog in May and have been meaning to have a go at it ever since.

Using the model of a poem by George Ella Lyons, Floyd suggests a writing exercise in which we draw on memories to reveal our personal provenance. He has provided the poem's template to help the process. I found it fun to do and quite revealing.

I am from formal gardens freed to wilderness.
From Benger's Food and camphorated oil, brown eggs and treacle pudding.
I am from city streets, rescued by steam train to a cottage path.
I am from honeysuckle, poppies and pepper-scented phlox.

I am from an Irish family, strangers now. From Stamps; Gran and Granfer, Win, Jack and Dodie, loving, funny, dignified. And from Frank the quiet one.
I am from a sum of families made by two deaths, two marriages; conflict and kindness, light and shade.

I am from hearing "You're a lucky kid to be alive." and "Mind your manners. Elbows off and sit up straight."
I am from Sunday Mass, a convent girl long lapsed, left with the habit of prayer.
I am from London, born in the time of fogs, genes mixed from Shakespeare's county and a Tipperary town. We have weaknesses for drams and sugary things

I am from lost Uncle Ernie, sweetest of us all, known only through stories and the tending of his stone. From Mother as a child, quietly making daisy chains at the threshold of a difficult life. From Gran, grand in her best suit, long skirt behind caught up in her bloomers, a perfect family metaphor.

I am from a mixture of long lives and unknown vulnerabilities. From a box in which I keep great-grandma's bonnet, silver paper horseshoes and my first-communion dress.
Most of all, I am from a country place where the wind-blown pines are my signposts home.

What a night for an open air concert - Saturday was a burning cauldron here until the evening when it turned balmy in a soft purple dusk. We trekked up the road to the latest "Music in the Forest" event, taking chairs & a flask packed with ice.

People were not kind when I said I was going to hear the Pet Shop Boys "Still alive, then?", "Bit passé, surely?" They should have stumped up their 26 quid and had a ball. The place was jammed (largely the over-30's) with a record turn-out for the Thetford Forest venue. The atmosphere there is always friendly, I remember being in a crowd standing happily in a deluge, soaking wet but listening intently to Courtney Pine for two hours.

PSB still love their dressing-up box and didn't stint on the lamé, they had a backing troupe of nubile dancers, sensational set and lighting and they came up with all their greatest hits - a satisfying affair all round. I must get their new album, it has been out since May and was well-reviewed. I have always loved them and still play them when I feel like dancing round the house with the volume turned up.

Their support band was the Norwegian Indie group Lorraine, who were a bit of a treat with a hefty beat.

My pictures are at Flickr. But, checking tags, I see that Andy & Tony made a much classier job of it.

Watering in the early dark, enjoying the peace and chill after a hot day I jumped out of my skin at the screech. From back in the wood came a piercing sound, as if made by something young or very small giving all its lung power to the utterance. It came twice more, making me tremble at the fright it held, probably before death. Not a fox, I know those noises. Some poor little mammal meeting the owl or stoat maybe. I took the torch and had a look around, but there was nothing, just long shadows as the beam went round and a startled deer parting the grass as it ran away.

I rang the brother of a lady I have been looking after for a bit while she stabilised after being in hospital. She has had to have home oxygen set up; it's a remarkable service. An oxygen making machine was delivered, with a long pipeline that allows her to walk around the flat - so much easier than the big cylinders we used to have to handle. Her brother asked me if she was still smoking. "Not while she's on the O2 at least," I said "or she'll blow her face up. The respiratory nurse has given dire warnings." "Good, let's hope this will make her stop altogether. I only ask," said Chris, "because there's a family trait involved here. During the war our Dad cut a hole in his gas mask so he could smoke his pipe."

A chap came today to give an estimate for cavity wall insulation. We are going ahead with it - this is a cold house and we are hoping it will improve things. I asked him about deeper loft insulation and mentioned the word "bats". He blanched and backed away. "Forget it, lady, you won't get anyone to install it with THEM about. Got a lot up there?" "About two hundred. Long-eared, very, very, protected."
"That's tough, lady, expect you've got a lot of mess, 200 would be making a lot of guano, hey? Guano, yeah, guano. You can make a fortune selling that stuff." And he went off chuckling. I hate bloody bats. And comedians.

I won't be writing for a few days now, unless something sensational comes to pass. My sister and FSB are coming to stay from Friday to Monday and I plan to spend as much time as possible jabbering away at them.

