a bite in the neck

Walking with Grace

2012-02-12T20:55:00.001Z

Ilchester…formerly known as Lindinis…reminds me of Cornwall: nothing’s happening but there’s a lot of pubs. And it’s cold. However, the dental surgery wears a large poster on its façade claiming to house the dentist of the year for Wales and the south west which is reasonably impressive. Suspiciously, however, the shop at the petrol station claims to be retailer of the year which is miraculous given that only 2000 people live here. Mind you, perhaps they don’t get out much; except to vote.

We want the Sunday papers. There are quite a few spare copies of the Western Gazette to be had. Not quite what we had in mind as we repair to an Italian restaurant for lunch – cue Billy Joel. The proprietor claims to originate in Sorrento and looks as if he does. He speaks with a Yeovil accent. It doesn’t matter; we’re merely passing pasta-time before we head a few miles west for the main event of the day.

There’s a problem…isn’t there always? There are four pages of information and instructions but no address. There’s a postcode to put into your sat nav. We haven’t got a sat nav so we try the traditional method: ask the locals who are hiding inside one of the pubs. The ensuing directions seem complicated but, in following them closely, we do, in fact, arrive at our destination: Grace’s house. We’re going for a walk with Grace.

Grace is three years old. She’s the Harris Hawk I met last summer at Glastonbury Abbey and it’s taken me all this time to catch up with her again.

Off we tramp across the muddiest fields that Somerset has on offer. Potentially deterred by the threat of snow, we are now told that they’ve never experienced mud like it. Due to the mild winter, the ground has been churned excessively by cattle but we have proper wellies. None of that plastic rubbish for us: I learnt a welly lesson very quickly in Cornwall and possess the best of the green rubber variety; likewise, the man-child who was despatched to B & Q yesterday to purchase said footwear.

As for Grace, she can float above it all and merely laughs at us in that hawkish way of hers as we sink further into the mire. She’s a canny one. She sits in bare, photogenic trees for us and perches amongst the winter brambles pretending to spy upon sparrows, but all the time she’s watching for the legs of baby chicks that are sporadically thrust into our gauntlets.

Then down she swoops to take the pickings. If we’re lucky, she’ll rest awhile and we can proudly walk a few yards with her before boredom sets in and she’s off again. We tramp through field after soggy field in this manner but, strangely, we’ve stopped worrying about the mud and the cold wind and the after effects of our Italian lunch. We’re too busy watching Grace. When our hostess proudly shows us a huge badger set and points out the paw prints, this treat is almost ignored. We want the thrill of Grace back on our arm.

That country walk, which, in any other circumstance, would have been tiresome, is over far too quickly. Grace knows her duty has been done and joins her compatriots. We drive back to Dorset having experienced the best of Sunday afternoons.

Who’s afeard?

2012-01-14T00:10:00.001Z

So, on this bitterly cold January night, we head back to the heights of Durlston Castle where the jet black sky is packed with enough stars to put the Cornish firmament to shame. Light and traffic pollution is non-existent up on this cliff-top. The only sound comes from the waves beating on the shore far below where bottle-nosed dolphins swim silently in the freezing winter sea. Time and tide wait for no man although, inside the castle, they wait for us; the late arrivals to a hidden performance by the folk group of the same name. In the middle of nowhere, I spy the welcome and unexpected surprise of missing friends from the past, also gathered to listen to the songs and tales of long-gone Dorset sea-dogs and smugglers. The yellow standard with the red-edged, white cross is draped to the fore.

Here am I, bold Jack, just lately come from cruising now the wars are o’er.

No, it’s not the man-child returned from distant climes but another Jack who took the King’s shilling to escape a cruel, apprenticeship. With his buttons shining, he preferred the battlegrounds of the Napoleonic wars to rural hardship. Jack’s mother had to be propped against the stone walls of the cottage, her jelly-legs having given way on first sight of her son after twelve despairing years. His boots were, at last, back on beloved Dorset clay despite his infirm and speechless father having mourned his son’s presumed death.

While the battle rages loud and long, the stormy winds do blow

Sailors, enlisted and pressed, fought the elements along our otherwise tranquil Dorset coastline. In 1786, two hundred and forty men and women fell from the East Indiaman, the Halsewell, into treacherous waters off Worth Matravers. Alongside most of the crew, the women drowned, weighed down by their skirts and petticoats. Above, the quarrymen, alerted to the wreck, hauled seventy-four souls up the cliff to safety.

We’re raking the moon, sirs, for the girt smiling cheeses lie there in the pool

And only tonight did I learn what a Moonraker was. The line from the song refers to the answer that smugglers gave to excise men on being asked what they were doing with their poles in the water. Simple Dorset folk, who thought the moon’s reflection on the sea was a round yellow cheese, were playing the simpleton’s role. In truth, they were searching for fine cognac and other contraband purposely disposed of near the coast.

But the boats are coming through the night

It doesn’t end in the distant past, boys. There are enough stories of the bravery of lifeboat men to make you want to give them all your money. I’m amazed the RNLI fundraisers don’t cotton on to their emotive history more proficiently. And, of course, there’s June, 1944. If you think sea-dogs and shanties were lost in the seas of the very distant past, think again. The little boats of Dorset sailed bravely to the shores of Dunkirk whilst, later, the bigger ones left Poole to land on the beaches of Normandy. Our songs tonight told tales of those who were aboard on their first voyage. Who’s afeard?

Singing the New Year blues

2012-01-12T20:28:00.001Z

I hate this time of year. You go to work when the stars are out and come home when they’re back again. Before that, you have to decide whether or not to go for a swim before work which means getting up whilst the owls are still hooting and taking a random guess at what to wear because global warming has resulted in no clue as to what the day might hold weather-wise. Then you have to plan the timing in order that you leave the leisure club…leisure?... at a point early enough to miss the school run but late enough to pick up a coffee on the way. And should it be a coffee or could it be a hot chocolate which is more filling. Too many decisions for that time of day.

Then there’s the compulsory post-Christmas diet. An early rise precludes breakfast so a healthy banana, tucked in the work-bag, is good for the conscience but comprises an insufficient, and generally subsequently bruised meal. Which necessitates the purchase of a healthy/unhealthy flapjack: healthy because it’s full of roughage and unhealthy because it sits in your stomach like a large, sodden brick for several hours afterwards.

The winter evenings might as well be written off. They start at 4pm and finish about seventeen hours later. You get home, full of good intentions to clean the place up a bit, put the heating on, draw the curtains and fall asleep. Around five o clock, aged parents phone with the aim of having an enthusiastic conversation about something or other. Bleary-eyed and incapable of making any decisions other than picking up the receiver…and this is a BAD decision…the conversation has to be resumed a couple of hours later. By this time, the sun has theoretically passed over the yard-arm of aged parents’ planet and they can’t talk coherently, having imbibed the aperitif, eaten their complicated dinner and joined those in the land of the ‘asleep in front of the television’ set.

Meanwhile, you have your own dinner to consider. The plan to cook something healthy whilst drinking a glass of red deteriorates into drinking three glasses of red and speaking to younger members of the family who are also recovering from the working day.

What are you having for dinner asks daughter number two?
I found two courgettes in the fridge I say
There are always two courgettes in your fridge
Yes. Possibly, they’re the same two courgettes. Anyway, I’ve cooked them with some onions, covered them with cheese and shoved them in the oven.
Are they still there?
What?
The two courgettes

Oh. I’d forgotten about them

Last night I went straight from work to meet a friend at the cinema. She was hungry and so was I. We went for dinner. Then we went home at twenty past seven without seeing the film because we were too tired to stay out any longer.

It’s life Jim, but not as we know it.

Not quite what you'd expect

2012-01-03T14:19:00.000Z

To be fair, you wouldn’t anticipate there being anything or anyone left in Kilmainham Prison. Last man out was Eamon de Valera in 1924. Eighty eight years down the line and it’s bound to be a bit quiet. So what’s that tap, tap, tapping then?

Leonie and I are at the very end of a tour party numbering around fifty folk; and a very cosmopolitan bunch they are. We can’t see our knowledgeable guide, Michael, but we can still hear him. We can still hear that tapping business too. I peer through the spy-hole of the cell door from where the noise issues. It stops.

Did you hear that?
Yes. Listen it’s started again
Tap, tap, tap

I turn back to the spy-hole and take a furtive photograph.

The tapping stops again.

Oh my God mum, I can’t believe you just did that.
Tap, tap, tap.

And to be fair, you would expect to see something in the Dublin City Gallery. Pictures, for example. And have equally knowledgeable men who sit in the corners of rooms waiting to tell you all about the contents. Oh look. There’s one.
Excuse me. Where are the impressionist paintings please?

Brendan sighs, puts down the newspaper he was reading and stands up wearily

I’ll show you the room
Thank-you
There aren’t any fecking pictures though.
Oh?

We follow him into a large gallery. He’s right. On the walls are all the name plates but no paintings.

Do yooz want to know what happened here?
Yes please we say, thinking there must have been some sort of catastrophe.
The gob-sh***s took them down. There’s no fecking money to pay to maintain the temperature. Monet’s, Manet’s…you name them, we had them. Now the place is full of fecking cr**. I’ll show you.

We enter another gallery, this with some paintings. Brendan points to an unattractive image of a woman.
Do you know who that ugly bitch is? Mary fecking Robinson. Our first female president. Female! Jayzus. She was so fecking ugly, even the tide wouldn’t take her out. You’d want to be fecking pis*** to take her home. Mind you, that painting’s not as bad as the real thing. You can’t see her fecking beard. Do you want to see some more?

Well, actually we do because this is the best art tour we’ve ever been on. Here’s a room full of inexplicable pictures. Brendan stops in front of one that looks like a blue bucket.

Do yooz know what that is?
No.
No. You’d have to be on fecking acid to work that out. What fecking gob-sh*** did that? What the feck is it? It’s a fecking disgrace. And look at that! More fecking cr**.

We look round politely, but Brendan’s had enough.
Where are yooz from?
The south coast of England.
Oh really? I was there once for seven years.
Oh..how interesting.
Yes and I wish I was fecking back there instead of this gob-sh*** of a country. And he strides off.

The next room is full of large paintings: a red one, a green one and so on. There is another man sat on another chair in another corner.

Good morning we say. Your colleague doesn’t seem very happy today.
He tells it like it is. Would you like to sit here all day looking at this cr**? Eight fecking hours a day staring at a blue fecking wall.
Yes, it must be tricky we sympathise.
Have yooz been upstairs yet?
No
Well if yooz think this is cr** you’d want to see the fecking boll***s upstairs. Fecking Margaret Thatcher over a fecking bed. Tony fecking Blair in a fecking cowboy’s outfit. Fecking cr**. Get up there and see it. It’s a fecking disgrace.

We can’t wait and bid him a happy new year

One thing leads to…a moment in time

2011-12-29T22:06:00.004Z

I’m always writing. It’s more than a hobby; it’s a necessity. When I took my sabbatical year in Provence in 2007, I wrote a whole book. Eighty thousand words. And yet I failed to mention a small incident which I suddenly recalled this evening. Perhaps it seemed inconsequential at the time. Possibly I failed to recognise that the other person involved would still be my good friend five years down the line and in another country.

Post Christmas, feeling a bit down, I took myself to the sales. Well, just one sale actually, but, nonetheless, very satisfactory. The dress and top I’d yearned for two months ago were available for half the price as was a pair of shiny, flat black patent shoes (not those I mentioned in a previous blog, but as good as). And a pair of baggy black trousers with white stars…a stellar purchase if ever there was one. Of course, as the shoes had no heels, the trousers were too long.

It’s always tricky taking up a pair of trousers on your own. You really need someone else to pin up the bottoms in order to achieve an even hem. And whilst I was mulling this over, I was unexpectedly transported back to the tiny village of Graveson in the south of France where I was standing on the dining table of someone I barely knew. Beverley was doing her best with my new, fresh from Avignon, Armand Thiery trousers.

I’d arrived alone in an unknown place where I knew no-one so I advertised my presence at a shop whose main customers were ex-pats – Best of British.
English woman seeks friends.
Well, no good beating about the bush. And Beverley answered my call. Beverley had led a peaceful existence up until then. Later, her daughter would tell me:

My mother just used to sit in the sun and read before you arrived.

Sorry Bev. She should’ve told me sooner. I misjudged that one.

Bev took me to St Remy for a quiet coffee. I took Bev to Avignon for shopping and lunch and people-watching. I made Bev and Martin come and eat in my tiny bed-sit. I instigated walks where we got lost in the heat of the day. Together, we organised a bilingual wake. I helped them move house and virtually moved in. I was a NOISY interruption.

When I was ill, she didn’t believe me and made me walk around St Paul de Mausole before leaving me in the car-park outside Intermarche whilst she went in to buy meat that no-one would eat.

They didn’t eat it because she’d rushed me to the hospital where she waited for hours. She got my daughter over, housed and fed her, visited me for a week and took me back to her house on the eighth day for recuperation.

For want of a nail maybe. For want of a few pins I found a lovely friend.

English woman seeks friends.

Another one bites the dust

2011-12-27T23:18:00.002Z

And off they went. Half a league, half a league. Some to the north; some to the west. Some so far away I have no idea of direction. Cannon to the right of them. Cannon to the left of them. Cannon in front of them. And a shed load of cannon behind them. And none with a mobile phone between them that works. Or if it does, you’re not allowed to use it. The man-child sends a text which reads

It costs me £1.27 to send a text. There’s another £1.27 gone then son.

Here’s a couple of puzzled looking folk. Perhaps they’re wondering how long it will take to clean the joint up. Not long. Three loads of washing, some dusting and vacuuming. A sensible decision to ignore the carnage in the fridge. A replacement of garden chairs. Bob’s your uncle. Fanny’s your aunt. Job done. Man-child sends a message. Having made the effort to post some photos so he can see Christmas in Poole from a distance, he writes to say he’s noticed his slippers seem to be on his brother-in-law’s feet. Was there a man dismayed?

And boldly we will ride and well tomorrow as we make our way into the jaws of death. Well, Clarke’s Village at Street to be exact. Off to spend a tiny portion of our Christmas box. And afterwards, weather permitting, a brief jaunt up to the top of Glastonbury Tor or, perhaps, a quiet moment at the Chalice Well. This before we return to Dorset, shattered and sundered, to celebrate our newest festivity…the Feast of the Leftovers.

This entails some careful planning: four crackers between six people. Three ancient jacket spuds cut into segments for frying. Some bacon cooked in ginger (an additional ingredient which nobody noticed the first time round). Seven orange segments in brandy. An unopened Stollen. A recently discovered packet of pitta bread which, by tomorrow, may have turned blue. No loaves and no fishes but three bottles of wine and no reason to get up early the following day. Honour the charge they made.

And here's me wearing an appropriate Christmas outfit

Bah humbug

2011-12-22T22:14:00.004Z

Three sleeps before Christmas and I’m in Sainsbury’s at 7pm. Actually, that needs qualifying: three sleeps if you can sleep. Something weird was going on last night. I went to sleep at 11.30pm and woke up at what I thought must be about 6am...wide awake, in fact…and discovered it was 1am. Damn and blast it. At 2.30am, the dawn chorus started. What? The birds shut up and went back to bed at 3.15am equally confused. The next door neighbour’s racoon was scrabbling frantically and noisily around in its Wendy House. The BBC World Service informed me that, in Mexico, the countdown for the end of the world, according to the Mayan calendar, had begun. I worried about my Christmas menu for another hour. The winter solstice…the longest night of the year. Get on with it. Things to do; people to see.

I only went to Sainsbury’s because I still believe it to be a bit more up-market than Tesco and I was
looking for some imitation caviar. I haven’t been there since I had an unpleasant accident in the car park a couple of years ago so I didn’t know they’d rebuilt it. I spoke to a jovial looking type on the door.

When did this happen then?
About two months ago
It looks very impressive
You can’t find a bloody thing in here any more says he.

To be fair, he was telling the truth
Yesterday, we had a family outing to Longleat and it was wonderful. It’s the first year they’ve ‘done Christmas’ at Lord Bath’s joint and I have a suspicion that it will go down in history as the best. The staff fell over themselves to be kind, pleasant and helpful; nothing could be remarked upon as being over the top and you could choose the timing of your events beforehand. It was almost understated. The best bit was the Santa Special. We thought it was just the Jungle Express with a bit of tinsel until we rounded a corner and found ourselves at the snow-covered North Pole. We disembarked and walked past the open log fire up to Santa’s shed. Each child had an especially chosen gift and the cheerful St Nick knew everyone’s names. (I forgot that, when I booked this in September, I’d submitted names and DOB). Back on the train, Santa came down the path and waved us off. Fabulous.

And in Sainsbury’s, I can’t find the so-called caviar. I’ve had three different people unsuccessfully search the aisles. Neither do they have any smoked salmon or anything else that might satisfactorily sit on my blinis. Blinis which, incidentally, are not available at Tesco according to their website and which Leonie purchased, perchance, at…Tesco. I tell the man from the butcher’s counter not to bother as I’ve lost the will to live and along comes a dear friend with her husband. No sleep and stuck in this ridiculous place with the only consolation being that I won’t have to do this next year as the world will have ended. Then I get introduced to the husband. Talk about a laugh a minute. She’s so nice. How did she end up with him? I can’t wait to get home and have some fun sticking pencils in my eyes.

In Wareham this afternoon, we go to Re-loved. You just know it’s going to be a nice shop with a name like that. Old stuff: some of it as it was and some recycled. My eye is caught by a beautiful 1930’s necklace which I silently admire before moving on. Ten minutes later, Leonie spots it

Look at this

And the kind shop-owner allows her to try it on. And, with thoughts of a wedding, Leonie buys it. And the shop-owner wraps the purchase with all the care and taste of a French sales-person. In each shop, regardless of whether we buy anything, there is conversation and shared delight of the unique goods on offer.

And in Sainsbury’s, I stand alone, minus the imitation caviar, in a state of depression. The man-child has called from Thailand and I was out. The woman on the checkout is sympathetic.

What were you looking for?

I can barely bring myself to mention the fish roe. They’ve already sent someone off on a mission to find the vanilla pods. Now, against my wishes, they send someone to locate the caviar. I know they won’t find it. Just as I’ve paid for my purchases, a woman returns brandishing a small jar of said roe.

Bugger. I wanted two of them but I haven’t the heart to say so.

Did something right then

2011-12-20T22:41:00.000Z

We were down at Boscombe Vintage Market the other day. It was freezing in the Royal Arcade so we all met up in Café Nero for a welcome cup of hot chocolate. My, but it sounds salubrious…ROYAL arcade no less; Café Nero. It belies the fact that Boscombe is, I believe, officially the second poorest area in Europe. Metal shutters on virtually every building…it reeks of poverty and drugs.

My girls, who were brought up here, don’t perceive it that way though. For example, they don’t see the spillage-covered tables of Café Nero that are piled high with other people’s leftovers. They don’t know that I had to ask for a key to use the loo. They only see the place that used to house Jones’ shoe shop as they reminisce across the dirty crockery of the past.

Do you remember the rocking horse?
I wonder what ever happened to that
We always had to have the same shoes
You could have red, blue or brown
Those ones with the three little holes on the front
I used to look longingly at the black patent ones on the next shelf
(I used to have the same ones when I was a child I recall)
Be fair though. Mum always made sure she spent the money on proper shoes for us.

There wasn’t much money I remind them
No. But do you remember when we went to buy me a new dress in Laura Ashley?
What were we doing in Laura Ashley I don’t say
We were going to buy a cheap dress but I saw that lovely one with all the screwed up stitches on the front
Smocking?
Yes smocking. You said it was too expensive but I started to cry so you bought it for me.

Good grief. That doesn’t sound like me. (It gets better)

Yes. And because you bought Leonie one, you bought me one in a different colour
But we had to keep them for best. Just for parties and stuff
They were lovely those dresses

I don’t remember any of this. We must have gone without something in order to finance such expense. Those two. They have no idea how touched I am that they have kept and shared this memory.

On the way back to the car, we pass the fish and chip shop.

Look. It’s the same man in the chip shop says Leonie.

God. How awful to have been stuck in this place for over twenty years. What happened to his life? These are more unexpressed thoughts

He was so nice to us she says
Perhaps you could go and say hello and get a free bag of chips I remark half-jokingly
Do you think he’ll remember the pictures we used to draw for him asks my 31 year old daughter?

God knows. I’d forgotten all about them along with the Laura Ashley dresses

I thought we lived in a grotty place all those years ago. I thought I hadn’t done very well when it came to providing them with a decent place to live in. They escaped before I managed to. Maybe it was me they were running from.

Christmassy

2011-12-19T19:19:00.001Z

Over at my favourite cinema, the Rex in Wareham, it’s jumping. Being barred from going upstairs – they’re not ready for you yet – scores of us are trapped in the tiny foyer where there’s an opportunity to buy a couple of books on Dorset and some raffle tickets to win a meal at Moreton Tea Rooms. We don’t want any of this but the ladies in aprons are relentless. We escape to the bar which, being about five feet square, is also packed to the hilt. Leonie manages to order a festive Baileys. Bob the barman pours a generous measure or three into a large glass and estimates the cost to be £2. It’s a fair price. Eventually, we’re allowed into the auditorium.

Glass of mulled wine asks a friendly type with a flask.
Why not?

We peruse (and taste) the local olives, crisps, cold meats and mince pies before finding a seat to listen to the four-strong brass band playing carols. I don’t need to tell regular readers about this place. It used to be the last gas-lit cinema in England but they’ve finally conceded to health and security requisites and installed electricity. The seats are the same though: hard but comfortable.

Anthea ascends the stage and introduces the evening. There will be a short seasonal film, especially notable for having won an Oscar in 1869, followed by an interval. During the latter, there will be Christmas pudding flavoured ice-cream for sale. A collective mmmmmmmmm permeates the room accompanied by a loud rustling and jingling as folk reach for their token contribution. It’s Margaret’s birthday. Everyone looks to the aisle to see who Margaret is before the band strikes up that familiar tune and we all sing in congratulatory tones. The noisier part of the audience has missed the introduction.

