Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

Heard a wonderful phrase from Dennis Skinner the oddball Labour MP for Bolsover, talking about the various Speakers of the House of Commons he had known (tantalised) over the years. Of Horace King - "Ah," he said "Horace was fine but unfortunately the Babycham got topside of him."

Clever software by Oddcast will create a speaking Halloween card to send to someone you want to put the wind up (or up whom you want to put the wind, if you prefer); I've done a couple with the wormy monster for the kids down the lane.

Have you ever considered the aesthetics of your nasal passages?

I was about to take up the telephone sales offer of using BT's TV Vision service on broadband - until I read this at troubled diva.

I've bought a decent Winsor and Newton sketchbook hoping it will get me back to a bit of regular drawing if I leave it about the place. I'm so rusty. I won't bore you with the results too often but it might be interesting to see if I can improve. This is No.1, conifers and forsythia - 20 minutes. Difficulty here was a whole bunch of very dark trees together, hence rather a lot of too heavy shadow.

I expect I'm the last to discover them but after an extensive profile seen on The Culture Show I have fallen for the music of Sigur Rós. They're an Icelandic group whose music reflects in its ethereal melodies the strange and beautiful landscapes of their homeland. Guitars, keyboard, harmonica, glockenspiel, piano, organs, flute, tin whistle, oboe, banjo and drums are used with echo to set off the high falsetto voice of lead singer Jonsi. Their later work becomes more rock oriented. You can hear a wide range of downloads here - I keep playing The Nothing Song. They're featured in the BBC's Electric Proms this week. A really great find.

Ignat Bednarik (1882 - 1963): Reading Young Man.

Went to see the rat last week, it was brilliantly drawn, scripted with enormous wit. I can't wait for the DVD to allow a longer, closer look. Sadly, it was too adult for many young children in the audience who got restless and vocal - this and two fat families with bags of popcorn spoilt things somewhat. All this eating is wrecking my cinema experience, wherever I sit I can guarantee someone cramming half a ton of Nachos will sit beside me and my quiet packet of fruit gums.

The next splendid animation will be "The Golden Compass" out in December. I'm waiting for it as avidly as I waited for each of the novels in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy to emerge - nothing to do with Craig as Asriel, of course. I re-read the books earlier this year and was as absorbed by them as before. It appears that Hollywood has toned down the anti-religious message they bear, changing the Magisterium (his metaphor for the power base of the Catholic Church) into a controlling body of the State. Pullman sighed but bit the bullet and who can blame him with two more money spinners to come.


I treated myself to Samuel Coleridge Taylor's Violin Concerto having heard one movement on the radio, it's rather slight I find after a couple of listens, another one for the back of the drawer. His life, as a black British composer in the 1890's was a tough and unusual one...
'One summer's morning in 1912, a man of 37 left home and walked to West Croydon railway station, where he bought a ticket to Crystal Palace. Before the train could puff in, he collapsed on the platform. Unaided, he staggered home to St Leonard's Road where a doctor diagnosed pneumonia and prescribed rest. The patient worked on in bed on the manuscript of a violin concerto; he died four days later.'

The score and the orchestral parts of the concerto were sent out to America for its first performance - on the Titanic. Poor Sam, he didn't have much luck.

A Post Secret that rang a bell, as so many of them do. This one seems adequately to cover the state of eventual cynicism. I had braids too when I knew nothing and stood on a bridge like this, above a boathouse, full of lightness.

Had a wonderful time, the sun shone, arrangements went like clockwork, everyone was happy. It was one of the most interesting weddings I've attended - the Rosslyn Chapel was an atmospheric and enigmatic location, the reception was lavish and, at the hotel on the shore of the Firth of Forth, we drank champagne as the sun set and the lights came up on the famous bridge. The cake was witty and the speech (rather more a 'turn') by the two groomsmen a hoot. It was truly affecting to hear the couple make their vows in a beautifully balanced service - and to watch the real joy that they found in each other's company. Hankies were widely deployed. Between sniffs, I took this set of photographs.




As well as the celebrations I managed a walk in the Pentland Hills above our hotel where I got covered in mud and affectionately assaulted by 15 dogs being walked by local kennel staff. The rowans were just changing colour and little springs bubbled up by the grass paths. On Sunday we drove out to Glen Clova through the wonderful Angus landscape and had lunch with Jo's family at the hotel there. Then we nipped over to Glamis Castle and did the interior tour. All in all a throroughly satisfactory adventure.

Getting ready to go to Scotland. Have pulled my wedding outfit together, mole/grey crepe Windsmoor trouser suit, pricey, well-cut. (In case anyone is remotely interested). I'm hoping it's quietly elegant. Have touched up my hairline in dark brown L'Oreal and vainly tried to tidy up my garden-frayed finger nails. Who will be looking at me anyway when my dear neffe and Jo get married on Friday at the Rosslyn Chapel? Meeting up with the family at Stansted tomorrow to fly up to Edinburgh together. Will be back on Monday next with a few photographs. I think it's going to be a lot of fun.