The row of thatched cottages in our 'high street' has this wonderful self-seeded display every year.

I think I did a little better this time. Over this week I have realised how badly skills get rusty when they aren't used - I need to brush up my French and buy a sketch pad for some practice. I promise that this is the last image of my physiog that I will thrust upon you for a while. There has been rather too much moi on here lately.The marathon closes tomorrow. It's worth having a look at the portraits and Sparky's blog.

'When you translate poetry in particular, you're obliged to look at how the writer with whom you're working puts together words, sentences, phrases, the triple tension between the line of verse, the syntax and the sentence.'
Marilyn Hacker

You certainly are, and blooming difficult it is too. Dick Jones and I both translated the same poem. The result is at Patteran Pages.

For years I have collected Victorian and Edwardian children's books, there must be over a hundred now, mostly bought for pennies. They fascinate from many points of view, pre-eminently their mass-produced yet exquisite bindings; for example, Don, whose author you will note is known only by the title of an earlier book, wears a fabulous red pseudo-Morris cover of complex design, richly gilded.

The texts are invariably of great moral fervour, often sentimental. They have wonderful titles - Verena; or, Safe Paths and Slippery Byeways, or Mrs. Marston's "Cripple Jess the Hop Picker's Daughter". Pure social history. Often given as school prizes, they bear bookplates with sweet details of their owners, the large majority being for good conduct or simple attendance; bound in at the back are publishers' advertisements which bibliophiles of the period relish. I thought it would make quite a pleasant feature to publish occasional profiles of some of my favourites.

The first is Little Freddie: or, Friends in Need, presented to one John Duley for Christmas 1898 at Christ Church Sunday School. The story is an Oliver Twist clone, with poor Freddie cast onto the streets and found by Jack, a young pickpocket who protects him. Jack loses a leg, renounces crime, turns to Jesus. Freddie becomes a crossing sweeper, gets sick, nearly dies. Jack finds his lost mother and goes to live with her (and Freddie) in the country, safe from the evil city. To cap it all, Freddie's drunkard father embraces temperance and is also admitted to the rustic dream.

'Freddie set to work with a hearty good-will, the mud was soft and he had no difficulty in making a path. It took him some time to learn how to manage his big broom to advantage but he struggled manfully on, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing a broad clean path right across Piccadilly from the Park gates and another across Grosvenor place.

A bright silver sixpence fell at Freddie's feet and a fine young gentleman said "What a blessing, I've pretty nearly spoilt a pair of boots wading through the mud these last days. I'll give that little chap something for his trouble."

"Thank-you, sir. I'm a'comin every day to sweep, I am; I likes to have a clean crossin'."

Freddie counted up his gains and found they amounted to tenpence-halfpenny, and it was not more than nine o'clock!'

I set the table for a quick supper so four of us could get out by 7, put out a plate of salad, a dish of sliced beetroot. Placed napkins (large paper ones, for shame) and lit the candle; turned and switched on the tall free-standing electric fan, moved without a backward glance into the kitchen to get chicken. When I returned the fan had blown out the candle, whirled most of the watercress and grated carrot all over the floor, whisked up napkins and deposited them on the beetroot and thence, wetly and redly, onto the white cloth. How things do hate me.

I am in love with my new scent - Chanel's Coco, I sneak a bit on even when I'm just going out weeding, for the sheer pleasure of it. It has been a real reversal of taste - I used to like sharp, peppery, lemony scents - Ma Griffe, Cristalle, O de Lancome, Vetiver. This one is spicy and rich. According to Basenotes it has top notes of angelica, mimosa, frangipani, mandarin; then cascarilla, orange flower, Bulgarian rose, jasmine; base notes of labdanum, ambrette seed, opopanax, benzoin, tonka, vanilla. What wonderful names. I have just been reminded by them of Patrick Suskind's riveting olfactory novel "Perfume", I must read it again.

I've booked a ticket tonight for Count Arthur Strong at the Edinburgh fringe, his confusion tickles me and I empathise with his portrayal of covering up memory problems. We're going up for four days at the end of August, staying in an apartment not far from the centre - a bargain that I found on the net. I had a rather good thing happen to me a while ago. A small publisher spotted one of my photographs on Flickr and asked to use it for the cover of a new publication on the Fringe - they paid me a tidy little cheque. Apparently the book will be widely on sale at venues in Edinburgh; I shall feel very proud to see it.