Whose birthday is it?
Don’t know. Jesus?

And an ancient but enjoyable ‘short’ commences to be followed by an agreeable round of applause.

It’s the interval and the ice-cream event is carnage. Clearly, the organisers are confused by the bonhomie which they did not expect. I have collected money from a number of people in my row that I didn’t know half an hour ago. Leonie stands up and asks for nine ice-creams.

How many asks the incredulous usherette.
Nine please

The people in the row behind us are told, rather abruptly, only one per person.
Then there are not enough spoons. Some people have to wait until more are rushed out. Leonie, forever on the wedding diet, is the only person in the place without an ice-cream. (She might as well have had one as later she’ll be cooking late-night toast).

The main feature commences. It’s the 1945 version of Christmas in Connecticut. And very funny it is too. The woman sitting behind me is in fits of laughter throughout and keeps telling everyone how they used to watch films like this. Afterwards, I remark to Leonie that had this appeared on TV at home, we would’ve immediately switched it off. Here, however, in this delicious company, we thoroughly enjoyed it.

Outside in the cold, dark Dorset night, we admire Wareham’s sparse but pretty Christmas lights. And a multitude of stars.
It smells like winter says Leonie.

O'er all the weary world

2011-12-08T21:59:00.002Z

It begins again, but, this year, almost imperceptibly. To say I’m not organised is an understatement. Arriving late at work the other day, I noticed that I had my dress on back to front. It doesn’t bode well. The first week in December and normally I’d have the presents purchased and wrapped; possibly, even placed under the tree. The tree doesn’t yet exist and neither do most of the gifts. My turkey is not waiting its turn on the butcher’s list because there isn’t going to be a turkey. What might replace the foul fowl is, as yet, undecided. At what point will Christmas begin? Actually, looking in my diary, I find it might have started without me noticing. Seven nights out on the trot and that doesn’t include daytime celebrations.

We went over to the Rex at Wareham last night to see Andrea Arnold’s new take on Wuthering Heights. This is not for the faint-hearted or those seeking bonnets. Life at the farmhouse was dirty and vicious. Some of the sparse audience got up and left. Perhaps they were expecting Keira Knightly. It was so atmospheric that we had to cover ourselves with our coats to stave off the wind from the Yorkshire moors. That might just have been the Rex though. Jocelyn, from the ticket office, came in to watch the second half of the film and promptly fell asleep in the front row. Loudly. We’re talking snoring here. Emotionally exhausted, we made our dark way back to the car. We’re going to see a professional story-teller doing A Christmas Carol on Monday. Chrissie says it will be more uplifting. Don’t count your turkeys…

Tonight, the carol service. It’s a dilemma for those of us that don’t really believe in the story but like the music. The torrential rain beats down on the wooden roof of the church but can’t drown out the sounds of our singing. Sue and I are sat behind friends. During the mince pies and chocolate- covered ginger biscuit preamble, I’ve already mentioned to everyone that I can’t hold a tune but, to my left, is a woman with a loud and beautiful voice. The friends in front keep turning round to look. They think it’s me; that I’ve been joking about my musical abilities. The choir offer renditions of French and Cornish Christmas songs. How apposite that they’ve chosen the places where I’ve spent the last year. And how thankful I am to be in Dorset and not falling off the map in Barbary.

Tomorrow it’s the Christmas lunch at work and Saturday sees us at Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. Meanwhile, I receive a short message from the million-miles-away travelling man-child to tell me Laos is beautiful. I knew it would be. The next time I have any money I’m going to the Mekong Delta. For now, after a transient year, I’m sticking with regained friends and cherished customs.

And which Christmas carol does the title of this blog come from?

Some other world

2011-11-20T19:04:00.002Z

We leave Havenpoole early in the evening, heading off into the darkness of South Wessex. Being all too familiar with what is now the A35, we have no need of light nor signage, although the passing beams allow the sad sight of the remains of one of many deer; the detritus of those speeding vehicles whose owners are unaware of woodlands close at hand. Here, buzzards will soar with their juveniles on daytime tracking sorties, but for now the night consumes all until we reach the glow of Casterbridge.

Onwards, passing the garrison, we turn onto the gloomy route to Ivell and search for the road to Chalk Newton. Down, down into the valley of the Frome, we could be anywhere at any time as all sense of direction and orientation is lost. Or abandoned. The ancient engraved stump of what was once the village cross marks both our arrival and the meeting point of past Christmas revellers. The scent of old wood smoke clings to the damp November air and little is visible as we make our way to be greeted by our friends and their old adopted black dog. It’s a strange and slightly disorientating sensation to be locked into the timeless warmth of an ageless house in deepest Dorset where we drink heady wine from Spain, eat the food of the Far East and listen to music from all corners of the world.

In the morning, our location is no more apparent than it had been the night before. The mist hangs heavily as I wander in pleasing isolation down the dew laden garden. The ground is littered with the fallen spills of autumn and a single pale pink rose towers defiantly. Later, as we walk along the moody river bank in borrowed footwear, searching for missing crayfish, I am told that the day is probably far brighter in other environs: the valley cloaks the reality of life in the wider world. And briefly, we discuss Hardy because we are so obviously entombed in a timeless place where news from elsewhere must be brought by travellers; or, on this day, via the Sunday newspapers. And I resolve to locate the missing story which, reader, does not have a happy ending.

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/8995/

Not looking for the sympathy vote

2011-11-16T09:18:00.000Z

It’s an exquisite November morning in Dorset: cold enough to cause anxieties for the primates I’ve just passed in Monkey World but with bright sunshine that streams through autumnal orange trees. It creates a mystical haze over the Purbeck ridge which I can see across the fields from my vantage point. I silently salute the gathered magpies on the dew-laden grass and think longingly of the sea which I know will be glistening beyond, over in Lulworth, just as it did when Hardy was so inspired by these environs.

Well, to be fair, although Hardy gave literary credence to Woolbridge, just down the road, I’m not convinced he would’ve been particularly inspired by my current location. I’m sat inside one of many red brick buildings that comprise a mini-estate known as a green (that’s green as in eco) technology park in Winfrith. And I’m here, with about 40 other assorted reprobates who, some time in the last six weeks, have been caught speeding in their motor vehicles.

It cost a pretty penny to be here: you can pay the fine, take the points and leave quietly; or you can pay extra and come to Winfrith where, effectively, they buy the points back from you. It’s a new deal. Previously, only the selected few got the opportunity, but times are hard and the police need all the funds they can get. For all of us, it’s worth the investment although there are considerable mutterings to be heard as we have to pay for our early morning caffeine shots. We anticipate four hours of lectures on the implications of speeding.

In fact, it’s only three hours and the knowledgeable and jolly instructors are keen to instil the idea that that we are here not because of speeding, but because of distraction. They are kind, polite and extremely respectful and at the end, following an impromptu round of applause, they shake your hand and wish you well. I don’t think I have ever driven as carefully as I did on the way home.

In the afternoon, I went to the job centre because it’s Tuesday and I am a ‘Tuesday Person’. A couple of weeks ago, I went on a Wednesday because I was told to and got into all sorts of trouble for not knowing I was a Tuesday Person. The economic climate being what it is, there are all sorts of clients at the job centre. Clearly, they expect trouble because there are always at least three security men on guard. Generally, these guys spend their time looking at their phones and discussing how drunk they intend to get that evening. This is because there are no people causing problems. There is always at least one person crying but this is just a nuisance, not TROUBLE.

Who are you seeing today they ask?
I don’t know. No-one ever gives their name.
You’re seeing Simon.
Well, why ask then?

Simon turns out to be a rude and surly being who is cross because I can’t come next Tuesday. I can’t go next Tuesday because I have casual work (which I have declared).

But you’re a ‘Tuesday Person’ he argues.
Surely it’s better if I go to a job which has the potential of becoming permanent I suggest.
Yes, but then you’ll have to come on Wednesday he argues aggressively.

I leave dejected and depressed. The job centre in Poole has one of the highest rates in the country of speedy re-employment. It’s my contention that this is because no-one in their right mind can stand being treated like something nasty stuck to someone’s shoe. Do they think that we’re there from choice? It’s a blip in our circumstances which will soon be remedied. Wait until it’s their turn.

A cunning plan

2011-11-14T00:14:00.011Z

Daughter number one has a cunning plan. If we leave Glastonbury around twenty minutes before the end of the carnival, we will beat the thousands of others also trying to exit the town. We strategically place our collapsible chairs on the pavement at the end of an alley leading to the car-park ready for the quick getaway. We do this at 3.30pm which is roughly about four hours before the carnival will commence and six hours before the estimated time of departure. No-one else has put out their chairs yet and Lisa, who is a Glastonbury virgin, is embarrassed to set up camp and immediately leave. We have no such qualms being old hands; we know that, for one Saturday in November, this street in a small Somerset town will eventually become lined with fishing seats, deck chairs, sun beds, picnic hampers and other regalia normally associated with the beach in August.

Having decided to split into pairs, we re-group within minutes at The Blue Note Café courtyard where the obligatory hot chocolate is as ritualistic as the evening dog burger and chips will be later. Three hot chocolates with everything and one with nothing. Everything = cream, maltesers, flakes and sprinkles. Mine is the unblemished one. I am holier than thou and they look thoughtful. And we all look at the weird and wonderful world of Glastonbury as it opens its ancient doors to more tourists than it can reasonably cope with.
In fact, my favourite three storey emporium has closed before five. We are not to be thwarted and knock on the door. The shop assistant stares out anxiously.

You’re not closed are you? I ask with polite incredulity
Yes. I can’t cope with so many people.
Get a grip man. It’s carnival day. You’ll make a fortune. Actually, I don’t say this. I assume my pathetic face.
Could you let us in please? There are just the two of us and we really like your shop.

Amazingly, he unlocks the door, hurries us inside and locks the door again quickly. Of course, now we feel obliged to buy something but that shouldn’t be a problem. Up and up we climb the rickety staircases, quite alone in the vastness of this Tardis-like building, oohing and aahing at the eclectic mix of goods. Daughter number two decides to buy three cushions and asks for a discount based on the fact that she’s taking them off the shop assistant’s hands. I’m shocked at her cheek. Where does she get such nerve? The worried shop assistant immediately deducts £8 and sends us on our way, firmly locking the door behind us.

Now here’s a thing: later, we discover that daughter number one and Lisa had been in the same shop just before us. With just the two of them on the top floor, they are joined by a couple of ghosts. Well, that’s what they said, but they do indeed have some inexplicable photographic evidence. And later still, whilst I am in an endless toilet queue in the George and Pilgrims, the three pass by the closed and empty shop and look up to see a white haired lady in the upstairs window.

There is a flaw to the escape plan: it only works if you’re at the end of the town where the procession begins. We are not. We are at a point which takes the floats 45 minutes to reach; so all the early escapees from the beginning of the carnival are already streaming out. We are the only folk leaving the car-park and the only ones on the first couple of roads and it’s looking good. Then we hit the first road block, become lost in a small industrial estate, drive backwards down a one way road and reach the second road block. We open a window and ask a passing pedestrian how we might find the road to Yeovil.

Turn left at the roundabout says he. Easy enough except the left turn at the roundabout is blocked. We ask one of many important men dressed in high viz jackets how we might find a road to Yeovil. It’s a conundrum.

Well, you need the Street bypass, says he. But you won’t make it through. You could go straight on over but you’ll end up on the peat moors and you don’t want to go there. No, we definitely don’t like the sound of the peat moors.

Of course, he continues, your sat nav won’t work round here and it certainly won’t work on the peat moors. Damn those peat moors.
The only thing you can try is to pass over two roundabouts, cross the little bridge and turn left.

So that’s what we do. With absolutely no idea of our location, and having lost all sense of direction, we make our way along a lonely lane and after about three miles cross a little bridge; whereupon, we we’re faced with the headlights of a thousand other lost vehicles and no left turn. We have to go right: no other option and as we snake along a track that becomes narrower and narrower with ditches the size of moats on either side, we know one thing only – we are on the wretched peat moors.

It’s ok says daughter number one. The sat nav says we’re on a red road.
Yes, but the arrow’s pointing in the opposite direction. Are you sure you reset it or is it still on Glastonbury?
Daughter number two tells me to shut up before proceeding to tell daughter number one how to drive. Lisa puts on an old Petula Clark favourite and we pass our time by singing along. Well I do; that lot are too young and only know one word.

Downtown we yell into the darkness.
Why aren’t there any other cars on this road questions Lisa?
Lisa is told to shut up.

Downtown.

We’re lost on the bloody peat moors says Lisa
Shut up
Downtown

Reader, we were saved by modern technology and good road skills. To be fair, there were four of us driving that car so we were in with a chance. AND we escaped the clutches of the monster from the peat moors AND were safely ensconced in the Royal Oak, Dorchester by 11pm in time for a welcome glass of rouge.

Downtown.

Going home

2011-11-08T18:30:00.001Z

Sunday trains are always a gamble. Sometimes they don’t run. The train from Bromley North to Waterloo East is an example. Despite having been sold a ticket for said transport, there are no trains on the line due to engineering works; which entails going from Bromley South to Victoria, to Green Park, to Oxford Circus to…yawn. This convoluted route means that, in my guise as aged parent – a title previously accorded to my own mother and father – I have to be accompanied by daughter number two in order that she can explain to various railway employees along the way why I shouldn’t have to purchase another six tickets. At my time of life, and up from the country, I’m not allowed to speak for myself.

What awaits me on a Sunday, at what Bridget refers to as ‘Big Waterloo’, is also an unknown quantity: will there be more challenges involving cancellations, deviations or buses? Or will it merely be a case of traversing most of the home and south counties, always ensuring I am in one of the front five carriages, as those at the rear are lost along the way? My travelling companions seem equally confused to be on their way to Dorchester North when all they wanted to do was to put their feet up on their settees in front of the TV in Guildford. A surprisingly large number of folk leave the train at Havant, apparently having ever given up hope of seeing civilisation again. Some sense of normality is finally regained once we attain landfall at Southampton, whereupon a young boy embarks with two budgerigars in a small cage.

You don’t see those very often these days I remark pleasantly.
Young boy, who has no comparable memory of old ladies covering Billy with a tea-towel for the night, a tea-towel with a pointy edge which cloaks an ancient cuttlefish, smiles wanly but politely.
What are their names? Young boy assumes more interest.
The blue one is Marcus and the yellow one is Holly.
I run out of continuing conversation and watch the budgies silently open and close their beaks like twins speaking a secret language.

I am seated near the toilets which have a circular sliding door that seals itself closed with frightening efficiency the minute a passenger enters. I’d like to use this facility but I’m terrified of becoming trapped inside. This is not an unjustified phobia for now comes the sound of frantic knocking from within. Somewhere towards Brockenhurst a man leaning against the window, drinking from what I surmise to be not an isolated tin of lager, becomes vaguely alerted.

I can’t get out comes a muffled voice.

The budgies have perked up and we watch with interest as Lager Man falls forward and presses every button he can locate without losing his balance.
I’m trapped comes the sound of the near hysterical entombed being.
Lager Man is now on a mission to remember the sequence of keys necessary to contact the aliens in Close Encounters. And finally, he releases the imprisoned victim.
Thank God says the prisoner. I thought I was in there until Weymouth.

Daughter number two has a new home, hence the visit. She and her fiancé - an old-fashioned word, but one to which I am drawn because it goes some way to explaining the up and coming events which are in danger of denying my family any other interest in world events - are keen to extol the virtues of living in a delightful bijou terraced house in the leafier part of Bromley. I am camping on a futon in the sitting room. I don’t know what distinguishes a futon from a settee but I have a cold and it’s warm and I look forward to the rustle of leaves which I have been told is the only potentially disturbing noise I can expect. The people next door arrive home, share an unpleasant argument with the rest of the street and resolve it by holding an impromptu party.

Around 3am, the neighbours decide that winter has kicked in and start chopping up firewood. We country folk know that this is what’s happening but tomorrow I will be told that the fiancé has suggested that the noise emanates from aged mother downstairs. What does he think I was doing? Whittling an ear trumpet from a branch of ancient willow? Daughter number two comes down and prepares for battle, suitably dressed in pyjamas skinned from a number of Friesian cattle. I am impressed, as are the neighbours. The noise subsides but just as I am drifting off to a germ infested slumber, the burglar alarm on the other side of the house commences an intolerable wailing which will continue until the dawn chorus has given up and migrated to Wapping.

Unlike the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay, with whom I have recently assumed some empathy, I have a handy supply of Kleenex and mange to insert six in each ear. By five in the morning, this has reduced the siren to an incessant drumming and in desperation, and with some fortitude, I manage to convince myself that I am in the south of France, surrounded by the incessant chatter of cicadas. It works for the four remaining minutes before the boiler fires up in anticipation of those demanding hot showers.

Back on the train we approach Bournemouth and a beautiful young woman on her way to the dangerous toilets – should I warn her? – stops to speak with our young ornithologist.
I’ve never seen anyone on a train with budgerigars
This elicits no response.
What are their names?
Well, the blue one is Marcus………

I must not moan x 100

2011-10-18T20:05:00.000+01:00

On Big Brother, it’s probably about Day 3,496…I don’t watch it. Nothing can top Paddy Doherty in my books. On my father’s blog, it’s Day 18 of the Indian Summer which infers that he lives in Calcutta and not the reality of somewhere south of Leicester. In the life of one with a plastered leg, it’s Day 3 and the highlight of being trapped is fast becoming Bargain Hunt. This comes after the early morning call to continue the saga, via telephone, of avoiding paying council tax for the duration of being ‘disabled’

Today, I learned that County Hall has demanded proof of a number of uninteresting circumstances, none of which can be elaborated upon until I reveal my ethnic origin, marital status and current income. No, I don’t currently have an income, hence the application. Having met these requisites, I told the pleasant lady on the phone that I hadn’t received the said demand for ‘proof’. She agreed. They haven’t sent a letter. Well, is it to be done by telepathy? Perhaps you could just send us some money on the off chance was the reply. On the off chance of what? That I’ve got some money? And that you might empty my wheelie bin more than once in a Preston Guild?

Good God: three days in and I sound more like my father than he does!

While I’m hopping my irritable way to the loo, I remember Ivy. I visited Ivy, in her tiny flat for five years. It began as a piece of research but when you start with elderly, lonely people there’s no easy escape. She taught me a lot about the social history of Poole and was entirely devoid of self-pity with regard to the deal life had handed her. When they phoned to say she’d died, aged 93, she’d spent interminable years in a wheelchair, trapped in a room without a view. The light filtering over the net curtains told her what sort of day it might be.

Ivy’s grandmother came to Poole as part of that strange, forgotten exchange with Newfoundland. Stories of Ivy’s childhood passed with the children of Augustus John were mentioned as an afterthought. Ivy’s enforced transition from chapel to the Salvation Army was an assumed normality. Her mother’s death, attributed to the local proliferation of pine trees, was regarded with sorrow but without blame.

With my feet up on the settee, I watch two large butterflies playing in the October sun. Sparrows cling to the bird feeder and my robin hops on the patio. The stupid pigeons try to make love on the shed roof and all the pretty, sparkly things send their coloured rays across the garden. My daughter and I sign up to be contestants on Bargain Hunt. Not that bad really is it.

In the dead of night

2011-10-17T16:29:00.000+01:00

I awoke some time in the early hours to hear the woman on the radio saying it was twenty five past the hour. That’s the trouble with the World Service: they never say which hour because everyone’s on a different time clock. Even when they do say what the hour might be, it’s always GMT so, even if you’re in the same country as Greenwich it’s still the wrong time. Radio 4 finishes at 1am and the World Service starts then; except that, according to the World Service, it’s still only midnight GMT. No wonder the nights are so long for us insomniacs.

There was enough light coming through the window to inform me that it wasn’t twenty past three. On the other hand, the shipping forecast wasn’t on the radio so I knew it couldn’t be twenty past five. Ergo…must be twenty past four. Unless you’re on GMT in which case it would’ve been twenty past three all along. How would a person ever get their bearings without Radio 4 and the World Service? They even have the decency to play the national anthem at a time when most folk are prostrate and can’t, therefore, stand up. That would be any time for someone with three tons of plaster on their leg.

It isn’t the plaster that’s contributing to my insomnia; I’ve had years of practice and made quite an art form of the business. The night before the plaster and I became conjoined for instance, I woke to the sounds of scratching and scurrying outside which, for some reason, I decided must be graffiti artists. I crept silently out of the front door hoping to surprise them but it was next door’s skunk doing stuff in its Wendy House in their front garden. I hadn’t heard it for some time and it transpires that he’d escaped for two months, only to be discovered in a neighbour’s garage. That must have been a pleasant treat for the neighbour.

The skunk had done well for itself and had become extremely overweight, somewhat akin to a smelly badger I imagine. I presume it’s on a diet now and spends its nights frantically and noisily searching for spare food or tunnelling its way back to the garage. What’s it doing here anyway screeched my friend. Why isn’t it in the Appalachians skunking around? It’s like the rat we had said daughter number one. But that’s another story which has a happy ending thanks to Gary, her neighbour’s cat.

Back to the bedside radio. You can learn a lot in the dead of night although I prefer to have it turned down sufficiently that I can only hear a drone; otherwise, it gets interesting and I have to stay awake to listen to it. Sundays aren’t so good though. I quite like Bells on Sunday – guess which church we’re at this week – but the rest of it is too discursive and moralistic. Ed Sturton would put anyone in a coma. I love the Shipping Forecast; when we get round to Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis I know I can doze off safe in the knowledge that worse things happen at sea than bags under the eyes.

Hardly a leg to stand on

2011-10-16T13:42:00.001+01:00

I thought I’d go to A & E around 4.30 on Saturday afternoon; beat the evening rush of drunks and domestics. Of course, it was carnage: blood, sweat and tears everywhere. Talk about night of the living dead. Mostly men in sports kit and mainly head/eye injuries from what I could make out. Apart from the age range, it appeared as though they might have all been participating in the same event. Actually, the two lads from a posh private school in Oxford, dressed in wasp colours, had been at the same match and had gone for the same ball …one had the lump in his forehead, the other the indentation in his. They were conversing with a boy from the home team whose mother told me she watched every game, not because she likes rugby but so she could be on hand to take her son to hospital. She said he’d been there so often that she was surprised not to have been arrested for child abuse. I suggested she might well have been had it not been for the fact he’d got Canford embroidered on his socks.

