Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

We got around a bit - went shopping at the M&S superstore near my sister's home (trousers & jacket); bought produce at a farmers' market in Winchester including goats' cheeses, Cavolo Nero black cabbage, jammy sponge cake and(vegetarian) parmesan. Prices were rather higher than those in the picture (left). That's a 1940's Sainsbury's window at the National Motor Museum. I expected to be bored by viewing cars, but actually got quite absorbed. That was G's treat, mine was the cathedral on Sunday. The first time I have managed to see it without scaffolding. We took loads of photographs, of which there are a few in a set at flickr

There have been a couple of good blog posts on smoking lately which I'll link to in a moment. I used to smoke - a lot, I didn't think I could ever give it up but managed to ride out the agony nearly twenty years ago. It was a habit so enmeshed with every pleasure in my life that I thought I would be utterly bereft. It was tough for a while, but now as Dick Jones writes it seems a ridiculous pursuit.

Yet we had excuses for our adddiction some fifty years ago. It is forgotten how acceptable and ubiquitous the habit was. The cancer link was well-hidden. Cigarettes were standard issue to the military, were provided at all social occasions, administered as succour to accident victims. No building was without its ash-trays. Look at these extraordinary advertisements from another great blog La Boîte à Images. The medical endorsements are hair-raising, knowing now that the manufacturers knew then what we know now.

And, of course, it was sexy. Before we knew for sure why the Robert Taylors & Humphrey Bogarts were dropping like flies, the ciggie drooping from pouting lips spelt decadent sophistication. I used to smoke Du Mauriers out of an elegant flat box (that is, when pocket-money poverty didn't reduce me to a packet of five Weights). A cigarette was, and to some extent still is, part of the teenager's kit for looking cool. I know Mum fought me all the way on it, so I guess there were anxieties, but both my parents smoked. My wicked uncle was the first to offer me a Gold Flake in his car one day and I took to it like a duck to water from ciggie number one.

I wish I hadn't, but there again it did bring me immense pleasure for years in so many contexts - post-prandial, post-other things, the smell of Gauloises evokes happiness still. If, one day, I have to pay for it, then I will have to console myself with that.

If Al Pacino is to play Salvador Dali - which seems unlikely but intriguing - which actress do you suggest should play his wife, Gala? It will be Gala as an older woman in this case, probably at the moment when she was anxious about losing her looks and her power over her husband.

Salvador, ten years her junior, met her when she was married to the surrealist poet Paul Eluard, became besotted and remained so for most of his life. Pleasant to recall on Valentine's Day that, as courtship offerings to her, Dali wore a red geranium in his hair, covered himself in goat excrement and dyed his armpit blue.

Suggested actresses so far - Carmen Maura (left)- Helena Bonham Carter - Jeanne Moreau. In my opinion, Stephen has it right with Carmen (the grandmother in Volver). Don't know how tall they all are, it might be an issue with Pacino. Graham suggests Ronni Ancona (and Alistair McGowan for Dali), she's a bit young too, but he can do good old. Alan Rickman would be fabulous - think Snape with a waxed moustache. But neither is as bankable as Al.







Zhoen suggests Shirley Henderson (above right) and mentions Ewen Bremner as Dali in Surrealissimo, a TV production that I must admit passed me by, though looking at the bizarre cast-list I can't see how it could have - Vic Reeves as Paul Eluard, ye Gods.


Natalie picks Russell Brand for Dali. For Gala she suggests Penelope Cruz and La Streep in a dark wig. She also votes for Maura.

- Clive James' weekly Point of View was a reflection on the why's of plastic surgery. (Text version here). I have just been reading his collection of essays Even as We Speak. He can be irritating with his boum boum delivery and over-clever bons mots, but his heart is right and he is able to encapsulate ideas with diamond precision. (James on tabloid press intrusion: 'One totalitarian impulse is to create a subhuman class which may be persecuted without compunction because it is beneath compassion.' An observation recently borne out by the Big Brother affair)

- Climbing a Hill of Dreams in golden shoes to the sound of larks. Not a bad thing to do at 70.



- Helen Mirren is doing just fine without any apparent medical interference, retaining the aura of beauty. I do so like this picture of her wearing spectacles on a string in the very classy neckline of her red carpet couture gown.