Old Bill was in there too causing mayhem in his motorised car. ( Not THE old Bill ) He didn’t look much different from his usual environment in the smoking area outside the bingo although I did note a small plaster on his head. No, all in all, I think I was the healthiest looking specimen in the place. Non-affiliated shorts, tee-shirt and flip-flops and hardly resembling the walking wounded; certainly the best-read patient…Far From the Madding Crowd (though not in practice) versus the Sun and Closer. What do you mean – snob?

When I finally went through to the treatment room, they said it was difficult to reconcile my x-rays with the reality; surprised I was able to carry all that weight. Pardon? If it hadn’t been for the fact that everyone else had come as entrants in a Cyclops look-alike competition, we might well have assumed they’d got the x-rays muddled up. Sadly, they were mine and that was my broken foot. I sent a message to the man-child who was waiting outside with the hangover from hell. The wording of the text was akin to one he might have sent me the night before i.e. I’m getting plastered!

So now he’s playing nurse and already getting stroppy. He asked me to make a list of what was needed for the week. Easy: Radio Times, 200 fags and top-up my phone please. He was erring more on the food side it seems. Oh well, in that case, some red wine?

Vernissage

2011-07-04T20:45:00.003+01:00

It begins well in the Hotel du Conseils at Uzes. At 7.0pm, the sun is still beating down and the sky is a startling shade of blue; that colour you see on postcards and never believe in. Inside, the ancient building is crumbling around us but, with artistic enterprise that even I can appreciate, white silk lines the walls on which Eliza’s paintings hang. A vase of faded pink roses that look as if they’ve been rescued from an overgrown English country garden sits on a round table. A small man, as old as the building, plays a mournful tune on the piano which is covered in candles. The beautiful crystal chandeliers remind us of what might have passed here.

The great and the good, those weighed down with money, mingle, observe and choose their purchases. Outside, the table is laid with tarts and cheeses and Angelle is waiting in the corner with the pale pink wine of the South. Everyone has dressed for the occasion: pashminas, high boots, low necklines, expensive jewellery. And that’s just the men. A delightful white dog, whose nationality is in no doubt, smiles at us all.

Dani wants a drink and something to eat but doesn’t want to be the first. I have no such qualms. I’m not French so don’t need to wait to be asked; and anyway, I know someone has to start the ball rolling. So we take a couple of plastic glasses of the pink stuff and plates of food, secure seats at a table and begin the begin. And, naturally, the food table is immediately hidden by crowds of people swarming like ants.

The first cupful seems to disappear rather quickly…well, it’s a warm evening and we were thirsty so we claim another. A roar of thunder. But it’s not thunder: it’s Jean-Pierre arriving on his massive quad bike. Talk about making an entry. All the men turn in envy to see the huge machine; and all the women turn in lust to see JP stride through the courtyard, his pale blue shirt vaguely undone to show his bronzed body. This guy’s sixty years old with white hair and none of us care. He scrubs up well. I’ve never seen anyone look so French. All the rich women wish they were at our table now as he kisses us and gets another round of drinks.

Then Christine arrives with her son and her sister so now the great, good and penniless of Sauveterre are gathered. Christine’s son, who was so inconsequential that I’ve forgotten his name, is an art expert from Paris. Christine distributes flyers for the vernissage for his exhibition which I think is, somehow, a little incorrect. Jean-Pierre fetches another round of drinks. My plastic glass splits under the weight and I am covered in wine. I exchange my broken glass for a new one which means it has to be re-filled. Christine’s son says nothing. Pascale, who has just appeared, thus warranting another round of drinks, says he’s quiet because he’s cool. Christine says he’s quiet because he’s become Parisienne. I think he’s just boring until he gets up to fetch another round of drinks.

At some point during the evening, Jean-Pierre and Christine’s sister discover that they’ve been writing to each other on an internet dating site. I am amazed. Why is this handsome man looking for women on the www? I lose track of the conversation and notice that everyone who was not sat at our table has gone home. It’s 10 0 clock and I’m secretly grateful that the evening is drawing to a close. Pascale locks up the old hotel. Time to go back to Sauveterre? No. It seems we are all going for dinner now. Silly me. More wine and a load of pasta. Can’t remember much more. They’re having another vernissage in Avignon on Thursday.

Mad as a tin of monkeys

2011-06-30T10:25:00.002+01:00

A theme of doors runs through events this week. Firstly, JL lost his front door key. Nothing new there; he loses everything. Sunday, he arrived back from a quick spin up the Ventoux in the neighbour’s 1932 something or other in a state of excitement. The 1932 something or other has no windscreen which had not done much for his usually debonair appearance. Neither had having to climb over the wall due to the fact that he’d also lost the ‘beep’ to open the electronic gates. (I was round the back of the house so failed to hear the ring of the gate bell.) On hearing the rapping on the front door, I finally made it up the stairs to allow entry to the wild man of Provence who promptly accused me of hiding his keys; this obviously after he’d regaled me with an extended account of his journey to the summit of the Ventoux. (Madame was, naturally, missing in action).

Tuesday, JL forgot that he’d lost his keys; even if he’d remembered he wouldn’t have done anything about it because he’d expect me to be home. (What did these people do before I lived here?). Well, I wasn’t there, having accompanied Madame to the studio to watch Patrice the electrician hang the paintings for the exhibition. I don’t know why this guy’s referred to as Patrice the electrician as he never does much that involves electrics. So, we both arrive home late to be confronted by the sight of JL, wearing nothing but a small pair of underpants, pedalling furiously on his exercise bike by the lily pond. We both stare in amazement. I have lost my key he shouts in English. Madame doesn’t understand a word of her husband’s newly acquired language and looks to me for an explanation. He’s lost his mind I want to say but think better of it. He looks furious and much as I try not to laugh, I’m unable to stop. She looks at me in wonder; then she starts laughing.

Wednesday, JL took my key. So now Madame and I have only one key between us and both headed in different directions. At this point I decide to mention the door to my room. Something is wrong with the handle and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to get in and out. I’ll send Patrice the electrician she says. We arrange that she’ll leave first and come home last…..so no change there then….and I’ll have the key and be back in time for Patrice. It’s a long day and I completely forget about Patrice until I emerge from the shower around 7pm to hear more frantic ringing at the gate. I let him in and explain the problem. He doesn’t understand so I take him into the bedroom and shut the door. You know what’s coming reader don’t you? Now both of us are trapped in the bedroom and my stuffed pears are waiting to be retrieved from the oven. It’s impossible to open the door. Fortunately, my en-suite has a door to another bedroom. Anyone remember those Brian Rix farces where folk were constantly in and out of adjoining doors? Out and round I go, emerge back on the landing, and with great force push open my door from the outside and thus release Patrice. Patrice stands with hands on hips, shrugging and saying tres bizarre. Of course he does. Any minute now, the meh bah’s will start so I ask if he minds if I leave him to rescue the pears in the oven. He misunderstands and thinks I’ve invited him to eat something.

Madame arrives home closely followed by Jean-Pierre who only travels by quad bike. JP’s internet has crashed so he’s come to use ours. I can hear him reading his emails. How can you HEAR a Frenchman reading his emails? Easy. You just listen out for Merde and Putain and more Merde’s followed by tres bizarre. I can’t see him but I know he’s shrugging. Then JL arrives home after a quiet day at the office and I show him the pears. JL loves puddings. We all have dinner and by the time we get to dessert, the men are in heated discussion about the money to be made from introducing the raclette into England. I serve the stuffed pears with pear ice-cream. They don’t even look at what’s in front of them but JP takes one mouthful and literally stops mid-sentence. What’s this he demands? English pudding says the all knowing JL. Mon Dieu! C’est superbe says JP and I have scored maximum points as he eats another two before zooming off into the night on his quad.

The right time

2011-06-22T14:55:00.001+01:00

I’ve just been to post two letters down in the village. This, in itself, is a risky business: ever since the French equivalent of the Royal Mail was privatised the system has gone to pot. Here, with a tiny population, we have three companies vying for competition which, as far as I can make out, means that everything becomes lost. I waited twelve days to receive the only piece of post I’ve had from England in five weeks. Then there’s the perennial problem of trying to work out when anything might be open. It’s taken me five days to buy two stamps. I started on Saturday afternoon which was hopeless as the post office only opens on Saturday morning. Sunday was out of the question because it was Sunday and Monday is a non-starter being an extension of Sunday. An early start on Tuesday is pointless because they don’t open until 10 and I’d forgotten about my letters until lunchtime by which time they’d shut for the day. I thought I might try to pick a time on Wednesday afternoon to coincide with buying the bread. This was a partial success because, at last, the post office was open and I was finally able to buy the stamps. However, trying to post the letters was troublesome as the letter box had been sealed up. I was directed to the village car park where I’ve now put the letters in a yellow container which I hope was for the post and not for recycling. Hooray…now for the bread. Alas, the baker’s is shut because, of course, it’s Wednesday.

I arrived back and entered the house at which point the internal alarms went off. They sound like the four minute warning screeching around the whole region. This is the first time this has happened and in my panic, I tried to switch them off with the thing that activates the external alarms. This is the problem with living inside Fort Knox. So now I’m sitting quietly, happy in the ability to be able to communicate with the outside world without leaving the house

Jour des cretins

2011-06-11T20:03:00.001+01:00

At last! They’ve gone out and I’m left alone with a bottle of wine which I purchased for three euro from the place where we get gas bottles. The wine is made from grapes grown in the village and readers may think that, for such a low price, it will be rough. However, we are surrounded by some of the finest vineyards in the world and the house overlooks the nearby Chateau-Neuf-des-Papes. Trust me, the wine is excellent, not least because I opened it two hours ago, since when it has stood in the kitchen and NOT in the fridge where the French keep their rouge. An artichoke is cooking as I write to be eaten with the sauce I’ve made and afterwards, I have some pate and a large goat’s cheese and a new baguette. And I deserve this feast: it’s been another strange day.

I was told that the three of us were going to the main square in Avignon so I discarded casual clothes in favour of my green dress. Then the electrician arrived. I’ve no idea why he was here but he looked as surprised as I felt when we were all bundled into the big car and taken into town. Not to Place d’Horloge for a nice cup of coffee and a spot of people watching, but to a large, ancient and beautiful ochre-coloured building close by where Pascale will hold an exhibition in July. And where the electrician must install some avante-garde spotlights beforehand. The studio looks out onto a stunning courtyard which houses an ancient tree, paving stones, stone seats and a magnificent archway. On the opposite side, are thirteen wonderfully appointed apartments with balconies and windows of old coloured glass. What is this place? It’s one of JL’s joints. He owns it? Yes, of course. So, only now do I realise the extent of things. It’s beautiful I tell him. Of course he replies.

Pascale measures walls and the electrician, Patrice, tests the sockets and plugs. A woman takes notes. Then we leave because Patrice must be back in Sauveterre by midi. Except it’s already midi and the traffic is appalling and we must make another stop. JL abandons the car and the three of us leave Patrice, who has about as much of an idea as I have about what’s happening, to guard the BMW in case les flics arrive. We all head for a kitchen shop where I wander around and cause a spot of bother by knocking a 50 euro garlic crusher on the floor. I blame it on some other people and rejoin Pascale and JL who have just bought a new shelf for the bbq for six hundred and thirty euro.

We take the electrician back to Sauveterre and head straight back to who knows where. I must improve my French. Of course. We have to meet a friend at a car-boot sale where we sit in the sun (at last), listen to a man playing a guitar, drink some white wine and eat plates of raw shellfish. Not more raw fish! The prawns are cooked so I make a start on them but they’re soon gone. The next dish comprises sea-snails and I give them a miss in favour of the raw mussels. I wonder why I spend so much time worrying about which mussels are good and which aren’t when I cook them at home: pointless when no-one bothers to cook them here. Then we had raw clams. Well, I like a nice Spaghetti Vongole as much as the next person but I didn’t fancy these lads much. Had to eat them though; I’d already bypassed the sea-snails.

Round about six thirty this evening, I thought I might sit down with my book. JL had other ideas. I had to hoover the pool which, I imagine, is like steering a gondola; very good for the upper arm muscles. After this, I had to go with him to the pool room and learn how to clean the filter. So this is why I’m here? Will this be useful on my CV?

And now I’m nearly ready to eat my artichoke. And the cretins? Well, in between all this activity, Pascale and I made yet another trip to the Argentinean woman to buy more salad. On the way, we had a near miss in the car when we came upon a tractor. C’est la jour des cretins exclaimed my host. Yes, you might be right.

Lots of tiny tentacles

2011-06-10T10:06:00.005+01:00

Yesterday was quite a tricky day one way and another. Tomatoes were on offer again for lunch. Frankly, I’m sick of tomatoes so I suggested a small omelette as an alternative. It won’t work she said, the frying pan sticks and we need to buy another. There’s a lot of things that don’t work round here that might one day be replaced by another: coffee machine, vacuum, telephone, etc. I cooked the omelette. Shall we have it with a tomato salad she asked? I found a lettuce. Then there were the usual problems with the mayonnaise: after the third attempt, I had to take my host outside to calm down. It’s the mixer she said, we need a new one. It’s the eggs she said, something wrong with them. Just go to the shop and buy some mayonnaise I said. He’ll say I’m a bad wife because I can’t make mayonnaise she replied. Well, tell him I made it then I said. He’ll say it’s very good. To be fair, I was also worried about the mayonnaise; not because of the consistency but because I’d seen what it was supposed to accompany - a starter of raw fish followed by squid. And when I say squid, I don’t mean those batter-covered rings; I mean a huge pan full of limp white

things with a lot of tiny tentacles.

In the evening, I was asked whether I could help with some cushion covers. Seemed a simple request. Apparently, monsieur had bought some expensive material to recover some large cushions which sat on a couple of wrought iron chairs outside. The new covers had arrived from the cushion cover maker and we were to put them on in time for his arrival. Voila. What she called cushions were really the actual bases of the seats; enormous things with which we fought a valiant battle and lost. At this point, he returned from work half an hour early and in a very excited frame of mind. We were deemed useless as he immediately took over the task. I much prefer it when he leaves early and comes home late she whispered. I went to get us all a drink and returned just in time to hear the sound of the first cushion cover ripping. I left to get him the olives. He managed to overcome a smaller cushion before deciding to go off and clean the swimming pool. This was a complete deviation from the normal routine whereby we eat at 9pm exactly.

She despondently took the ripped cover away and I went to retrieve two more glasses of wine. The two of us spent an enjoyable half an hour chatting before he reappeared in an even more agitated state. I went to get more drinks. A noisy one-sided argument ensued and I went to get more drinks. It was better than the previous row at the table during which I was forced to eat copious amounts of cheese; at least now I would be sufficiently drunk to deal with the fish that was looming. Then, in the midst of a tirade, apparently about his son, he stopped to remark how pretty the new cushion was. So pretty, in fact, that we must eat dinner under the covered patio so we could look at it. The covered patio hasn’t been used this year so I scrubbed the table whilst he arranged the chairs. Then I got more drinks.

The fish was quite nice but I would have preferred it without tomatoes.

Et plus

2011-06-07T10:39:00.001+01:00

I was woken by rumbling noises this morning. At first I assumed it was yet more thunder and pulled the sheet over my head. Then, I decided it was Germinal, aka Oliver Mellors, with one of his small tractors or implements for vacuuming leaves, bits of trees, beetles, cicadas and the odd passing moggy. But the noise grew louder and was accompanied by much shouting. And it was indoors. Some men had arrived to make a new window in the roof over the Black Hole of Calcutta (the office) but there was a problem: it seems there’s a slab of concrete in between the roof and the tiles. Personally, I’d find this a trifle worrying; surely it can’t be safe to be wandering around under that weight? What do I know? About as much as the builders who, joined by the gardener, all stood around saying meh bah and trop bizarre and other such technical jargon. After an extended period in which everyone competed to see who could do the best French shrug, they all gave up and went home. Pascale told me that now there is something else in the roof. I looked in the dictionary. Of course, a hole. Mais oui.

Some further progress was made yesterday with the washing. On enquiring why we couldn’t have a line to hang it outside, I was told that monsieur doesn’t like washing lines. Well, he’s not here was the natural response. Why don’t we take the clothes horse outside? (You try translating clothes horse). She looked dubious and in truth, it’s a huge thing which was already covered in three machine loads of washing. I was on a mission though and we struggled the length of the house with the thing during the course of which she learned some new and potentially helpful English vocabulary: back a bit, right a bit, your side, forward and so on. It was a huge success. I had the whole patio draped in trousers, towels and jumpers with the clothes horse taking pride of place. As each garment dried in the sunshine and was replaced by another, she became more and more enthusiastic. At 7.30 in the evening, I suggested we took it back indoors in case you know who decided to come home early and voila. Job done.

Then I cooked dinner. I wanted to do my chicken with thirty cloves of garlic served with a lemon risotto. The chicken was purchased with its head and feet intact which was troublesome. On request, the butcher cut off the head and feet but left the neck. I think I used every knife in the house on that chicken whilst trying to pretend I was a dab hand at neck removal. And then there were all those nasty bits inside which I had a suspicion I’d be expected to use for a tasty starter. They went in the bin with that scrawny neck. The dinner was a success although, as readers will know by now, to have anything on the table is a result here.

Continuation

2011-06-05T22:38:00.001+01:00

It’s done nothing but rain this week which means we can’t put the washing out to dry. Actually, we never put the washing out to dry. I don’t know why this is; maybe it’s too unsightly but I shall endeavour to make some changes. I’ve already started with the sheets. As far as I can work out, there are three utility rooms here with various lines and implements for drying. When the sheets were dry last week, we folded them neatly and left them to be ironed. Pardon? I’ve now explained the futility in ironing sheets…..as my friend Marian says, that way lays madness. We don’t iron sheets in this house any more. Next came the rubber gloves. These beautiful French women never wear rubber gloves. Every time I come to France, I have to explain the benefits of this apparel. I have left a legacy of Marigolds the length of the country. We have Marigolds here now. And Nutella. And Heinz tomato sauce. This evening, we had an omelette so I put the tomato sauce on the table. Are you American asks monsieur? Why are you eating ketchup? Because it goes well with omelettes I replied. So now we all eat tomato sauce with our omelettes.

We went to collect the little car which Andre has kindly lent me. On the way, Pascale tried to explain what Andre does for a living but with little success. I thought he might be a chiropractor from her description but she just laughed. Andre wasn’t at all what I’d expected. He was about sixty, very rotund, very happy, wore a black shirt and a white silk scarf and had a rat inside his shirt. Well, be fair, you wouldn’t expect that would you. He lives in a 400 year old house with beautifully painted green furniture, some left-over Christmas decorations and the sounds of operatic arias resounding throughout. The obligatory, much younger, much thinner woman is to hand to serve strong black coffee and Madelines. Zuts alors…anyone would think this was France. Andre is a medium. He has a few clients that come to the house but mainly he works over the phone. He told me I would never work in France. Thanks a lot Andre. That was just before he took my blood pressure. Not too bad considering I was about to drive his car away. Actually, he’d already told me what I’d be doing next year so I assumed that implied I’d make it back to Avignon ok that afternoon.

We all got into the car so that I could practice driving it up and down the road in the pouring rain. It seemed ok. They all got out again and I waved goodbye before taking a quick look around to make sure he’d taken the rat with him.

Cuisine

2011-05-31T17:11:00.001+01:00

Here’s the thing with eating in someone else’s house, particularly if it’s in France. You’ve no idea when food might come along, nor of what it might comprise. It’s a good idea to eat as much of whatever gets put in front of you as you can shovel in because it might be a long time before anything else passes this way. The only thing we can be certain of is that it won’t originate in Spain. However, this means we have to buy the vegetables from the local farm and not from the supermarket. In turn, this implies that we can only have what the Argentinean woman has on offer. Predominately, this means courgettes; and she’s got quite a few of them.

Last night we had a courgette terrine. It came by again this midi and it looks as if it will make a final appearance this evening. Sadly, there are still four courgettes left in the fridge. I suggested that if we bought some peppers and an aubergine I could combine them with the courgettes and make a ratatouille. However, the Argentinean’s aubergines are not yet ready and it seems as if another terrine might be in the offing. It was the same with the tomatoes. I found bundles of them at the bottom of the frigo so helpfully made a tomato salad. That was nice they said, we’ll have that again tomorrow. Further, my hostess has the figure of one who has had nothing of any substance to eat since being weaned which is largely due to the fact that she doesn’t eat. (We only got the terrine for lunch because monsieur is home having taken to his bed). So, midi arrives and finds me searching for food. Food at midi equals tomatoes. Sometimes, I have a tin of tuna with my tomato. Sometimes, my hostess gives me a cucumber – not Spanish – to add some variation but they’re very small cucumbers. I think they might be courgettes.

Another thing is not to get excited by what seems to be complicated cooking procedures occurring in the kitchen. I like to watch other people cooking, especially in France but it’s best not to anticipate the appearance of vast amounts of delicious food as a result. Take the making of the mayonnaise for example. It took at least an hour, employed nearly every utensil and device in the kitchen, was twice disposed of and had to be re-started and was the cause of immutable stress. We just buy it in a jar in England I said, but no-one was listening. When it was finished it was still deemed to be a disaster. I thought it might be improved with the help of a lemon. I didn’t say so but she read my mind. We haven’t got any lemons. Of course you haven’t. They grow them in Spain.

Fair exchange, no robbery

2011-03-24T23:05:00.003Z

I’m in the Seven Stars with Ruth. It’s Ladies’ Pamper Night. Verity has tried to disguise the pool table with a large green tablecloth on which her Aloe Vera products are displayed. I’ve never seen Verity before; nor have I seen most of this multitude of women who have turned up to Lisa’s latest venture. Also present is a manicurist and a mobile hairdresser. The main bar contains very few men and those that are present are cowering. Phil the Tooth remains resolute.

Ruth is a cheese-maker. When she’s not making cheese, she’s paid to collect wild garlic leaves to cover the Cornish Yarg she makes. Her back is playing up due to all the bending down involved in picking the leaves. Tis the season for garlic. In the summer, she’ll get extra money for collecting nettles. A colleague ripped their jeans and Ruth has repaired them, giving them an in vogue distressed look. For this chore, she has received half a dozen eggs and a jar of home-made jam. Fair exchange, no robbery says Ruth, an immigrant from the North Country and a master of incomprehensible idioms. I ask her about her new man who claims to be a professional pool player. They only come along once in a Preston Guild she says.

Lisa has put on a Ladies Night special: a glass of wine for two quid. It’s French, not that nasty Spanish stuff she was off-loading earlier in the year. Some strangers come in and enquire about the special offer. Ask Alison they’re told; she’s a wine expert. It’s going down very well and the Aloe Vera lady, who was very nervous at the start of the proceedings, is overwhelmed by sales despite the fact that not many of the ladies are paying attention to her advice to drink more water.

Lisa brings me a copy of the local paper, The West Briton…as if there are others claiming to be Britons of alternative geographical origin. There’s a photo of her dad in it today, taken in the 60’s when he worked for a company that, even then, supported the remnants of the mining enterprises. Lisa, who lives her pub life at a superficial level, has a lot of historical knowledge of Camborne and Redruth. Sadly, this is lost for the evening in the midst of a loud crash. We expect the rugby boys to be boisterous but the ladies have fallen into the manicurist’s table and the floor is covered in nail varnish.

I took Josh down to Penryn earlier. He’s off to the Hyde Park protests before heading home for Easter. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Ruth gives me a hug just in case I don’t make it back in for the quiz on Sunday. It’s the start of the farewells. Once in a Preston Guild…….

Testing

2011-03-10T19:56:00.004Z

The car and I are due a service and an MOT. Both of us bear the scars of a year in France and too many journeys back and forth to West Barbary. And the two of us boast an intermittent tinny rattle to the rear. The car’s going in tomorrow. Today was my turn. I complimented the doctor on his bright green shirt and told him I’d abandoned the Statins.

Any particular reason why he asked?
Well, I’ve read they disturb your sleep patterns I answered. I didn’t tell him my sleep has no patterns or that I’ve been au fait with the BBC World Service throughout the night for some years.

Anything else he asked?
Well, I’ve heard that they can enhance depression and I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. I didn’t tell him that I live in Cornwall.

And?
Well, I’ve also read that cholesterol is not a sound indicator of potential stroke in women.
Damn the media came the reply.

Hmmmm. Since when was information the resource of a privileged few I think.

He reads my mind and gets the scales out in retaliation. Fortuitously, they register weight in EU standards so I have no idea how fat I am apart from the fact that none of my clothes fit me.

Your cholesterol is too high he says.
Your blood pressure is too high he says.
I’m giving up smoking on April 4th I say in an effort to negotiate a sense of well-being
How many do you smoke he asks?
Does it matter? You try doing the A30 I don’t reply.

I went to the hospital two weeks ago to have my ears sorted out.

How many cigarettes do you smoke asked the consultant?
Sorry, I can’t hear you. My ears are full of smoke.

Fasting blood tests are the order of the day. Hope it’s a bit more positive with the car.

And shall Trelawny live?

2011-03-08T22:19:00.002Z

Yes. Yes. Yes.

St Piran’s Day in Cornwall began badly in Redruth. Personally speaking, it’s my impression that all things start and end badly in Redruth. I hadn’t even left the car-park when I was accosted by a woman sporting a black eye and speaking in tongues. It transpired that she wanted to know whether I was in the habit of buying from a gypsy. Saw me coming. I can never say no to a gypsy…too scared of the fall-out. So, having purchased my shell for £2 she then wanted to read my palm. Said she knew the name of my husband and told me I shouldn’t worry so much. Despite the fact I don’t have a husband, she was right on the second count. I worry a lot about gypsies.

I went to the rugby club to watch the festivities. If you’ve ever seen that episode of Phoenix Nights where Brian holds a fete in the car-park, you’ll know what St Piran’s Day in Redruth was like. I didn’t even wait for the procession.

In the evening we went to Perranporth to watch the re-enactment of the saint arriving on the beach. He originally landed on a mill-stone and set up a church in the dunes. You might think it a blessing that the mill-stone didn’t sink. I thought it was a result that he hadn’t landed via Redruth….we wouldn’t be celebrating thousands of years later were that the case. It was freezing. Every child in the vicinity was there and there was a lot of dancing to a Celtic band that only knew one tune. I wanted fish but half of Cornwall was crammed into the chip shop.

Later, I went to the Seven Stars in Stithians. Trust Lisa to get it right. It was another mission to ensure a collective village Sunday-morning hang-over. A St Piran’s quiz with the answers secreted round the pub ensured that everyone mingled with everyone: even the young folk who only go there to play pool got their iPhones out to Google the missing answers for the decrepit oldies bumbling out of their comfort zones in the front bar. The rugby boys were in fine fettle and the Aussies who’ve swapped lives with a Cornish couple were suitably bemused. There were free pasties and saffron cake and a woman who’d called in thinking this was a place of high culture gave us free tomes for World Book Night. Even Phil the Tooth was observed to be laughing.

The Seagull Singers, supposedly dropping in on their way to the high-spots of Falmouth stayed all night to provide choral entertainment. Not much in the way of Cornish songs to begin with but it’s been a long time since I’ve heard My Grandfather’s Clock and Sloop John B was more than welcome. With much vigour, we all banged on the bar to the Irish Rover and, having given up the cheap Spanish plonk, but much inspired by the French Shiraz, I conducted a threatening and very successful collection for the village school.

Finally, the Seagulls, having remembered why they were there, performed their piece de resistance and those of us who’d forgotten that we hate Cornwall sung along with tears in our eyes….and shall Trelawny die? There’s 20,000 Cornishmen will know the reason why! Superb.

Field trip

2011-03-03T13:08:00.002Z

We gather outside the luggage room in the servants’ quarters waiting hopefully for a guest appearance of the regency ghost: any sense of animation would be welcome. This is a house of architectural class and gender divisions; everyone in their place but no-one present. Unlike other stately homes which are still partially inhabited, Lanhydrock aches of the dead. The loss of a cherished son in the trenches was the catalyst for the disintegration and dispersal of a dynasty. The twentieth century commenced only after the first two decades of the 1900’s. With no further generations to push the place along, the house became a cold Edwardian mausoleum, frozen in time.

I am fascinated by the abundance of animals all of which are one way or another, happily enmeshed in the memory of those who are themselves now absent. It begins in the kitchen where the spits in front of the range are large enough to cook a couple of rhinos and ends in the gallery whose ceiling is deliciously carved with every bird and beast imaginable. In between, is the casserole dish. Made from Staffordshire caneware, I covet this beautiful object which is embossed with deer and ducks that leap and fly freely between vine leaves. As the rabbit handle was lifted, releasing the game-induced aroma, those sat amongst the claret crystal at the ivy-dressed dining table would speak contentedly of the killing fields.

We wander along an antler-lined corridor towards a large moose head which peers through red velvet drapes. Before we can reach out to stroke its lovely nose however, our attention is distracted by the discovery of the missing choughs which have been caught, stuffed and placed in a glass box on a hidden window-sill. A mere introduction, they preface a nightmare of taxidermy. In the smoking room, the scent of phantom cigars is overtaken by the rot of death: a redundant fox leaps across the fireplace whilst the remains of a tiger glare timidly from the floor. Along with the rules of the Eton Society and a selection of deceased birds, the walls are hung with pictures of the hunt. When a volunteer arrives with a small watering can, it’s perplexing to imagine what can possibly remain alive in this gloomy room; but, there on the sideboard, a small plant is indeed waging a battle for survival.

In her ladyship’s bedroom, things are a little calmer. Pristine white linen is laid out on the bed having been recently returned from the home for fallen women at Lostwithiel who are paying for their sins by washing the clothes of the gentry. On the dressing table, along with the eau de colognes, sits a small embroidered cushion bearing the legend welcome little stranger. Apparently, it served to mark the imminent arrival of yet another of the ten children my lady gave birth to. Usefully, it could have doubled up as a greeting to any one of them that was brought along from another part of the house for a brief meeting with their mother but I keep this thought to myself. I don’t want to upset the charming ladies who are proudly displaying the cut glass dish designed to hold the spare hair that accumulated in her ladyship’s brush.

We pass through the boudoir, gaze at the drawing room and follow the sounds of the Steinway emanating from the library. It’s a robust accompaniment to our neck-breaking examination of the ceiling. There are written explanations and mirrors but no smoking guns. With Adam and Eve displayed in so many interesting poses amongst the romping fauna, I forget to look for the grey lady who haunts this part of Lanhydrock. I’m too busy following Genesis to worry any longer about the dead.

The road I know so well

2011-02-28T22:37:00.000Z

This bloody, bloody road: eighty-one miles of hateful tarmac, largely dual-carriageway with a couple of single lane exceptions. The only thing worse than travelling east to Exeter from the Truro turn-off is having to return in the opposite direction; although even then, it’s a relief to see the windmills waving on the horizon and know you’ll soon be off this landscaped python. To cope with the A30 and remain reasonably sane, it’s essential to mentally break the journey down: Bodmin, Launceston, Okehampton, Exeter. Look for the signs and mileage to the next town. It’s more manageable.

Getting off the Carland’s Cross exit and on to the A30 is a task in itself. I’m pushed round the roundabout by a frenzy of folk behind all anxious to get out and inadvertently find myself in the outside lane. On the inside, traffic escaping from Redruth is thundering past and I must manoeuvre between them in order to let the big boys have their way. Once a steady pace has been established, I wave farewell to the geometric clay mountains on my right and commence the uphill and down dale journey. Passing the sign for the aptly named Helland and its more inviting neighbour, Blissland, I head for Bodmin where the moor beckons. Rocky outcrops and terrible Tors flash bleakly past as we reach the desolate lakes of Temple fisheries. Over there, the Templars built a chapel and refuge for the desperate souls who were on their way to the Holy Land. Couldn’t they go to Plymouth and get a boat?

Launceston, 28 miles. How do you pronounce that? Lownceston? Lounston? Alice Oswald is reading Dart. Jan Coo, Jan Coo and we all slow down as the stretch of single lane carriageway commences just where cars are pulling out of the petrol station. Out in the rain the grey sheep munch the scrub and little stone walls appear, breaking the monotonous moor into recognisable fields.

Launceston, 3 miles; Okehampton, 35. I used to think Okehampton was almost a suburb of Exeter in my desire to make the journey shorter. Now I know the truth of things but I’m zooming down the hill where, in a dip, I drive across the Tamar, cheer loudly, and exchange Alice for an old copy of the Beatles’ White Album.

Exeter, 32 miles. Oh bla di, oh bla da……I’m in the swing of it now as I sing my way under the bridge with the permanently parked lorry that advertises organic farm produce. I used to stop at the services for a pee and a coffee but these days I’m too busy trying to break records. I’m worried about that tinny rattle to my rear and turn up the music. Hey, Bungalow Bill. Almost at the exit for the M5 and some fool has coned miles of road off teasing us into a slow crawl just when we thought we’d made it.

A sign for Honiton which means that shortly there’ll be another for Dorchester. Only another hour and a half to home.

Life goes on

2011-02-02T19:49:00.001Z

I’m writing about allotments. Earlier this afternoon, I spent an enjoyable hour with John Fancy, chairman of the Upton Allotment Association. In his sixties, he’s lived here most of his life apart from three years spent in Hamworthy when he first got married. Hamworthy is less than two miles from Upton. He refers to this time as when he went travelling. I’m weeding my notes, which is the closest I’ll get to horticulture. On the television, Egypt is burning. The president of Tunisia has fled; Jordan is threatened; Yemen is holding a rage day; Israel is anxious. The Middle East is erupting and I’m considering asparagus.

Earlier, I wrote about inheritance whilst the sausages were defrosting. I recalled missing a Girl Guides meeting due to a cold one November Friday evening. Unexpectedly, I was able to watch the Harry Worth show; but not until the evening’s entertainment had been precipitated by the news of John Kennedy’s assassination. It’s compulsory for people of my age to recount one’s whereabouts. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday but I can recall ridiculous detail of that Friday in 1963. I was reprimanded the following morning for an inappropriate attitude. I was 11. Bugger the BBC for showing a comedy programme.

I got up late on Sunday, August 31st, 1997. My small son, left to his own devices, complained that there were no children’s’ programmes on TV. Switch over then, I said through a mouthful of toast. I have came the reply. It’s just a lot of people talking .The phone rang. A friend wanted to know how I was experiencing Diana’s death. Badly.

My daughter was travelling back from Crete in September 2001. The 11th to be precise. The taxi company had already failed to send the booked car to take her and her friends to the airport for departure. They phoned to say it was unlikely they’d pick her up at the airport. A tirade of abuse followed on my part. We suggest you put your television on they said. Good point.

I’m waiting for the sausages to cook. My best friend’s daughter is bunkered down in Townsville waiting for a cyclone of previously unknown force to destroy her town. I remembered to telephone this time. Hairdresser tomorrow.

The next best thing

2011-01-27T10:33:00.001Z

Three potted olive trees cling tenaciously to life year after year. Despite such sorry confinement, their branches continue to shoot bravely upwards and outwards. In later months they will, surprisingly, flower. I’ve never yet seen an olive on any of them though and I’m not optimistic; on the other hand, someone told me it takes seven years for fruit to appear. If you want a provençal garden, go south. Or, try to create something lesser in Dorset.

Much inspired by a fig tree of gigantic proportions outside my bedroom window in Valence, I later purchased a ficus carica from a small man at a car-boot sale in Poole. The tree in Valence provided two crops of fruit annually. Night after endlessly hot night, we would eat at wooden tables under that tree discussing the price of melons, whilst plump figs dropped and splattered their way into conversation. My fig tree, like the olives, is also in a pot. It boasts one would-be trunk with five new branches. They are knobbly with promise and the first tiny green, pointed shoots are in evidence.

Rosemary is strong and upstanding. I have seen it growing wild, falling over ancient heat-bearing stone walls, dressed in a multitude of sharply blue flowers. Each of my plants bears a different hue of green and although there will, eventually, be blossom, it will be of the variety hindered by sea storms. I grow it to accompany lamb that is baked slowly for five or six hours. Sprigs are useless: you need a posy full. This after the lamb has been severely bruised with the yellow leafed thyme that flourishes, untended, in a nearby tub.

On the wall, I notice the soggy brown remains of last year’s geraniums which, latterly, poured from a French bread basket purchased for one euro on a long passed foreign Sunday. In the summer, the blooms were Normandy red; nomenclature that gardeners would fail to recognise unless they’d driven down the Cherbourg peninsula. A profusion of lavender grown to encourage summer bees currently displays a greyness resonant only of its unimaginative English environs. The gardener of minimal proficiency needs a fortitude borne of memory to continue.

To compensate, I dress my garden in jewels that would, indoors, appear cheap and worthless. Outside, they catch the indifferent light of the weak winter sunshine. They sparkle and send iridescent rays darting across the tiny lawn. A mirror tile attracts and distresses a loyal blackbird who views its image as a threatening competitor. I remove the tile which has added extra dimension to my small plot in preference of the real thing.

Pembroath

2011-01-21T13:09:00.001Z

Pembroath. The name sounds strong, silent, possibly foreboding. It has a ring of Mandalay about it; a hint of Rochester perhaps. It doesn’t come prefixed to the building….not, for example, Pembroath Hall. Pembroath alone is sufficient. It says it all: the Master is away. Or, the hounds are howling up at the big house. The reality couldn’t be more different.

They stuck a photograph of Pembroath on my Christmas card. It’s the only postal token of the season that I kept in the post-festivities clear-out because the house looks so beautiful. In this image, Pembroath, covered in a sprinkling of fresh snow, sits proudly against a clear blue Cornish sky. There are no invasive footprints to muddy the pristine path from the wooden gate to the porch and the garden still contains enough healthy foliage to add contrasting hues.

Ask a child to draw a picture of a house in winter and this would be it: square, solid and symmetrical; a large granite Edwardian construction with three windows on the top floor and one either side of the front door. Each window is divided into four panes through which hospitable yellow light shines at night. And yes, there will be roses around that door in the summer. There are four healthy looking red and brown chickens that strut around in the day. Two disinterested cats, that have better things to do in the adjoining hedgerows than worry the silly hens, also reside here. This was the house that the farmer built for himself when his original abode failed to keep up with his changing fortunes.

Inside, the house, like its current owner, is warm and cheerful. Those alterations and adjustments that were necessary to bring Pembroath into the twenty-first century have been attended to. Largely though, we take our tea in a pleasing time warp. A real fire burns in the grate and the light is suitably dimmed. Carnations sit in a glass vase. Interesting old paintings and photographs that provoke questions and conversation line the walls with no apparent sense of order or priority.

It’s not really necessary to talk continuously. Upstairs, in the middle bedroom, a ghost goes quietly about its business. It never shows itself but its presence is noted and respected. The spoilt cats prefer the bed in the front room. Downstairs, Nanny Mollie and I sink into aged armchairs and breathe in deeply. Outside, under the watchful seven stars, crocuses are pushing their way upwards.

A delicate matter

2011-01-14T23:09:00.000Z

Daughter number two is getting married. I feel I should tread carefully here. On the other hand, she's too busy reading wedding magazines and looking at the internet for possible venues, menus, dresses, flowers and table decorations to read these words. Daughter number one reports that, previously, she used to receive a five minute phone call once a month from her sister. In the last week she's had five calls, none of which have lasted less than half an hour. Daughter number one may be a bridesmaid if a) she's not too fat and b) behaves well enough in the intervening months not to warrant being sacked. Of the intervening months there are many. Currently, we're looking at June 2012. It's going to be such a busy year. We have the wedding, the olympics, my 60th birthday plus it's the end of the world according to the Mayan calendar.

My wedding was planned and delivered in six weeks. Fortuitously, I lived in the pub from where the day would start. From the locals, I was able to draw on free hair-do, free bells, free choir, free car, free cake & free drinks.Sorted. I got married at three when the pub shut, had a few drinks and canopes and buggered off to Swanage for a meal. Lovely wedding. Shame about the marriage.

Some years on, daughter number two planned and delivered hers in about seven months. We found a beautiful dress in the first shop we went to which was reduced by £600. She chose the second of two venues she looked at. She made her own invitations and bought balloons for the tables. I bought my dress and shoes from TK Max and because I couldn't find a matching hat, dyed my hair orange. The page boy had to be taken outside for a pee half way through the service and the best man had to hold the bride's veil on whilst vows were being exchanged. The sun shone and it was a lovely wedding.

Several years on and stress levels are rising. The date has changed. The town has changed. The first wedding fair looms. Daughter number one and I are planning our own event. It will be a lovely wedding.

Absent friend

2011-01-11T23:12:00.004Z

(or why you bother to stop in Trowbridge to catch up with old friends over a bottle or two of rouge)

You had a phone call from P then?
Yes. Didn’t you?
No
She said she was going to phone you. She wasn’t sure where you lived. Thought you’d moved to Melksham. I told her you had but had moved back about 8 years ago.
She must know where we are. We got a Christmas card from her. Has she got a boyfriend?
No. No-one since Charlie.
Who was Charlie?
He was the hockey player.
What happened to Mick?
Mick was her husband.
Was he the one who died?
Did he?
He had one leg.
He had two legs the last time I saw him. And I don’t think he’s dead.
Didn’t he have congenital heart disease?
Who?
The bloke with one leg. He was a Romany.
Who told you that?
Morrie. He used to go up for the Gold Cup.
Who? The bloke with one leg?
Yes.
No. It was Morrie who went up for the races. So what was the bloke with one leg called?
Mick
No. Mick was her husband. He went off to Norwich with his cousin
Yes, but the Romany with one leg was called Mick too.
She didn’t have two boyfriends called Mick
No. One was called Michael. But they called him Mick
When did she meet him then?
Well, when Mick left her she came back down here and met Mick. He went back with her. They used to play darts
She’s always played darts but I don’t remember a bloke with one leg. I saw her when you had that thing with your throat.
That wasn’t here
Yes it was because we’d gone to Melksham by mistake. We forgot you’d moved.
That wasn’t here
Yes it was because you couldn’t come. Anyway, she wasn’t with anyone then
That’s because he was dead
Who?
The Romany with one leg
No. I think it was Chris who died
Who’s Chris?
The bloke that died
I’m sure that was Mick
What did he die from?
Congenital heart disease
Was she still with him?
When?
When he died
Who?
The bloke with congenital heart disease
I don’t think so. She was with Charlie then
No. His name was Mick
No. Mick was that funny one
Which Mick?
The one she married
That was a bloody awful wedding
That was the worse wedding I’ve ever been to. They were still in the Stallards five minutes before the vows were exchanged
We went to Tadpole’s to try to get away from them
They followed us
He made a pass at me
Who?
Mick
Which Mick?
The one with two legs
We’re going to be 60 next year. Shall we go somewhere?
Let’s go to Rome?

What's occurring?

2011-01-02T23:08:00.000Z

This has always been a fairly light-hearted blog. Nothing political. I can't stop looking at the Jodie McIntyre interview though...has to be the most disturbing thing on TV for some time. Unless you've got a funny blue hair-style. I'm just wondering why only now, some days after the Bristol incident, women are being warned to take care.