This squirrel and its three siblings are a great nuisance to the small birds. We have given up on squirrel-proof feeders, our lot must have higher IQ's and sharper teeth than usual for we haven't found one yet that they can't master. We just have to keep shooing and renewing rations. I put a kilo of peanuts through the food processor last week, they and a bag of sunflower seeds are all gone again.

My internet connection came back by itself after a couple of days. Don't know why, could it have been the snow that affected it? I have a second Hub on the way from BT, I suppose I'll have to return it. We had several 2-3 inch falls of snow that lasted three days, looked beautiful and vanished in yesterday's rain.

It didn't stop us meeting friends in Cambridge for what turned out to be most of a day at the Fitzwilliam. We just forgot the cold & drizzle outside and wandered through the collections. After late lunch of good fish pie in the new courtyard cafe, we left in time to visit David's the booksellers in St Edward's Passage. It was only a quick nip over the road from there to queue for evensong at King's. The singing of the anthem - Weelkes' When David Heard was of that quality that causes moments of complete stillness to hold fast as the last notes fade away.

An exhibition of Maggi Hambling's drawings at the Fitzwilliam brought back memories of enjoying her fierceness when she was on "Gallery"- a Channel 4 arts quiz that ran for years. She used to smoke throughout, growl her answers in that deep ciggy voice and poke at the egos of such guests as Brian Sewell & Ken Russell. The drawings, often portraits, were blunt and vigorous in line, but many were full of tenderness; one of her old father clasping a woman's hand with his own emaciated fingers moved me to almost instant tears. This is the nearest image of hers that I can find to illustrate its emotion.

Way back in 1995 I wrote this in my blog:
The last of a row of bricked-round railway carriages is about to go, a ghost of rural housing practicality in the 1920's and 30's. Ten of these old coaches were the first dwellings put up along my road. We used to visit a friend in one opposite. It was primitive - with a rickety iron stove spilling ash onto the lino, its flue taking the smoke through a rough hole punched in the ceiling. Flowered wallpaper plastered the lumpy walls where the seats had been removed, the wooden floors flexed under foot; it was pretend-heaven for kids with its BR mirrors, metal ash-trays and leather window straps intact. That one was saved & restored. We are hoping that when this last one is taken apart it will be all in one piece under its masonry shell.

This week, finally, the bricks were knocked away and the old carriage emerged. I went along to take some photographs, both for personal memory and for the village archive. I have made a set of them at flickr to retain a record of one small feature of our rural social history.

A smallholder, his wife & daughter lived there from the thirties, raising free-range chickens on the large piece of land behind. I came to know the old lady well when she was widowed. A tiny, funny, arthritic, roly-poly Norfolk mawther, I loved to call on her early & find her in a miniscule parlour having her breakfast.

Sitting propped forward on an an ancient armchair she would tuck into bacon and egg from an enamel plate, mop it up with a pile of bread and butter and help it down with dark brown tea (condensed milk) in a big mug. The small open fire would be blazing, white ash dropping, the Daily Mirror lay open, the kettle whistle would blow soft tunes, it was homely, cosy, an entirely desirable lifestyle.

"Come you on in, my dare," she would say "make yourself a cup a tea. I got some footoos to shoo you. By the way, that owd bugger next door ha' been hevvin a goo at me agin. Thass jus jalousy, mingy owd thing. But thare, we muss be cha'ttable mussn't we, gal?" Once I got settled in there I could have stayed happily for hours listening to old tales in the dialect, village scandals. So, even though she has gone, it's understandable that it hurts a bit to see that funny little home taken apart.

My neighbour who owns the property tried to interest various organisations in taking away the carriage for free (apart from the considerable cost of transport). There were no takers until it stood exposed by the roadside. Then all sorts of folks started knocking at his door expressing interest. We have hopes that one of the preserved railways might take it yet.

A little thank-you to my nephew, another REM junkie, for some fabulous photographs.

Not that sort. Just galloping neck and back ache from raking up half an acre of fallen twigs, cones and branches left after the gale. Only another two and a half to go. It has to be done or the cutters get clogged with the debris later on. I picked up all the big stuff yesterday, three great arms blown off the old ash tree and pine branches everywhere. Further down the garden, the willow patch has been torn up too, there's about a day's work sawing off ripped sections and carting them to burn. They needed thinning but this is ridiculous. As I worked, a robin sang of love from the top of a stone owl. I'm pleased to say that an encouraging reply came back from the wood. The first stars were out before I finished and went inside.