Bit of a laugh...all that NewYear's entertainment down in Ford in Sussex. Too many obvious questions. Too many obvious felons. Talk about jumping to conclusions.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZL4eL0sLzKU&NR=1

Another one bites the dust

2010-12-27T19:32:00.002Z

I last saw daughter number one outside the place where the family had spent the three days of Christmas on a self-catering basis. We can’t do the twelve days of Christmas. Let’s face it, can any family? Aged parents had made a speedy getaway with the man-child and pal; I was trying to work out what the knocking noise was in my car and said daughter was screaming at the grandchildren because the dog was trying to eat the hamster. The hamster wasn’t a Christmas present: they just brought it with them on holiday. Forgot to bring any food for it which defeated the object of leaving it at home to starve. Daughter number one had also forgotten to bring any underwear for herself or any clothes at all for her daughter. Man-child had forgotten a change of socks and I forgot to retrieve the pudding wine from the fridge on the occasion of any puddings.

Lots of snowy walks across fields took place……..one of the best reasons for going somewhere in the middle of nowhere. For many of us, myself included, it was the first white Christmas in our lives. The little dog laughed to see such fun and finally learned, probably from exhaustion, that sleeping on settees was forbidden. Beds are an exception to the rule: having risen at a ridiculous hour to do something or other, I returned au lit and woke again at sensible-o-clock to find him asleep at the end of the bed. The weak but determined sun shone across the Arne peninsula, the snow was pockmarked with the prints of giant rabbits and Santa’s Sika and there was a fracas in the kitchen on Christmas morning.

An everlasting game of Monopoly caused boredom and friction and excitement in no particular order. One Christmas quiz was well-received; the second provoked cries of derision from the younger generations, being largely concerned with ye olde Morecombe and Wise questions. The Beetle game was derided for not utilising traditional pen and paper and all the plastic beetles fell to pieces. The person who received an electronic Keyboard was unable to play it due to an incompatible plug……..probably a great blessing to everyone else and we all received far more lovely gifts than we deserved.

Cocooned in the best of Dorset’s landscape, we were warm and well-fed and watered. We still have Christmas money to spend, book-tokens to exchange and 85 episodes of the Sopranos box set to watch. Some have a show to attend, others are off to the panto and numerous tomes await perusal. Three loads of washing are complete and man-child and I have ordered a take-away curry. Lovely family Christmas. Thank-you G & G.

Hallelujah

2010-12-17T23:24:00.001Z

Some years ago, we used to mark the beginning of Christmas in Dorset by the winter solstice. Before dawn broke on the 21st, we would all pile into the car, sleepy-eyed, and drive up to the ancient hill-fort of Badbury Rings to watch the sun come up. How did I persuade young children that this was a worthwhile exercise when they were only a couple of days into Christmas holiday lay-ins? Well, to tell the truth, they were never that keen on staying in bed when they could get up and watch Sound of Music for the millionth time. But to get them dressed and off with no breakfast?

There would be scores of folk at Badbury Rings, cold but not wretched. Once gathered, an ancient being would lead us up onto the circles. Sometimes, there would be dancing once up there, but the main idea was to overlook the old Deer Park and view daybreak. Ancient being would then regale us with superb stories of time past, tinged with folklore, ghosts and myths. Just for long enough that we didn't freeze and to whet our appetites. For what came next was a trip down to the estate of Kingston Lacey where a cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of carol singers awaited.

Once everyone had eaten as much as they could and drunk copious quantities of sweet tea, the Mummers would arrive to perform their play. There is only one Mummers' play regardless of the time of year. George and the dragon do battle, George is killed, the doctor arrives and brings him back to life and lastly, Father Christmas turns up. And that is why the children never complained. In any case, they could be back in doors by 10am. The ancient being died and I never understood why he didn't pass his tales on for that is the tradition of story-telling.

Latterly, I know Christmas has arrived when it's time to witness Handel's Messiah. Been going for years. Wouldn't miss it. The children are all grown up now. I took two of them to Messiah once but I don't think it agreed with them so now I go alone. I've noticed that a lot of people go alone to Messiah. The lady on my left tonight was alone as was the man on my right. It was the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra with a 112 strong chorus and it was fabulous. Being a student, I had middle seat, fourth row for £4. I knew there would be a payback for the Cornish experience. And I know it's good when folk are wiping away the tears and sharing tales of raised hairs on the back of their necks having had nothing stronger than a tub of ginger flavoured New Forest ice-cream.

Another one looms

2010-12-14T20:04:00.001Z

Just had a quick ferret through the archives to find the blog I wrote before Christmas last year. I wanted to see how far we'd moved forward in 12 months. Can it be that the dishwasher hasn't functioned for over a year now? I really must do something about that. What that might be I have no idea as no-one wants to come and look at it. The sitting-room light is still working...touch wood. The only problem is that it's one of those upside-down flying-saucer types so, unless you've got a good memory (ha,ha), you forget until you switch it on that it also acts as a collector of small flying things. And, by the time you've realised this, it's too hot to take it down. Sadly, I've never heard again from Caroline since she was chief witness at the first of last year's rows. Fair weather and all that stuff.

The man-child is still ensconced in the land of the sheep and daughter number two has yet to arrive via the Christmas markets of Copenhagen. Aged parents have also been to little wooden festive huts, theirs in Milton Keynes. Say no more. MK is all very well but I doubt they had a similar range of pastries and bacon. When I was last in West Barbary, I read there was to be a Christmas Market in Truro. It was called Best of Cornwall so I imagine it was not a big event; pasties rather than pastries I suspect. No, I am living quietly in the Dorset calm-before-the storm amongst the sick and tired. Everyone has the cough/cold/throat and all my attempts at haute cuisine have turned into meals-on-wheels. Saturday, the invitees couldn't come due to poor health so I took my slow roasted lamb round to daughter number one who was also stricken. Last night, having received a welcome invitation to dinner from one who is so exhausted that it evolved into 'something on a tray', I loaded up the car with Tartiflette and Apple Crumble and we gorged in front of a real fire.

I have visits or visitors every day and night this week but what I'm really looking forward to, recluse that I am, is Friday evening when I take myself to the BSO and choir's rendition of the Messiah. I'm not unsociable but I love Messiah and having once shared it at the Sheldonian with folk who got into a dreadful mess involving chewing gum, a fur collar and an unending attack of giggles, I now prefer to indulge myself alone. This, with the exception of exhausted friend who accompanied me to Christchurch Priory last year. After this, bring it on: all friends and family welcome for the festivities.

Seven Stars, Stithians

2010-12-09T23:54:00.001Z

What I like about Cornwall: my local. I've never had a local before and I love it. No, I do. Hate Cornwall...love the pub; especially on Sunday evenings which is Quiz Night. You can go on other nights, on your own if you like as long as you don't mind talking to Phil the Tooth. I call him that because he's only got the one. He tries to pretend he doesn't go to the Seven Stars every morning and night. Once I met him outside the door and he told me he was only there waiting for a man to move some chairs. He can talk for hours about the sausages from Tresvathen's farm. I know how many he's eaten, how many his sister's eaten and the sneaky one he's hidden for his breakfast.

I don't actually live in the village: I live in a hamlet of six houses at the end of a road that's covered in ice five months of the year. Ian and Lindsay live in the piggeries and Josh, the musician, lives with Nanny Mollie and together, Simon, we are The Lodgers..... a quiz team to beat all others. In order to get to the Seven Stars AND enjoy a drink & the quiz, we must abandon the cars and walk across three fields, over two stone stiles and around the back of the churchyard. Sometimes, it's breath-taking: a huge Cornish sky full of stars. Other times, it's breath-taking: an arctic wind blowing across the vast expanse. Other times, it's just scary....some rotten farmer having slipped a herd of cows in when no-one was looking.

We go to the quiz because we win lots of free food and the booze is cheap. We are eclectic drinkers: a small bottle of Shiraz, half of Pear Rattler, Jack Daniels and coke, Sailor Jerry with Ginger Beer. They know us now though and think we're nearly normal. The quiz begins. Lisa calls out 'who got 9 out of 10?' A cheer. Was that the Lodgers or the Old Farts? For they are our rivals. Half time and a fag break. The whole pub, including the landlady and Rusty the dog, puts on coats, hats, gloves, scarves and decamps outside to discuss how cold it is.

Throughout the evening, ticket numbers are called whereby the lucky person wins a dog. Everyone wants to win number four...Gay Dog! Once all six dogs have been won there is a greyhound race on the TV. I should say that this is after all the quiz rounds have been completed and vast quantities of alcohol imbibed. There is uproar in the pub as everyone shouts for their dog knowing full well that number six always wins. I have never before been to a pub where everyone gets drunk on a consistent basis. Everone talks rubbish and there is never any trouble. Hate Cornwall....love the Cornish.

For Bridget

2010-12-09T23:06:00.000Z

Hello readers..remember me? It's been so long. Most people know what I think of West Barbary so, given that and the 15000 words I've written for my course, you will not be surprised that the old blog was put on hold. But, like Chris Rea, I've driven home for Christmas and feel that I must publicly respond to Bridget's latest email. The lovely Bridget is a great fan of Cornwall so keeps sending me suggestions of places I should visit in order to see a better side of things. For example, St Ives. Been there.

I met a man in St Ives. No idea whether he had seven wives or a number of cats in sacks. They weren't with him at the bus stop where I met him wearing a jumper with RNLI embroidered on it. He was..not me. We were waiting for a bus because St Ives is situated on the side of a mountain with the car park at the top. Actually, the bus was already there; had been for some time but the driver said he didn't fancy going just yet so all the smokers disembarked. I mentioned the weather to the RNLI man. They have a lot of weather in Cornwall, none of it particularly pleasant. The RNLI man said I should consider myself f****** lucky not to be on a boat. I agreed. He then told me a very interesting story about the latest body he'd dragged out of the sea. Do you meet these people Bridget?

I went to Tate St Ives but didn't understand the pictures. I went to the Hepworth studio and gardens but didn't understand the sculptures. I sat on the quay and had a coffee whilst watching six men dragging a large boat along the prom. They all stood around and discussed possible ways of making it move more easily. There was no consensus. I couldn't help but notice the sea in the background of this pleasant vista. Probably too obvious.

Bridget thinks I should turn off the A30 and visit Minions. Minions. Where should I start? Sadly, I've also been to Minions. I'll tell you briefly because the memory is too painful. Minions was where our mini-bus parked when we went on what was euphimistically referred to as a writing field trip. I borrowed some waterproof trousers and invested in a rainproof coat and proper walking shoes. I borrowed a rucksack. We virtually ran past the Hurlers which I would like to have looked at and yomped up to the Cheeswring. It rained icy rain all day. We went up three tors and slid amongst wild horses and sheep. We walked eight miles. The only time we stopped in five hours was for our packed lunch and I felt so ill I couldn't eat because I couldn't breathe. We did no writing because it was too wet and no-one could talk on the way home because, largely, we were dead. I couldn't walk the next day. Any more bright ideas Bridget.

Nine green bottles.....

2010-10-23T22:21:00.002+01:00

Actually, they aren’t green and neither are they bottles but I don’t know a song about nine old ladies sitting on a wall. However, if things continue in the same vein, I might have to invent one. To be truthful, I didn’t foresee a theme developing when I was back in Dorset the other week and came across the first lady sat on the wall outside daughter number one’s house. Come to that, I didn’t even see the lady until I tripped over her dog on the way to my car in the dark. Well, what passes for the dark round here. You want to see dark? Go to Cornwall. And why do people have dogs that clearly have a pedigree going back to the hound of the Baskervilles on those stupid elasticated leads? The dog seemed ok but its owner wasn’t looking too good. Green, actually.

Me: Are you ok?
Old Green Lady: No. It’s my back
Me: Can I take you somewhere? Home?
OGL: No. The dog won’t like it.
Me: I can get the dog in the car
OGL: No. He wants to walk home

I gave up. Couldn’t persuade her. Anyway, having got a good soaking at Worbarrow Bay today, I was on my way back via Wareham when I spotted another one sat on a wall with her sister and no dog. I pressed on, got struck by guilt at the next roundabout, did a complete rotation and at the risk of life and limb crossed the oncoming traffic. These two were ancient.

Me: Are you ok?
OGL’s sister: We’re waiting for the bus
Me: Yes, but is the other lady ok?
OGL’s sister: No. She can’t walk
Me: Can I take you somewhere? Home?
OGL’s sister: Yes. We’d like to go to the theatre in Poole to see the Mikado.

By the time I’d emptied the car of detritus, got the sister in the back (2 door saloon) whilst propping up the one who couldn’t walk, got the extremely old lady in and buckled up, the bus had been and gone. Off we set like a re-make of Last of the Summer Wine with everyone clinging on for dear life. There wasn’t much in the way of interactive conversation owing to the fact that two out of the three of us were deaf and the one nearest me was either mute or just couldn’t be bothered to make the effort. This didn’t stop the one in the back:

Are you familiar with the Mikado?
Birmingham’s a nice place.
We’re newcomers. Only been here twenty years.
The Sainsbury’s in Wareham is too small.
My sister doesn’t like Saturday markets.
I think things will change in the future.
Do you often have company in your car?
Are you a walker?

Unexpectedly finding myself at Poole Lighthouse, I nipped in once I’d unloaded them and purchased a treat: a ticket for the Messiah at student rate. Three down, seven to go.

From a distance

2010-10-20T19:48:00.003+01:00

Whatever possessed me to think I could maintain this blog, let alone two of them? Life is non-stop down on the peninsula and I have to write the news from a distance…both geographically and temporally. Incidentally, the all powerful Google won’t let me use that last word. I mean of time and not of impermanence. That’s what comes of being an academic or at least having aspirations to. I might have invented an adverb for temporal and I’m just putting that in not because I’m writing in the footsteps of Proust but because I know how much the family like to make corrections.

Anyway, back to the prosaic. Yesterday evening witnessed the last supper. That is, the exhaustion of all the free meals won by the quiz team supreme: The Lodgers. As per, we set off across the fields for a free steak in a force ten, my good self in the lead owing to the fact that I now possess the world’s most powerful torch. Over-hill and down-dale and just as Ian decides we no longer need battery light due to the brilliantly clear moon, I step over a stile into a field of…what? Who the hell put these cows here? Bloody great brown things, disturbed by the flashing of lights they decided to up sticks and follow us. I clutched Ian. Josh, swearing they weren’t there two hours ago, was on the periphery as we launched into a cross-country sprint.

What is this place we call Cornwall? A desolate, foreboding land full of dolmens and menhirs. A place where I love the subject of my study but where I cheer noisily having crossed the county border on my way out. When I am grown up I will start my own course in homely Dorset. Here are my friends. Here is the stunning Jurassic coastline. Here are proper shops and the north wind fails to blow. Here there is more than one road of escape.

Life at the end of the map

2010-10-11T20:51:00.002+01:00

It's been some considerable time since I last wrote...or it feels like it here in the hinterlands. Rather than being a solitary female, hated for stopping off for a glass or two of Shiraz on the way home, I am now accepted as a singular eccentric...so no change there....but part of a universally despised gang of four. Reason? We are the quiz team supreme! The recently eloped Lindsay and Ian, now residing in the piggery, the hair-laden music student, Josh, and myself are an unlikely trio, largely because there's four of us. But a mix of age and background is essential for victory. Last night, we were greeted in the Seven Stars with hardly suppressed groans of dismay. They don't remember our faces from one Sunday to the next but as soon as we appear donned in useful outgoing gear and replete with torches, they know we've just yomped over the dark fields and circumnavigated the spooky churchyard in order to thrash them. Result? We won the steak dinner for four (again), the Sunday lunch for four and the two bottles of wine. Well, we students have to eat.

Bingo starts on Wednesday....the ever-resourceful Lisa having loads of ideas to 'get the village in'. Last time they had bingo in the pub, the caller dropped the number 29 ball behind the cooler from where it was forever irrretrievable. Henceforth, every game has to commence with the punters marking off number 29 from their cards. Ian's parents are arriving from Cambridge tomorrow and won't be going to bingo so it might have to wait as there's no way I'm walking across those fields alone. Being civilised, they've told their son they they're driving into exile. I know what they mean. It feels as if you're driving off the end of the map when you come here. When you arrive, it's another country. Literally. They all have the Cornish flag flying: it's a bit like France with pasties. Strangely, it's starting to grow on me.

Making progress

2010-09-30T22:20:00.003+01:00

My landlady alerts me to the fact that there is a ‘better’ pub in the vicinity. To be fair, it would be difficult to be worse than the Seven Stars in Royston Vaisey/Stithians. I’ve now made two outings there and have not exactly been met with open arms despite the fact that I recently left them a copy of the West Briton. The West Briton is the local rag and seems overly populated with paedophiles. The landlord of the Seven Stars obviously has a distinct aversion to single females of the wine imbibing genre. However, I have a cunning plan to get my own back on his lack of hospitality: as we speak, a team of intellectuals comparable to the Milibands is forming to destroy the status quo in the Sunday evening quiz night.

I am not alone. For a start, I’ve discovered Lindsay and Ian, recently eloped and now living in the piggery. Ian has a PhD from Bristol. Currently unemployed, he has lots of time to read up on news, celebs and watch sport. Lindsay is an environmental biologist….will there be any suitable questions? Then there’s Josh. Josh is a musician living at Molly’s. Due to the shortage of student accommodation, Josh has ended up here on the farm with no transport. Every day, he walks two miles just to get to the bus stop. That’s dedication. I met him tonight clambering over the stile and informed him he was part of a team. He looked suitably unimpressed.

Anyway, off to the Golden Lion. I’m more than adept now at these country tracks. Mind you, I’m getting through a fair amount of fuel owing to the fact that I seldom reach anything above second gear. The Golden Lion is just past the lake. Pardon? I didn’t even know there was a lake. Bloody great thing it is. I noticed it as I was crossing it on the return journey. Well, you know what I’m like with bridges so good job it was dark. Didn’t even know I’d been over it on the way there owing to the relentless rain beating on the screen. It’s a very nice pub with a stunning menu: game stew with herb dumplings, Mrs Finn’s home-made cheese on a potato & onion rosti, chicken stuffed with old smokey (whatever that is), linguine with Cornish crab and not a pasty in sight. Plus, the walls are covered with awards for the food. Lovely.

£4.85 for a glass of wine and they still looked at me with some suspicion though.

Gone to the dogs

2010-09-28T20:20:00.002+01:00

I’m trying to be helpful by taking the dogs out. Actually, altruism isn’t really to the fore: sharing a lead with a greyhound is the only means of having a cigarette in these parts. The dog has sprained its ankle and is not keen on walking far. Fortuitously though, it pees every five seconds so there’s time to light up. That is until it forgets it is a large skinny beast with long legs and surprises itself by falling off the bank whilst engaging in yet another crouch. Up goes the pitiful paw and a whine is emitted that in dog-speak translates as put that thing out and take me home.

The next evening I plump for the grumpy black dog thinking there’s more chance of a decent walk and more nicotine. In the former, I am not wrong. We walk up hill and down dale and Patch, who is too cross to go on a lead, has a joyous time fiercely chasing a passing jogger. The athlete appears to know Patch and shouts personalised abuse. I pretend I have nothing to do with this dog and wonder when I might regain enough breath for the fag that was the initial reason for this jaunt. After some weeks, we reach the end of the track and hit a road. What road? I haven’t yet succeeded in getting out of my lodgings or back in again without going wrong. Keep bearing right they say. Patch and I walk miles. And miles. We see tractors and trailers and a steam roller and once a standing stone. After an hour, we meet Lynn and Mary from New Milton walking along the lane with a lot more confidence than we possess. They take us home. I still haven’t had a smoke.

Trailing round Falmouth I wonder how it might be possible to distinguish between the multitude of pasty emporia. I haven’t yet had a Cornish pasty and feel that I should make the effort. I don’t want to eat it walking along the road or sitting on a bench as that would be rather common. I don’t really want to eat one at all. I decide to go to the pub on the quay where we all spent the only rain-free evening last year and where they sell allegedly homemade pasties. I pick a sunny table over-looking the water and order a coke and a tortoise pie. The gods are watching me: the pub has sold out of pasties. The landlady says she is not averse to me purchasing one from a shop and eating it at the pub table. I am very grateful for her kindness but decline the offer and upgrade to a fresh crab salad.

The bridge looms

2010-09-23T20:23:00.000+01:00

Back on that well-worn road to Swansea once more, we are momentarily distracted at Beckington by an alarm. I won’t bore you dear reader with the details of packing the Fiesta although, should you be looking for a car that can accommodate two adults, three large crates of books, a lap-top computer, a duvet, two pillows, a bin bag full of assorted bed-linen and towels, a sheepskin under-blanket, a thirty-two inch television, a bag of shoes, a suitcase, an overnight bag, my overnight bag, one of those unwieldy items that holds a suit and two packs of bacon, look no further. No problem. Unless the alarm is emanating from said luggage. Can you hear that asks the man-child? I can’t hear anything…I’m too busy trying to have a serious conversation about his future. Why do you always try to have serious conversations the minute we go to Swansea he asks earlier? When else are we sat in close proximity for three and a half hours I say to the captive audience?

The bells, the bells. I look at my watch. Did you set your alarm clock for 10.0 clock I ask as we traverse a road conspicuous by its lack of a convenient lay-by. I pull alongside a handy bus-stop in the middle of nowhere. You can’t stop here he says; a bus might come. I point out that even if we happen to have reached this god-forsaken, isolated spot at the very time, on the very day that the annual bus appears, there is no-one waiting in the monsoon that is currently taking place. The alarm continues. It seems fortuitously close at hand so the rain-fearing, double-jointed man-child climbs over the seat in search of the dreaded clock. It’s too tricky for me so I open the door, which narrowly misses being de-hinged by a passing truck, and pull the driver’s seat forward. What did you do that for asks the man-child who was supporting himself on said seat and is now in a messy heap. We push the outsized TV back, locate the alarm clock and switch it off. Job done and we set off. Except now the giant TV is moving noisily around. We make another stop, readjust our packing and continue our discussion.

Here’s a funny thing: conversation flows naturally until the bridge is in sight. I have taken copious quantities of Rescue Remedy in preparation and now want him to start talking to me so I can get across the dreaded thing preoccupied with an interesting debate. Talk has dried up. On the way back I am alone in a gale. I sit on the hard shoulder for a while in the beating rain whilst lorries rush by with a venom that threatens to plummet me into the depths of Chepstow. I put on the afternoon play, breathe deeply and sail back into England. Back in beloved Dorset I find the car has been successfully emptied of everything except the bacon. Bodmin Moor looms on Sunday.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

2010-09-21T23:58:00.003+01:00

A week of bon voyages draws to a close at the St Peter’s Finger quiz evening where it’s also the last night for MC Wilco who, along with the man child, (and yours truly) returns to academia later this week. A triple celebration as it’s also the birthday of Wareham quiz-master extraordinaire, Taffy Adler. Thankfully, no Tom Jones questions but rather too many with a football theme for my liking. We plummet gracefully on the so-called connections round by which time we’ve lost the will to live anyway.

Last week I participated in one of the great train journeys of the world: the infamous Poole to Brighton run where the most exciting thing is trying to catch the connection at Southampton on another platform in three minutes. Most of the three hour trip is spent catching up on the pre-reading for my course. I reach the renaissance at Fareham and struggle onto East Sussex in the company of Milton and Ben Johnson. Good job I’m trapped on a train, otherwise I might succumb to a burning desire to wash the kitchen floor. They’re a laugh a minute that pair.

Bev is waiting for me at Brighton with Vicky who is sporting yet another broken ankle. It strikes me that these two are about as far removed from Marge Simpson’s sisters as it’s possible to be. We are in the tea-rooms, of which Bev is a world-class expert. Vicky mentions that this particular establishment has gone to the dogs….she’s spotted someone chewing gum. I am glad I threw mine away before we started out. We have cakes; a concession to the fact that Bev doesn’t eat. I realise this when we go a whole day with only the promise of a fish-cake somewhere in the distant future. I feel faint. Bev says she’d like to be a fly on the wall when I recount this. I’d like to see a fly on the wall so I can eat it.

A wedding party and yet another farewell to ex-work colleagues. Eight hours after the actual ceremony, which I missed due to entering the post-Elizabethan period at Burley, Carole still looks like a beautiful porcelain doll. We arrive at the country house hotel in a pale blue stretch-limo, already soaked in wine and free bubbly. The private guests are temporarily worn out from the wedding breakfast but we are looking for the action. An unexpected star turn from Paula’s belly dancing troupe goes down a storm. Then we take to the dance floor. It’s a suitably memorable finish to ten years with these friends as we stagger out into the Dorset air and fall into the world’s biggest taxi.

Last night sees a quiet meal with Sue and me on the point of exhaustion. We share a glass of wine and the talk is of Christmas. It’s only a blink away and I still have two hundred years of reading left.

The study support tutor has left the building

2010-09-14T23:37:00.001+01:00

There was a gathering of friends in Chaplaincy today to mark the passing of time. Teas and coffees were available accompanied by the previously mentioned Chocolate Biscuit Cake, the infamous Sue Brown Banana Cake and the pretentious new kid on the block…Tony’s Dorset Apple Cake. In honour of the old kid finally making the great escape there was a heart-warming speech by an ex and sorely missed line manager who was delighted to offer a reference for future employment; and initially thrilled to learn that a request for said reference was already winging its electronic way towards him. The discovery that the position in question was as a life model initially threw him but I know he’ll think of something appropriate to write. Cards with thoughtfully scribed messages were presented along with a generous variety of gifts. Then there were the partings. When will we see you again? Ummm, 7.30 at Carole’s hen night?

So off to a Chinese restaurant for a charming soiree where nice things like redundancy and marriage were celebrated. New beginnings and life changes all round. And more to come on Saturday evening when the merry band will take an evening cruise in a limo before arriving at a luxury hotel to partake of a little toast or three to the newly-weds. All of us are in our fifties and none of us have any intention of behaving as if we are. I’m glad to say I won’t miss that place one iota and not so much as a backward glance was passed as I drove out of the car-park for the last time. Neither will I miss my friends because I’ll still have them. The future’s bright. Carpe Diem and all that jazz.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUugQoxS8_o&feature=related

0% Fat

2010-09-12T23:10:00.001+01:00

A long and mixed weekend of family, hangovers and treats is on its way out of the door. It finishes with the construction of a chocolate biscuit cake. Which is to say, not chocolate biscuits but a chocolate cake with biscuits. I am not known for my cakes so, being charged with making one for my leaving do, I opt for the oven-free variety. The chocolate biscuit cake rekindles my childhood memories. It contains Golden Syrup, still from a green tin, that I had all but forgotten dripping off hot buttered toast. And my chocolate biscuit cake also contains marshmallows which, on reading the packet, I am astounded to read are fat free. How can that be I wonder as I pop a spare one into my gaping mouth?

Daughter number two has the nerve to turn thirty this weekend. In preparation, aged parents rearrange golf, bowls, landscape gardening, go-karting, house renovations and forego haute cuisine in order to drive south for the celebrations which commence with an excellent fish supper in town. Friday is the birthday and Raclette has been requested but before that, we must take the train to Weymouth for ‘a trip out’. The train ride is lovely. Weymouth is not. Trip Advisor claim that Weymouth is fourth on the list of emerging popular destinations. Has anyone from Trip Advisor been to Weymouth? And where are the other three on their list? Milford Haven? Actually, it’s quite nice on the quay but it flashes past in the blink of an eye to be noted only as a possibility for a future visit by those who like craft shops. We yomp along the sea-front back to the station and manage to accomplish the ‘day out’ in precisely two hours. I recall my father saying they’d done the Camargue by 11.30am.

We are nine for the Raclette; three more than anticipated. Gradually, the old and young fall by the wayside and the hard core drinkers, who had no intention of drinking so much, remain to mix their intake and watch Winnebago Man on YouTube. The next day, having double-booked, I miss the actual party and zoom off reluctantly with daughter number one to Southampton. We have tickets for the 25th anniversary production of Les Miserables prior to its appearance in the West End on Tuesday. I do not want to go. I have a headache and I have discovered that the show is three hours long. We emerge from the theatre at 10.30. It has been simply amazing. I can’t remember being so transfixed and I have run out of adjectives. It was quite wonderful.

The man-child falls in the door at 6.45 this morning. He’s not looking well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDQQfBrSUs0

No hope

2010-09-05T22:31:00.000+01:00

In the dining room of the Green Lawns Hotel, I find myself trapped in a 1950's novel. Fuzzy, muffled musak, possibly of a foreign origin, plays irritatingly in the background of this vast and empty expanse of white linen. Two elderly waitresses dressed in regulation black and white hover impatiently. It's the first week of September so no children but where are the Saga folk? Two couples who dare not speak in loud voices are present plus a solitary German who is trying to explain the origin of his name to the disinterested lady who only wants to know whether he requires coffee. I have a sea view from my table for four. Clearly, the other three are not turning up. I must move my chair some distance from the table in order to enjoy the panorama which means I cannot see the lights of Falmouth Bay whilst eating. There is no sea view from my bedroom despite the fact that I had to climb a staircase akin to the north face of the Eiger. The food is so bad that I dare not venture back into the dining room for the breakfast I have paid for the following morning. I write some notes on a spare piece of paper in th hope that they will think I am an hotel inspector.

En vacances

2010-08-19T16:34:00.009+01:00

With propellers creaking in anticipation, the Noddy plane is in full throttle for the departure from Southampton when the pilot’s charming voice comes over the intercom. He wishes us a pleasant flight but feels it necessary to advise us of the potentiality of some minor turbulence at Avignon; only to be expected at this time of year he suggests pleasantly. Those of us in the know immediately decode this kindly meant euphemism as a warning that a full-scale mistral is in evidence at our destination and that those seated in that little triangular bit at the front of the plane are currently on def com three.

He’s right: it is a pleasant flight until the ten minutes to landing buzzer sounds ominously. On cue, we suddenly drop a few hundred feet and the crowd gasp before laughing in consensual embarrassment verging on hysteria. Down we lurch once more and, as if we have practised beforehand, all grab armrests or the back of the seat in front in perfect synchronisation. This time, no-one laughs as we embark on a period of rhythmic swaying which sends the baby in row twenty into a deep coma. The runway is in sight when the acrobatic dare-devil driving the plane decides to swoop back up into the heavens. With dread in our hearts, we realise that the first attempt to land has been aborted. The second descent is akin to bumping step by step down a never-ending staircase. Leonie passes me a handy plastic bag. One unfortunate piece of information that those familiar with Avignon airport possess is the knowledge that the ground staff charged with dealing with emergency landings do so by bicycle. Eventually, of course, we arrive and the company disembark, not sporting the usual shade of pale English skin but, this time, with a shared green pallor.

Leonie gets her own back

Tuesday night in casualty at Henri Duffaut hospital is much like that infamous Friday night two years ago: grown men in hysterics, small children trying to break the sweet machine, 500 hangers-on on the smoking balcony and a general escargot-like air of laissez-faire on the part of the administrative staff. Last time, I was the damaged one on the inside and dear Bev was the kindly soul waiting with the walking wounded on the other side of the door. They don’t allow for any possibility of cross-infection in the world of French medicine. It doesn’t matter who you are, who you’re with or what’s wrong with you: the ill or damaged person goes in one door and all the kids, drunks and other assorted friends and family wait elsewhere. Last time, Leonie hopped onto the Noddy plane and flew faster than a gnat to be with me. This time, she was on the inside. Last time, I was ten months into my sabbatical. This time, we’d been in France five hours. That’s what comes of trying to be financially prudent: in the supermarket, we’d opted for the cheaper olive oil contained in a killer bottle with a lid fixed for all time. From the corner of my eye, I’d noticed her attacking it with a serrated-edged kitchen knife but, being scared of this efficient school-teacher, thought it best to keep my own counsel.

Snippets

At last the awkward 14 year old boy has arrived poolside. Ten days in and he’s finally off the phone, off Facebook and off the balcony.

Two things that make baked aubergines a disappointment: emmental cheese and an oven door that requires a patio chair propped under the handle to retain the heat.

Overheard in Provence at 8.30pm when the temperature is still 30C and the evening cicadas are chattering pleasantly amongst themselves: Have you ever been to Blackpool? My God, it’s awesome.
Flip-flop over the gravel. Guess who’s back? Only yesterday we were discussing that business with the wasps last year and here he comes again, replete with the world’s largest blue flippers, enormous yellow goggles and a snorkel. He’s looking even more like Dougal from Father Ted and his dad’s still telling him to stop obsessing about insects.

Hangover

In Arles, whilst the newbies are scouring the market for souvenirs or following in the trail of Van Gogh, we find a previously undiscovered shop in which we pass a happy hour or so. It’s full of things that no-one needs such as beautiful note-books and such-like and has been designed especially for us. I am paying the price for sitting up late last night drinking with a woman who works with famous comedians – she shares my view of Ricky Gervaise – ‘a one-trick’ pony. I stumble around unenthusiastically with a large bottle of water waiting for two cups of expresso to take effect. Subsequently, we search relentlessly for a favourite clothes shop which we have misplaced but give up and head for lunch only to walk straight past it. Today, there is nothing inside that we want except for a very expensive handbag made from red net and lace. Leonie says I can make a similar one from an old skirt of hers. It could be my winter project.

Leonie quotes

You can drive – it’s only up the road. (Is this all I’m capable of?)

Is the waist elasticated enough? (The diet starts Monday)

Mummy!! Get it off me (A large grasshopper)
I hate it when you use that voice. (Trying to warn her that big insects are in close proximity)

Are you struggling? (Arles market with a hangover)
I can’t even ******** well reverse my own car! (Having a row with herself at Les Baux)

You’re too near the edge! (Heard constantly throughout the holiday)

The mouse

It’s fast becoming an annual pilgrimage to Les Baux. Other people go there to see the amazing Cathedral of Images and wander the ancient fortified streets of this hill-top splendour. We go to look for a mouse and have a row.

Another downfall of being financially careful on holiday, apart from slicing your thumb in two, is the tendency in our family not to buy the thing you’ve seen and really want just because you don’t need it. In 2007, trudging unhappily amongst the gift shops of Les Baux, my father saw a little metal mouse working on a computer….get it? He forever rues the day that he failed to make the purchase so now my daughter and I religiously yomp up the steep lanes in search of said rodent. Three years on and still no sign of it.
Talking of hills, for the uninitiated, Les Baux is located in the middle and at the top of Les Alpilles; a small range of olive grove laden mountains. The road from St Remy is tortuous: just a blur of zig-zags on the map. Finding a space in the miniscule car-park at the Cathedral of Images is almost a lost cause. Leonie has a row with herself and says she’s leaving me there. It only takes two seconds to realise that we’re not on a handy bus route and she’s back with her own unique blend of expert parking advice. I look forward to moving the hire car, on which the damage liability is 800 euros, up to the village car-park situated on a sheer cliff drop.

Assumption

Having decided it would be a nice idea to watch the torchlight procession to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, we find ourselves sitting by candlelight in the stunningly beautiful basilica of the Abbey of St Michel of Frigolet. On entry, we decline the option of long, thin candles. However, as it becomes apparent that we are about to be more than mere bystanders, and will be the only participants without a light, I go back outside to exchange all of my end-of-holiday coins for a couple.

At 9pm, the church is packed and the abbey bells ring out to welcome in the chanting white-robed monks. All the locals join in the refrain of Joyeuse Lumiere and it is, of course, quite wonderful. Incense is spooned into an apparently very hot large golden bowl and smoke rises in huge plumes. We remain standing for the first part of the service until the monks light their own candles before moving amongst the congregation to light ours. So, far from being privileged to simply watch the spectacle, we now process with everyone out of the basilica and into the dark night. About two hundred of us walk slowly up this little footpath in hidden Provence singing and clutching our candles. The emotion is overwhelming. Finally, we reach the foot of the illuminated statue of the Virgin where the service recommences. I look upwards to the vast star-filled sky that hangs over this small and perfect mountain.

Apero Dinatoire

On our last night we are kindly collected by John who executes a spectacular ten point turn in front of the gites during which he manages to wedge the front right wheel in the rock garden under the plane tree. Having engaged the attention of all the al fresco diners who were not expecting cabaret this evening, he then escapes and narrowly misses a parked car before knocking down three large potted shrubs. The audience do not clap.

We have been invited for the legendary aperitif and pass a few convivial hours at Karil’s converted stable block which is situated in stunning countryside in the middle of nowhere. We are eleven in number: a very cosmopolitan bunch comprising Brits, Swiss, Indian and French. And largely due to the inclusion of the latter, the singing commences as soon as is politely appropriate i.e. when it becomes clear that no more food is available. An interesting rendition of ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain’ is undertaken simultaneously in three different languages. All have different meanings so whilst John and I are going with the least bawdy of the English versions Ganesh is apparently singing a famous Indian love song. Naturally, ‘sur le pont d’Avignon’ receives a rousing inclusion and to further add to our cross cultural soiree, we play that old favourite – who can sound the least like Edith Piaf? Pieter, who is an artist, is obviously appalled at the disintegration of the apero dinatoire and slips quietly away. Later I spot him: a solitary figure walking purposefully through the orchard. I ask Karil if he is leaving home. She says she thinks he is looking for cats. As you do.

On our return, I suggest to John that he drops us on the road to save the dangers of the car-park. Instead, he decides to make his exit by turning in the pitch black of the heavily wooded junction at the end of the drive. We disembark and watch his manoeuvres through finger-covered eyes. He is literally between a rock and a hard place. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that the phrase originated at this very spot: between what we know to be the edge of an orchard, a deep ditch and three large boulders strategically placed to mark the sharp turn and drop in the road. The front left tyre now matches its opposite number in disrepair and the boundary once marked by the stones has moved some distance. Bon nuit.

Morrish and the monkey canes

2010-07-29T00:09:00.005+01:00

I remember when karaoke was all the rage whereas now it’s THE QUIZ. A prerequisite for participating in the former was being so drunk that all efforts could be forgiven. An absolute necessity of success in the pub quiz is being stone cold sober. There are some further interesting sociological comparisons between the two activities: in the days when karaoke was king, one would probably have been what was then referred to as a ‘regular’ at the pub; karaoke being simply an excuse to become more sloshed than usual. How the alcoholic ingestion of the great British public has evolved over the years as cirrhosis becomes the ‘must have’ accessory of the new 24/7 millennium. The young lie prostrate on weekend city streets whilst the middle-aged are downing yet more and more wine and vodka in the comfort of their homes. So the quiz is an excuse to get out into the social atmosphere of a pub - where there are no regulars - for reasons completely alien to the raison d’etre of such establishments.

Here we all are in the Red Lion for their inaugural quiz evening. Further observations: each team consists of members of a mixed age, this being necessary for those wishing to answer questions in all categories. The drinks on the table comprise a mixture of cokes, lemon and limes and other non-alcoholic beverages essential to being ‘on the case’. A great deal of time is given over to choosing the team name, ensuring that the pen works, nominating someone with clear hand-writing skills to fill in the answers and ensuring that no other team are using an I Phone. This is serious business. Last week at St Peter’s Finger, it was all down to the person who knew the recorded weight of the largest pumpkin ever nominated for the Guinness Book of Records. We were out by over 100 kilos!

The picture round is a disaster. Marty Wilde was apparently Tony Bennett. Our Shirley Bassey turns out to be Gina Lollabrigida (spelling mistakes are not counted). Zsa Zsa Gabor was Barbara Windsor…I told you that! Strangely, from the depths of somewhere, we were successful with Arthur Mullard. Who? We catch up on current affairs and collapse momentarily on sport; but only because the quiz-master gave us an incorrect date and because the only two racehorses we’ve ever heard of are Red Rum and Shergar. Neither of these apparently won last year’s Derby. There’s a short interlude for the smokers to leave the building and an announcement that Rudy is at the bar doing tarot readings for only ten quid a pop in the next room. Can he tell us if we’re going to win?

Despite the fact that we don’t know the weight of the world’s largest sheep…247 kilos… which, bizarrely, we wrote down but subsequently altered, Morrish and the monkey canes win by a mile. Thirteen quid is ours for the taking, the most difficult task of the night being how to divide this between five. It seems a lot of work for such a pittance but it’s the glory that counts.

Resistance

2010-07-27T18:19:00.000+01:00

Just back from a weekend at the house of my ancient parents where a visiting aged aunty is also in situ. When I say aged, I mean in years: father is 84, mother is 81 and Aunty Grace will be 80 in October. So that’s a combined 245 years and it took me longer to calculate that than it does for Aunty Grace to tot up who owes what in the weird card game she taught us. Or amass the total number of pills they take between them for various ailments; all of which are seriously debilitating and none of which hinder their chosen lifestyles.

Arthritic hands can no longer knit. No problem: we’ll just move on to appliqué, patchwork and cross-stitch. Slipped sciatic discs cause sleepless nights but dare not intrude on bowls. Bad knees may warrant a second thought with regard to eighteen holes of golf but only momentarily: we can walk the first nine and take a buggy for the rest. Infections and contagions are rampant but dismissed in the light of line dancing and creative writing. They aren’t even a consideration in the decision of whether to engage with overseas’ male friends on the part of Grace who seems to be under the impression that she’s just turned fifteen. The house remains spotless, the vast expanse of garden is pristine and wonderfully complicated meals appear with regularity, chosen with care from a veritable library of cookery books.

Who do these people think they are? Have they no weaknesses? Can’t they just behave quietly in their dotage? This generation don’t know the meaning of ‘chill out’. It’s positively exhausting being in their company. Aunty Grace complains of ‘feeling lazy today’. What she means is ‘relaxed’ but it’s not a word known in their vocabulary. The ‘lazy day’ comprises a five hour yomp round Warwick after which I have to lie down quietly in a darkened room.

Throughout the weekend, I listen to them talking together. It’s tricky for an outsider because an inability to maintain related conversation might be the only crack in their armour. This holy trinity share two things in common: they each have a view on anything and everything and they all possess a malfunctioning hearing aid.

All of their many interests, experiences and opinions are voiced simultaneously and often without a common theme, apart, of course, from the maintenance of bathrooms about which there is a heated debate. This concerns the option of keeping cleaning materials available versus the eyesore of doing so when you could easily wipe down the shower with a handy flannel. I have no contribution to make as I am sharing a bathroom with Grace who resides in the anti-flannel camp. She has taken over all potential spare space with more toiletries than might be imagined in a Boots’ warehouse. It’s ok. I put my soap-bag in a small hitherto undiscovered corner. I go to bed at 11.30 and nod off quietly to the sounds of her gurgling and swishing and dripping followed by that weird howling noise that the toilet makes. I am woken up at 8.30 the next day to more swishing and gurgling and shut the window so that the Sunday-morning-sleeping-in neighbours don’t have to experience the weird howling noise that the toilet makes which is currently drowning out the pleasant sound of the village church bells. Has she been in there all night I wonder?

It’s only slightly noisier than the previous evening when the three of them were in musical competition tuning in their hearing aids. Late night three-way conversation on the efficacy of Lanzarote versus the tastiness of streaky bacon versus the current drabness of Marks and Spencer is hard enough to follow. Accompanied by tired hands rubbing against ears, it’s virtually impossible: ring, ting, screech. It’s a regular Tubular Bells. Is this where Mike Oldfield got his inspiration? Did he make millions purely by the inspired addition of a mandolin whilst observing his own relatives?

I drive back to Dorset for a bit of Sunday third generation experience. The man-child is cleaning. Always a worrying phenomenon to intrude upon when one has been absent.

Did you have a party? I ask warily
Why are you here? comes the welcome
I live here

I look around for something to eat. Were I at my parents’ house, I would probably find the odd Lobster Thermidor and Isles Flottant in the fridge. No such luck in this establishment.

Do you fancy eggs on toast.
Is there any bread?
Yes, but I can’t read the date says the visually impaired mother
Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not blue comes the student mantra
It’s blue
What about those slices underneath?
No, they’re not as blue as the others

Eggs it is then. I might have a bit of a nap after this.

The old red flag

2010-07-19T12:01:00.005+01:00

A hot summer’s day in deepest Dorset finds us walking along a leafy lane accompanied by the Ulster Prison Officers’ marching band. What strange surrealism is this now? Only a few hours later, we will retrace our steps in a tranquility that will suggest this has been nothing but a dream. The thousands of folk that are gathered along with television crews and those making documentaries in these con-dem(ed) times will, apparently, have vanished into thin air. For now, however, this is Tolpuddle at the climax of the Martyrs’ Festival.

Firstly to the church and the grave of James Hammett who was the only one to return to and stay in Dorset where, for his troubles, he died a lonely death in the workhouse. If only he could have foreseen how his life and those of his comrades would be celebrated. Here is a Methodist leader, come to lay a wreath which, inexplicably, has disappeared at the last minute. No problem, says the good lady vicar of the parish as she graciously gives him hers. Here is an aged and fragile Tony Benn, unrecognizable now in any other context. Here is an upbeat Billy Bragg who will congratulate the Bristol Socialist Choir on their rendition of two of his songs after Hammett’s descendants have laid their flowers. In the corner of this sunny churchyard, I wonder at the relevance of all this. Then I remember that I’ve just lost my job.

The grand parade, which is seemingly endless, is a magnificent spectacle regardless of one’s politics. Apart from the Socialist Workers’ Party who, by tradition, must look threateningly miserable, everyone is happy. Smiles as wide as the many coloured and beautifully crafted banners abound. There are balloons and streamers, kites and flags, dogs and pushchairs and all types of bands. They say it’s the biggest festival Tolpuddle has ever witnessed. I wouldn’t know….it’s my first. There is a slight delay to the parade’s commencement as an aged gentleman waving a huge flag of England refuses to move from the front of the leading band. No-one knows if this is a protest and, if so, what against. Two whipper-snappers from the local police force arrive in seasonal rolled-up shirt sleeves and manage to persuade the trouble-maker that there is every possibility of him becoming flattened in the immediate future.

Following the suitably shortened speeches, we later sit amongst good-natured crowds in the glorious sunshine listening to Billy Bragg. The red wedge has taken over the mantle of Mr Benn. Between songs, he preaches, shouts, advises and deals vociferously with a small band of hecklers who feel that Billy’s sold out with his celebrity appearances on Question Time. Largely, I don’t care. I am too busy enjoying the music, the sun and the crowd as I look out over the green fields of Dorset through a row of huge bright red flags.

Here is Billy, almost a child star, unique amongst his contemporaries for insisting on singing live on TOTP. His voice is even sronger today!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjUA3RU4B8E

Dreaming Spires

2010-07-13T18:51:00.001+01:00

Outside the King’s Arms, with glasses of refreshing lemony lemonade, Leonie asks if I’ve seen who I’m sitting next to. Now who? In Bath the other week I found myself squashed under an umbrella with Fabio Capello. I bet there’s not as many folk seeking his autograph these days as there was then. I look round as casually as I can and there at the other end of the bench is Alan Bennett. He is speaking in French about free wifi connection in Paris. Next thing you know, it’ll be Robert de Niro talking Italian in Lidl. Am I to be continually stalked by the rich and famous?
I study Alan Bennett. He seems thinner and younger and is not wearing the trademark blue shirt, green tie and v-necked pullover. This means little as Capello was not dressed in his M & S suit and was, therefore, in disguise. However, the bottoms of Alan’s trousers are grubby which leads me to believe that he is a masquerading doppelganger.

It’s not him I whisper. Leonie is undeterred. As Alan Bennett gets up to leave, she asks:
Are you Alan Bennett?
Who? asks Alan Bennett.
Alan Bennett replies Leonie
No says Alan Bennett, but thank-you for asking.

In the Botanical Gardens, we are hunting the Snark. As you do. Ten actors from the ‘renowned’ Shiplake College in Henley are doing a raucous turn with a Bandersnatch made from ripped-up bin bags. And very amusing it is too. We trail after them in the city’s heat and, after it’s all over, small out-of-control-screaming children chase the actors in and out of the bushes. We sit on the brown remains of the lawn and eat melted ice-cream in tubs. Mine is honey and stem-ginger flavoured. A straw would be useful at this point.

When I arrived earlier, it took me three attempts to work out how to get into the Westgate car-park. Round and round and round we go and where we end up nobody knows. Eventually, I pulled into the ground floor and found a space. Whilst I was busy texting Leonie to inform her of my location, she pulled into the space next to me.
Couldn’t have done that if we’d arranged to she notes.

Much later, after the grand day out and the evening’s open-air performance of Romeo and Juliet, we are walking back to the Westgate behind a man with a bottle. When he starts shouting at nobody and throwing things in the road, we both become wordlessly syncronised: slowing down and retrieving our car keys from the depths of our bags ready to stab him in the eye. This is a strategy I taught my daughters when we lived in Boscombe. Arriving safely at the Westgate, we discover that the cost of retrieving our cars is greater than the price of a return train ticket to Oxford would have been.

NB. There have been some offline comments relating to the previous blog. Name and shame I say.

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there

2010-07-09T22:29:00.000+01:00

Actually, it was 8.30am last Sunday and the man in question was certainly there on the landing, in body and wearing only a pair of boxers, but sadly not in spirit. I was making a move upwards with the intention of taking a shower. Another one of those pointless conversations at which our family are so adept ensued.

What are you doing?
I heard a banging noise
I’ve been listening to banging noises since you came in at half past five
I think there’s someone in there
Where? The airing cupboard?
I think there’s someone in the bathroom
Well, who could it be?
I don’t know
Well, why don’t you open the door and find out?
I’m not sure
Well I’ll open the bloody door then. I want a shower.

At this point, some dawning of memory obviously kicks in.

It’s alright mum
No it’s not bloody well alright. I want a shower.
I’ve got it under control
Got what under control?
I’m not alone

Now some sense of understanding kicks in with me

Is there a woman in the bathroom?
Yes
Who is it?

Memory not so good at this point.

For God’s sake Jack. I want to get to the boot sale.

The boot sale is very good. I am stocking up on Christmas presents owing to the fact that I won’t be able to buy anyone anything good once I become an impoverished student for the third time. I also bought myself a Beanie Baby pterodactyl in pristine condition with label attached for 50p. I arrive home and show my goodies to Jack. He informs me I have purchased a collector’s item and will make a killing. I will be able to buy proper Christmas presents. We rush to the internet and discover that the going rate for Swoop, the pterodactyl is 99p. That’s 49p profit which will be negated by the postage for selling it on eBay. Jack’s not looking too good.

So who was that in the bathroom then?
I’m really sorry mum
Was it Sami?
No it was Laura
What, big Laura?
No. The other Laura
Where did she go?
Big Laura came and got her
Where does she live?
I don’t know. I was trying to help her out
Oh. Is that what they call it now? This house is too small for that.
I’m really sorry mum.

21

2010-06-29T23:05:00.003+01:00

It comes to something when the guests arrive with their own television. What’s the big deal? I thought it was just the man-child that moaned about living with the smallest TV in the world. It’s big enough to get Judge Judy on. What more do you want? Apparently, quite a lot. Most people arrive at 21st birthday celebrations with a card and the odd crate or three of beer. Not my son’s friends. I open the door to find a long-haired attractive being……I remember you when you were eleven……barging in and knocking all my prized pictures out of the way, with some electronic monstrosity which must be placed on the decking under the awning that, after three years, we have just worked out how to download………in the old-fashioned sense of the word.

The sitting room is in darkness due to the new shade-inducing, green-and-white-extension and man-child rushes off to the Turkish Spar, not for more beers, but to purchase apples-oranges-lemons to go in the Pimms.; which, incidentally, I overheard him ordering with specific requisites for it NOT to be the winter version. It’s 30+C in Dorset; we don’t want any of that spicy nonsense thank-you. Conversation about old Istanbul is exchanged and the man-child is much impressed to discover that the Turkish contingent a) know we’ve been to Istanbul because b) they know his mother. He’s 21 for goodness’ sake. When is he going to realise that I always get there first? And c) he comes from a family where we’ll talk to anyone and everyone.

The football is, of course, a disaster. But, actually, it isn’t really. These young men, sat on the patio, with their French omelettes, their Thai chicken crisps, unlimited but un-abused quantities of alcohol and a selection of well-meaning family and friends are of good spirit. The nonsense that is the England team is quickly replaced by the cuisine of the day: ribs, burgers, chicken, bacon and a selection of the finest salads. The strange sun beats down and another match is due. I retire to my bed temporarily. When I re-appear, the garden is spotless. Hanging baskets have been replaced; not an item of rubbish is to be seen. I get up the next morning ready for work and meet the man-child, who, no longer is a child, arriving back from his evening’s entertainment.

In old Istanbul

2010-06-20T09:54:00.006+01:00

First meetings
In the Blue Mosque, overwhelmed by the vastness, the low hanging-many-candled chandeliers and the peacock-turquoise-immaculately-cleaned-oriental carpet, I stop to lean on the wooden barrier past which infidels are forbidden. Bare-footed and shrouded in a selection of the un-coordinated body-covering cloths designed for tourists, I am surprised to be engaged in conversation by a man in his sixties who I had failed to notice amongst the grandeur.

Do you like it?
It’s amazing.
How many times have you been here? Three? Four? Five?
It’s my first time.
Your first time?!!!!!!
Yes. I’m sorry.
You should’ve come twenty years ago.
Why?
We would’ve been twenty years younger then.
Yes, of course.

A small beautifully-formed boy….perhaps a professional model….dressed in the pristine white and fur-trimmed garb of a goblin sultan, poses for a million photographs with people he has never seen before; nor will he ever see again. He sits. He stands. He kneels. He does whatever the American women want him to do. There is something vaguely unsettling. I wonder whether he is sold in the sultry Turkish night to do whatever men want him to do. He never smiles.

This is my son. He has been here before.
Yes. The young know what to do. They travel.

Medication
Walking across the city, there seems neither sense nor direction to the traffic. Horns sound incessantly and pointlessly. Most vehicles are at a standstill. Every time we stop to point out our potential destination on our meaningless map to some hopefully-helpful local, the answer is always the same: 200 metres. Aiming for the Spice Bazaar, we mistake the venue and wander into the gloom of a number of stalls and shops which are clearly not aimed at European travellers; the so-called civilised beings in this ancient cradle of civilisation. Here are boxes and crates packed to the brim with ducklings, kittens, puppies, baby rabbits and veritable flocks of unknown, small-and-colourful crushed birds. We peer into the darkness of an open door where four men are crouched on the ground eating their bread and tomatoes from a cloth under which a million chicks vie for air and attention.

A young woman stops to choose a leech from one of many large jars containing every moving size and shape you could want. If you did want. She points out the offending ailment, apparently just below her right knee, to the leech doctor. The medical man, for, according to the hand-written sign, he is the doctor/professor, is in his early twenties and sports blue jeans and a luminous green tee-shirt but no sign of a stethoscope. He plunges his naked hand into the squirming-shrinking-expanding blackness of the jar and expertly withdraws an appropriately-sized leech, knocking away the others that are clinging to his wrist. He pops the creature into a half-full bottle of water. Yesterday, Jack mentioned that we should always check that the seals on our water bottles are not broken.

Mistakes in the heat
Sitting on the roof-top terrace in 30C with the mad-dogs-and-Englishmen who are watching football through the window, an unannounced waiter brings a small dish containing something bright orange and wet. It bears a passing resemblance to the stringy cheese which was on offer at breakfast this morning. I break off a small corner and put it in my mouth. It tastes as awful as a piece of soggy serviette might. This, in fact, is because it is a soggy serviette which has been kindly delivered for me to cool myself with. Well, I’m almost sure that’s what it is, but now that bits of it are clinging to my forehead and neck which I’ve just wiped I’m having doubts. When I rendezvous with the man-child, he asks:
What’s all that orange stuff in your hair?

Shopping
Jack has been to Kapili Carsi before so should know better than to become involved with an expert carpet salesman. Finally realising that taking even the smallest of rugs on a plane is a non-starter and having exhausted all his flying carpet jokes, Mustapha Sale persuades Jack to make a strange purchase: a leather cover for a pouffe. We don’t own a pouffe. The following day, in the Spice Bazaar, my son makes the accompanying purchase. Not a bag of stuffing, but a bright blue hubble-bubble pipe with some allegedly apple flavoured tobacco. I dream of the man-child sitting on his un-stuffed pouffe in Swansea, high on the hubble-bubble. Dressed in his Scheherezade outfit, he regales an enchanted female stick-insect with tales of the Arabian nights.

Interlude
Sitting in a small side-street in this city of 1001 cats, we could be in many places. The south of France for example; specifically, Nyons. From the windows of the imposing four-storey-sunflower-yellow-painted-colonial-type-open-shuttered building to our right drift the cool sounds of all-that-jazz. Suddenly, we are brought back to semi-reality by the onset of the call to prayer that resounds from every ancient wall. A plate of tenderly reared lamb, marinated since time immemorial and cooked to perfection with sweet black plums arrives. It’s an old Ottoman recipe and because it didn’t say this on the menu and the menu was the only one in Istanbul without pictures, I am inclined to believe this new piece of information. It may possibly be one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.

Weird and wonderful
Around 120 of us have managed to find our way to the cultural centre which seems to have been deliberately located in the most obscure point possible. We tried asking several people along the way for directions including two police officers. None had the faintest idea where it might be but all thought it was about 200 metres. Finally, I ask a man who is slicing meat from a dead leg kebab pole. First right, first left says he. And so it was and ever shall be. We have come to see the whirling dervishes. There is no sign of them and I ask the man-child whether they might be whirling so quickly that we can’t see them. Five men and a woman, wearing hats tall enough to cover Marge Simpson’s hair, commence the world’s longest song: 15 minutes of drumming, chanting and flute playing. From behind the red curtains come five more beings. They, too, have the Simpson hats plus long black cloaks wrapped around floor-length white robes. About 10 minutes of bowing takes place and I have the strange feeling that I’m at some cartoon graduation ceremony. Suddenly, they start to turn. Arms outstretched, right palm open to receive the messages from above, left palm down to pass the messages to the world, they spin and spin and spin. They stop without a trace of dizziness in evidence and bow gracefully to each other. Then they are off again: turning and whirling, faster and faster until they are five spinning tops of which only the odd flash is caught by the untrained eye. It is mesmerising and is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. They stop and an elderly man from the group of musicians recites at length and from memory from the Koran. It’s over. The dervishes have left the building.

An English country garden

2010-06-10T22:54:00.001+01:00

The rich and not-so-famous Australian media magnate opens the gardens to his stately pile in the depths of East Dorset once a year. Fortunately, aged friend, who appears to have lost no end of weight since she gave up going to the gym, has one of those books which tell you when the hoi polloi are allowed entrance to private properties. We try to encourage the other member of the Last of the Summer Wine contingent to join us; sadly she feels overtaken and overcome by work. But, AF has also invited a man! Shock! Horror! Said bloke belongs to someone else but is tagging along, fortuitously as it eventually transpires.

After they demand coffee and cake the minute they arrive at the joint, I leave to wander amongst bright orange honeysuckle, sweet-smelling white wisteria and a couple of stone lions. I look out over a pasture where a few well-chosen specimens of award winning horned sheep graze and give myself a well-earned pat on the back for remembering to bring along my note-pad. I then embark on a session of self-harming in order to draw blood to write with as I have forgotten a pen. Actually, I didn’t really do that: I retraced my steps and borrowed a biro.

AF and mushroom expert friend reappear replenished. I think I will find him extremely annoying. I don’t. We take a slow walk along the banks of the River Allen and all the tributaries that have been made to feed Stanbridge Mill which was mentioned in the Domesday Book. Mushroom expert turns out to know everything there is worth knowing about nature. In this respect, he’s a bit like Bob. (You’ll have to search the blog archives if you can’t remember who Bob is). He’s far more spiritual than Bob. And he’s so laid-back he’s positively horizontal. As we traverse the water meadows, he points out all sorts of things I would have missed and also teaches us how to differentiate between birdsong. I now know how to identify a Reed Warbler! By song….the others pretended they could see one; I didn’t believe them.

By far my favourite new piece of knowledge is the exploding bulrushes. I was so excited that I was forced to rush ahead and write this phrase down. For this information alone I offered to share my packed lunch with the mushroom expert. Naturally, he declined, initially suggesting that I wouldn’t have anything suitable for a vegetarian. Clearly, this bloke is not familiar with the contents of my fridge which are sparse to say the least. However, even I can do a turn with cheese sarnies made with brown bread and no butter, cold cheese pizza and a bunch of grapes. I only had one hard-boiled egg though and not enough altruism to share it.

Stanbridge Mill, once owned by Greg Lake of Emerson, Lake& Palmer fame is an absolute delight. Pity they don’t let us in a bit more often.

A flock of sparrows

2010-06-02T20:01:00.003+01:00

Spotted on the little path by the shed at 5pm: a baby sparrow shaking in the still hot sun. What to do? I call Leonie for advice. Leonie arrives with my camera in David Attenborough outfit to take a close-up, National Geographic-type photo. It’s shaking she says. Do you think it has anything to do with your proximity I reply? Leonie asks whether we should find the baby a worm. Might we have a worm that is smaller than this creature? Unlikely. Where has it arrived from she asks? This, I do not know. I suggest a shoe-box. I don’t know what I might do with a shoe-box but I do have a redundant one in my bedroom. This suggestion being a failure, I take control and duly shut all doors in the hope that someone will come to collect this tiny being. It works: a mother sparrow arrives and somehow manages to coax the baby into the shade before its short flight into the safety of the bushes.

A little later, I am on the phone to the man-child; commiserating about unfair exams, badly marked assignments, the problems of where to spend the first England match and other such life-changing events. Being a woman and thus able to multi-task, I am also observing the arrival, on the small patch of grass, of another mummy sparrow with a brood of slightly older fledglings. She is feeding them. Suddenly, one baby, with no sense of direction, arrives in the sitting room. Oh my God I shout; I’ll have to phone you back. Distressed man-child is shouting: what’s happening mum? Are you alright? Baby sparrow, frightened by the noise emanating down the line from Swansea, quickly flies back out to rejoin its family. I inform the man-child of events. There is a lot of swearing coming through the wire from the land of the sheep.

Genius x 3

2010-05-27T21:29:00.002+01:00

I don’t generally do film reviews. Having read some of those of the Banksy film, Exit Through The Gift Shop, crafted by some of the more well-known Fleet Street (or wherever it is that they hang out now) scribes, it would probably be just as well if they didn’t bother either. My excuse is that no-one ever likes the films I recommend; or, conversely, they all rave over those which I detest. The recent travesty that purported to be Alice would be a good example of the latter. But, I digress.

Peter Bradshaw, writing in the Guardian got it. Well, you’d expect him to really wouldn’t you? Chris Tookey, writing in the Mail, didn’t. Well, you’d expect that too. I’m not convinced the folk sat behind us got it either. Neither am I certain that the hooded being with the shaded face and the disguised Brissle accent who comments sporadically throughout, is the man himself. Ever heard of Hughes Mearns? Five pounds says you haven’t. But I bet you know his poem which begins:

‘Yesterday, upon the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there’.

Originally written about a ghost, it has transcended time to meet all kinds of allegorical needs. Most recently, it’s been resurrected to illustrate the dangers of befriending people online. Had it appeared yesterday, we could argue that it reflects the illusion that is Banksy. Last year, I entitled my blog on a visit to the artist’s exhibition in Bristol ‘a bit of a grin’. Now, I take one step further and claim Exit Through The Gift Shop to be a huge laugh. Yes, it has some messages, mostly at the expense of those who have been told street art rules ok. Largely, the laugh is on those who believe this to be a genuine documentary.

Whilst I’m on this rare incursion into film, I must mention a visit last week to the Rex in Wareham to see the Ian Drury biopic, Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll. It’s the second time I’ve seen this and it was even better than the first viewing. I remember when the genius died. Not for the Independent a mediocre obituary hidden somewhere towards the back: they bravely and righteously acknowledged the passing on the front page with the immortal heading, ‘Ian Drury dies: what a waste!’ I know the Blockheads are, at the least, ambivalent about the portrayal and I know that some people claim Drury wasn’t a very nice man. So, you try being crippled by polio and spending your childhood institutionalised with vicious bullies. You might not be a very nice adult either. I posit Drury as a poet of his time. (I can do that because no-one cares what I think).

I also vote Andy Serkis the most non-acclaimed actor of his generation. How did he ever miss an award for his superb portrayal? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I am not alone: the packed audience in the last gas-lit cinema in Britain received this film with a resounding and well-deserved round of applause. Now, that’s what film reviews are about.

Therapy

2010-05-19T20:19:00.003+01:00

One of the benefits of working in an establishment of (alleged) higher learning is that there are sometimes free lectures one can attend on the pretence of staff development. For example, on Monday, I attended a whole raft of these held by the psychology department. To be fair, they were, largely, enjoyable and informative. Maybe the lecture on environmental psychology, which focused mainly on the benefits of using your hotel towel for more than one day could've been missed. Nonetheless, I learned a lot about childhood disorders which has subsequently made a geat deal of sense in relation to my own famiy.

Aged friend is a believer in a) anything free or recycled and b) anything alternative. At this point, I should mention that aged friend, because she is aged, rarely locks into this blog preferring, somewhat traditionally, face to face comunication. On the off-chance that she eventually gets around to viewing my ramblings, and because I want to keep her as a friend, I would like to make some things clear. Firstly, she is not really aged. At least, she doesn't look the part. But she is unique in not divulging her age. Quite right too. Secondly, I am much drawn to Dickens referral to 'aged parent' which, it seems to me, infers a lot without unnecessary explanation or historical logistics...so that's my excuse. Also, she called me a 'Jonah' the other evening.

Anyway, due to whatever, we set our sails this lunchtime for a lecture on Traditional Chinese Medicine. Or something of that ilk. We started off with a vague allusion to the one finger therapy with which, I feel, we are all consumate. The speaker who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be English, spoke in a Chinese/Dorset patois. Further to this, he had an assistant: a doe-eyed creature who frequently interspersed with a threatening 'surely there must be a question?' Like good students, we all looked the other way. We were Yin and Yang...all trying to balance our incomings and outgoings. This pair of wannabe Ant & Dec,s were Yang and Yang sharing the same year of the Ox hymn-book.

It was nice. I learned that, due to the location of my earth sign, coupled with the timely predominance of my stomach at the best time of my day, which is between the morning hours of five and nine am, I could expect to spend a lot of time in the loo first thing in the morning. Or something like that. So much for the alternative view. Being a person trained to examine all perspectives, I promtly ignored the Oriental view and took myself off for a pedicure which I always find very therapeutic.

Growth

2010-05-17T23:33:00.003+01:00

Can you write something about plants and growth they asked? You trundle along to these writing groups in the hope of being challenged: trying to get out of your safety zone; writing outside the box. That sort of thing.

Look at a box of plants and I’m depressed. Unlike other people in my family, I’ve never been one for the old green fingers. Give me a house-plant and my heart sinks; my soul descends into the very core of the earth. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. How lovely I say. How kind I gush and secretly know that it won’t see the week out. It’ll be too dry so I over-water it. It wants to be wet so I forget it. It likes the dark so I put it in the kitchen window. I place it in the gloomy hall and it cowers in fright, scared of the dark. I move it around the house when it’s still recovering from the journey here and wanted to stay still. It might want to be talked to but it curls up in embarrassment when I attempt a conversation. Never will it indicate what it wants out of life apart from an overwhelming desire not to reside in my home where nothing survives except dust.

I have an old footstool in the corner of the inappropriately named living room that has been requisitioned to display not mouldy old smelly feet, but beautiful deep red roses. Are they real the folk that don’t know me ask in wonder and envy? They’re not real are they those that do know me ask in shock? Of course they’re not real; close though.

Out in the garden things are different: growth is abundant. I have a fig tree that currently boasts seven figs. No leaves, but seven figs. They bear little resemblance to any figs that I’ve ever seen but I know that this is what they are because…..it’s a fig tree. I also know that by the time the leaves make their appearance, the figs will have gone. They might have blown away in a Dorset summer hurricane or something may have eaten them. What the something might be is anyone’s guess because readers of this blog will know that if there’s one thing that grows in my tiny garden, it’s wildlife. Especially since other nameless Twilight Zone inhabitants had all the trees in the area cut down. My little patch of grass and overgrown bushes are certainly reaping the benefits of the non-eco friendly neighbours. In fact, I’m thinking of opening my garden to the public.

Each day that I look out provides a source of joy and amazement surpassed only by the triple episodes of Judge Judy available on Tuesdays. We’ve had the rat saga, the nesting pigeons and the giant cuckoo attacking its small surrogate starling mother. If you want to know where Britain’s missing sparrows are, look through my patio doors. Want to see the biggest squirrel in the world? Look no further than the one with a six foot tail that hangs off the nut dispenser. Sunday, a Jay arrived; a startling flash of blue investigating a small uninhabited patch of Leylandi. And yesterday? No, of course it wasn’t a Dodo. That was last week. Crawling around the herb filled tubs was David Attenborough.

Of course, there is one thing that grows more prolifically in my garden than in anyone else’s I’ve ever seen. Other people’s rubbish. I am the queen of car boot sales and I have the evidence to prove it: painted pots, old lamps and heaters; hanging things that glisten and catch the sun; strange ornaments that ring and clatter; a herd of miniature elephants; two mirror tiles to offer distorted perspectives; varnished cast-off furniture and battered stone owls. No flowers but I like it. And so does my not-easily pleased granddaughter.

And talking of the brat…. after fifty-seven years, I discover that my bright-green-fingered mother and I do, in fact, have something in common. Six-going-on-thirty year old granddaughter, on considering visits to my house and that of my mother, raises a question of huge philosophical and intellectual importance: ‘why do grandmas cook better dinners than mummies?’

A step back

2010-05-15T23:25:00.005+01:00

Back in the mists of time, aged friend and I perused a list of guided walks that had arrived through the ether from our Earth Mysteries group. In the gloomy depths of January, an evening walk on a May evening seemed like a nice thing to look forward to; especially in the company of Peter Knight who knows everything about anything weird and wonderful.

We chose Maiden Castle, the biggest hill-fort in Europe and possibly the universe. Meeting time, 7pm in the car-park. Lovely. Anyone noticed the weather lately? As it happened, after a day during which black clouds hovered uncertainly, the sun managed to make an appearance in time for our departure. Just as well, as the climax of the outing was to see it set over the Dorset countryside from our viewpoint of twelve milllion miles above sea-level.

Eleven of us climbed up into the past. We crossed the labyrinthine mounds designed to confuse would-be invaders and watched the sun-soaked sheep on the iron-age barrows before exploring the ancient ceremonial footpaths that are only now visible via Google-Earth. We waited apprehensively for the appearance of ghostly Roman centurians who had materialised to others who were minding their own business with their dogs. We looked at the new earthworks: the ones where modern folk have dug their way through a hill to build a new road in order that folk can have easy access to the sea-borne events of the 2012 Olympics in Weymouth. Being well-prepared, we put on our wind-proof coats against the chill of the evening wind before dowsing the site of the Romano-British temple. Well, I put on my coat and watched everyone else wandering round in circles...sorry, spirals....with their metal rods.

Then, we came over the hill-top in time to see a huge orange sun disappearing into the sea, as it has since time immemorial. And just as others did three thousand years ago. Just think: I could've been indoors watching Britain's Got Talent and missed all of this.

Spring is sprung......

2010-05-13T20:02:00.002+01:00

...... or not. Ne'er cast a clout till May's out they used to say. I don't know whether they meant May as in the blossom or May as in the month. (Doubtless that Watman bloke who leaves the comments will enlighten us). Neither do I know who 'they' were: some rural bumpkin types possibly. Or it could be the mission statement of the facilities section where I work. That crowd who turn off the heating the minute the bank holiday has passed regardless of the fact that we are entering the new ice age.

I've been increasing the layers of protective clothing necessary to maintain an existence in my office throughout the week. It was only today that I discovered a covert exercise of military proportions, in which fan-heaters were selectively distributed to members of the hierarchy, had occurred three days ago when we were all busy looking the other way for a government. Is this an omen of the even greater divisions we have to look forward to under the rule of the toffs I ask myself. Enraged, I 'phoned a boiler god to report that I was currently wearing a liberty bodice, a resurrected vest, a polo-neck jumper, a thick cardigan, a wind-proof coat and a pair of woolley slippers whilst running in and out of the ladies' to de-frost my fingers under the hand-dryer. I'm not fibbing either. Well, the bit about the liberty bodice may be an untruth. Boiler chief either thought I'd gone mad with cold or mistook me for someone of importance. The heating is back on.

A portent of spring manifested in my garden tonight, however. The homeless starlings arrived to feed on whatever lives in my small piece of grass. One had brought its monstrous baby; a gaping mouthed giant who chased its mother around the garden pecking her continuously until she, with some difficulty, deposited a selection of goodies into baby's cavernous orifice. I was entranced enough to miss a whole fifteen minutes of Judge Judy as I watched my first ever cuckoo in action.

What happened whilst Gordy made his speech

2010-05-12T16:08:00.000+01:00

Conjoined twins share terraced house

2010-05-12T13:10:00.000+01:00

Shed not a tear

2010-05-11T21:24:00.003+01:00

Well, there you have it. You always know that something momentous is going to happen when they wheel out that old piano stand from number 10. We thank our god for living in an advanced technological country. That one where the electric cable stretches from the lecturn, across Downing Street and into the seat of power where it meets the extension lead which is plugged into the socket where the kettle normally resides. Three cheers for Gordy who brought out his small sons to savour the taste of defeat. This after having to refer to his notes to remind himself what it was that he had to thank Sarah for. Turning up at the literal last moment I suppose.

And now we have a brave new future in the hands of the toffs and the 'we're not proud, we'll talk to anyone' party. Dave's been down to B & Q where, owing to the current winter climes, there is a sale of collapsable garden chairs. He's purchased a couple to erect in the cabinet office for Nick and his significant other. William Hague's been in with a tin of Cuprinol (unlike them, it does what it says on the tin) to give a good impression and George Osborne's hurried round to number 11 to borrow a couple of the cushions that Alistair hadn't secreted in his packing case. No point investing in anything longer lasting as it'll probably all be over come October.

The election observers, sent over from Nigeria to ensure fair play, have returned home with the good news that, despite international misgivings, they've apparently been doing it right all the time. Whoever came up with the idea that several million folk shouldn't have to forfeit their vote clearly had no idea how the mother of parliaments works. Doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Gordy; you still got him. Doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Dave; you got him. And obviously it doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Cleggie because you got him too. That's what's great about our country: everyone gets a go. Except me and you. Roll on the next election when all bets are taken on possible turn-out. My guess? 15%.

Spring fayre

2010-05-03T19:17:00.005+01:00

It was whilst we were sat under an assortment of umbrellas, in a crushed melee on a damp patch of grass outside the White Horse, that I happened to remark to the ladies on the bench, who had come all the way from Harrow and had another four hours to kill before their coach returned to collect them, that it never rains at fetes in Midsomer Murders. Quite so they agreed. At the time, we were eating lukewarm New Forest pasties, doubtless made with the remains of crushed ponies, with wooden knives and forks. Daughter number one was wearing the remains of a jar of piccalilli and a particularly unpleasant face. Son-in law wore the matching visage.

Well, what can you expect? Who in their right minds would bring a man to a country fayre? Particularly Downton Cuckoo Fayre which is the largest of its genre in the universe and packs the combined populations of three small European countries into one village street for a few hours once a year. These young folk have no stamina. Aged friend and I had been up since dawn and had managed to avoid all queues into the car-park prior to ensuring we saw EVERY stall available. Sensible old folk like us, having done a reccy and discovered that the pub had hospitably shut its toilets to the public and erected conveniences that were only convenient for stick insects, had identified alternative facilities in the church hall. We had also located something purporting to be coffee, bought more things than could be humanly carried, including a giant metal mouse, and transported said goods back to the car before meeting the others for lunch. You have to have a plan.

Plan B was the Georgian Fayre at Blandford on the bank holiday Monday. Not so well-thought out as it happened. First mistake of the day was in never giving a thought to the notion that daughter number one and offspring would pick today of all days to attempt entry into the Guinness Book of Records by actually turning up on time. I was just about to put the hoover round when they arrived. Mistake number two was in believing the weather forecast: I dressed in summer trousers and my nice new butterfly-encrusted (thin) top. First stop on arriving in the hinterland of north Dorset was the nearest charity shop to purchase a suspect fleece to help the fight against the biting wind. Like a lot of things in England’s green and pleasant, Blandford Georgian Fayre has gone downhill. A shabby sort of affair but, strangely, the small people seemed to enjoy it. However, it got colder and colder and we retreated back to the micro-climate of Poole to eat cheese sandwiches and change into winter clothes.

There was a brief hiatus as we looked out on seasonal black clouds and thought how nice it would be to have a little nap but, given that there were no grown men in the vicinity, we decided to press on to the donkey derby. A small detour was made to collect the even smaller dog who is my biggest (and only) fan. Small dog was delighted to see his family but half way down the road noticed me lurking in the back of the car. Pandemonium ensued until he was allowed to sit in the rear with me. At the donkey derby, which was particularly conspicuous by its absence of donkeys, small dog was entered into a competition with a diverse mixture of other far too friendly canines. Small dog is now not so small in some parts and repeated instructions had to be delivered to the grandchildren to retain a short lead. Sadly, this was not the competition for dog who can mount the highest number of other dogs. Small dog’s general enthusiasm, however, served him well as he came away with first prize and accompanying rosette for the waggiest tail. A brief interlude occurred wherein I was able to purchase huge quantities of other people’s junk from the Rotary Club stall; then back to the ring for best in show. The heavens opened, the submissive canine that our dog had his eyes glued on won the event and we hurried home to put the heating on.

Another day in the life of.......

2010-04-27T22:37:00.007+01:00

I’ve been looking for daughter number one. It’s another lovely evening so she must be out with the dog; except that the dog is indoors barking at the person knocking outside. Me. Daughter number one phones and we have another of those conversations about people I don’t know and things I don’t understand.

Daughter: I’ve had to wait for Mrs Hardy outside her mother’s house because we’re borrowing the fridge for two weeks.
Me: Mrs Hardy’s fridge?
Daughter: No, her mother’s fridge.
Me: Who is Mrs Hardy?
Daughter: Mr Hardy’s wife.
Me: Who is Mr Hardy?
Daughter: Clive.
Me: Doesn’t Mrs Hardy’s mother need her fridge?
Daughter: She’s dead.
Me (knowing how quickly my daughter can spot an opportunity): When did she die? (please don’t say this morning)
Daughter: February.
Me: Why are you only having it for two weeks?......... and so this meaningless communication continues.

Prior to that, I was painting the fence. Again. I’ve been painting the fence for over a week now. I’ve been waiting for one of the Twilight Zone inhabitants to move her car so I don’t splash it. She comes out to watch just in case. A one-sided conversation ensues about the local wild life, most of which currently reside in my small hedge. Five sparrows, a squirrel and two pigeons that are making a nest. Irritating neighbour tells me how she and the other Kraken, the one that started all this fence business by pushing a note of complaint through my door about the disreputable state of my woodwork, have finally managed to have all of another neighbour’s trees chopped down. Well, that explains the influx of starlings on my pocket handkerchief-sized lawn then. Poor buggers have nowhere else to go. Yesterday, I lived in a place called Tree Hamlets. Today, it’s apparently called No-Tree Hamlets.

Then she moves on to the global threat caused by squirrels. I haven’t yet responded although I’m finding the therapeutic benefits gained by splashing a lot of paint around waning. After this, she starts on the pigeons. I’ve got a pair nesting in my bush I report happily. Oh, we don’t want pigeons. They poo on the cars and take all the paint off. I’ll have to come out and bang on the fence with a broom she says. I try to explain that it won’t be necessary. Last year, the same two stupid pigeons tried to build a nest in exactly the same place and gave up after they crashed through the branches that couldn’t withstand the weight of so much activity. Presumably, they have short memories. And, she continues, someone is feeding the seagulls and they’re pooing all over the place. I know she thinks that ‘someone’ is me. I can’t resist it. It’s not me. I don’t feed the birds since the rat arrived I tell her. RAT! She screams. Did you see it? Oh yes. Every day. It sits on the lawn and smiles at me. I’m not telling her I haven’t seen it since February when I devised my patent rat deterrent which involves putting the rat poison, replete with picture of said vermin, in the shed window so that it can see what’s in store should it attempt a come-back.

Before any of that I had a day at work which included three visits to Kwik-Fit who weren’t that quick; otherwise it wouldn’t have taken three visits! It started at 8.30am with too much information about a stranded lorry driver who needed a number two, continued at 10.30am with the news that the radio that was working at 8.30am no longer worked due to a wrong code (only went in to get the brake fluid changed) and terminated at 4pm having bought a new battery and brake light and being informed that the toilet was still at DEF COM 2.

In between that lot, I had a student who, having failed all his exams, told me how boring it was having to live at home. I pointed out that he got fed, had his washing done and was loved. Don’t come to me looking for the sympathy vote sonny. Especially as student number two was also living at home due to all kinds of appalling problems that a young person shouldn’t have to bear. Student number three arrived armed with a card on which she had written that I was a star, a box of chocolates and a huge bouquet of flowers. It only takes one to make it all worthwhile.

The plot unfolds

2010-04-19T21:34:00.007+01:00

Well, well, well. Gordy's sent the Ark Royal to Spain so all will be well in the continuing ridiculous saga that is, allegedly, the volcanic nightmare designed by Iceland to get its own back on Europe for being so nasty. I still don't believe a word of it. There's something rotten in the state of Denmark that even the nation's new darling, Cleggie, can't sort out for us. Good job we've got Compo in charge. Actually, there's something rotten in Kenya: namely, a shed load of mange-tout that can't be flown out to the rampant hoardes over here who are waiting for something green and tasteless to add to their stir-fry. Can't you give it to the Kenyans asks a logical thinking reporter? Comes the answer, no...it's not part of their diet. So, Africa starves because, sensibly, they don't want shrivelled up beans. Please.

Cameron's thinking of a reply. Cameron's thinking of a reply to a lot of things at the moment. Like how to get over the fact that he's a toff. It's a bit like Kinnock in the old days: you can't get over being ginger and Welsh. Doesn't matter what you do...you're stuck with your heritage and the Eton playing fields are as far removed from most of us as Iceland is from Kenya. Dave can't disguise it like Boris can but doubtless the working class Tories will have their wicked way eventually.

A woman phones into Radio 4: I'm stuck in Avignon. How absolutely appalling and second only to the frightful despair of the previous callers who are stranded in Venice. Could be worse. Could be Kenya with nothing to eat but mouldy mange-tout. The travel expert advises her to stop moaning and catch the TGV to Paris and thereon to Calais. Another caller: the French train drivers have gone on strike! Is this another hoax? Unlikely. The metamorphosing volcanic cloud hit on Thursday and as everyone who's ever spent more than two weeks in France knows, they always have strikes on Thursdays. It's the rule. The frogs love le weekend and once Thursday's written off, no-one's going to make an effort on a Friday.

Meanwhile, the Eastern Europeans who couldn't get back to Poland in time for the funeral of their government who, ironically were wiped out in a plane crash...don't make me laugh with that accident theme....are currently rubbing their hands with glee down at Tesco as they wait for five million punters to demand their cars be washed of Icelandic residue. So far, the dust has landed on Waterlooville. Well, serve them right. Couldn't have happened to a nicer place.

I've put the second coat on my decking. Autumn Red. It did what it said on the tin but, trust me, it wasn't the colour it portrayed on the front. The bloody pigeons, which can't stop their continuous sexual spring-time cooing, have already left their mark in several places. Now I'm waiting for the dust to land and my lovely tidied-up garden to take on a Pompeii-type incarnation. I don't think this is what was meant by the Mediterranean look.

A dark cloud looms

2010-04-15T13:40:00.002+01:00

We are currently trapped on our sceptred isle as all flights in and out have been cancelled today. Is this another case of that militant tendency, the BA cabin crew, striking again? Clearly not. There’s not a bank holiday in sight for at least another two weeks so there are no vacation plans for them to upset. Apparently, a large cloud of volcanic dust is sweeping its way down England’s green and pleasant land with the potential to clog up aeroplane engines. The BBC online news reports that it’s ‘eerie at Aberdeen’. So, no change there then.

I’m not sure I believe this story. It seems very odd that the cloud is coinciding with the most momentous event in British political history i.e. THE DEBATE. Could it be a cover for a known terrorist plot? Maybe they were going to parachute onto the building and wipe out all three non-entities in one fell swoop; thereby making tonight’s viewing marginally more interesting. Or perhaps it’s a means of stopping anyone who was intending to fly to anywhere for a long weekend in order to escape the already interminable dearth of non-election reporting. Actually, that’s probably it: they’ve created a ‘day after tomorrow’ type news item so that we all stay indoors to watch TV to see how Nick, Dave and Gordy intend to cope with impending doom. Anyway, I’m going to bring the washing in just in case it’s true.

Not Christmas

2010-04-08T21:16:00.001+01:00

Here’s a funny thing. A person can spend literally years ranting on about two important things in life….long-term friendship and the joys of France…and suddenly become disaffected with both after a matter of days. I can’t remember the last time I went on holiday and was anxious to come home. Until now.

Having recently been set back by work-induced exhaustion, both daughters have now decided that everything will be better due to new carpets and curtains. Bless them for caring and worrying. And it’s true that I’ve become obsessed with the black fluff on my new carpet which originates from my son’s socks. I bought him slippers but, apparently, due to global warming, it’s too hot to wear them.

They think I’m not happy living in the Twilight Zone. Well, it’s true that it’s in the middle of nowhere and the neighbours are awful but it’s quiet. I like ‘quiet’. I lived in Boscombe for seventeen years. Anyone would like ‘quiet’ after that. And there are far worse places to live. The trouble is that everyone now appears to believe that my house, which is quite nice actually, is a root cause of distress. One friend who I recently visited seemed to think I would be much better off living in a caravan. Why? If you’re reading this, I'm tired. That’s all. It’s nobody’s fault.

Clearly, when someone phones up in the middle of all this angst and asks whether you’d like to share the cost of a ferry and petrol down to the south of France you’d jump at it. I didn’t think twice. I probably wouldn’t again as long as it wasn’t the same self-obsessed person. How to ruin a latter-day obsession with the land of the frog:

Firstly, the other person decides that you’re going to do 800 miles plus in one fell swoop. The one redeeming feature of this most dreadful journey is the moon. Having been lost so many times that it’s impossible and, indeed, pointless, to recount the agonies, we emerged from the darkness of the interior of this most enormous country to take a long downhill turn into Macon. There was nothing to look at. Suddenly, on our left, a huge bright orange moon, with one small missing segment, had fallen out of the sky and was hanging precariously over the town. Its picture-book face was smiling awkwardly at us as, accompanied by the strains of Mumford and Sons, we searched for the motorway. That suspended pumpkin which was virtually touching the roof-tops, was not our moon. We saw our moon later; high in the sky where it should have been.

Finally, we arrived at our destination twenty hours after we had started. It was so cold that I went to bed wearing a chunky jumper over my pyjamas and slept under three quilts. The French passed Les Paques in their own inimitable way: days spent sitting outside smoking in the warm sun; nights spent watching unbelievable rubbish on TV; truly, they have perfected the art of wasting time. Mostly, this was redeemed by a drunken enjoyable Easter Day with thirteen for the lamb and a melange of vegetables. Sadly, for les Anglais, with only a few days to spare, it was disappointing. Still, there's always August.

Confusion

2010-03-30T21:19:00.001+01:00

Some porgs (people of restricted growth), who, on a good day, are referred to as grandchildren, turned up this afternoon. Owing to possible spillage on the new carpet, they now have to sit at the table with their drinks and participate in grown-up conversation. Today’s topic was Easter:

Shrove Tuesday was when they had the Last Supper. It’s called the Last Supper because they didn’t have any food because they were getting ready for Easter. All they had left was eggs and flour so they made some pancakes.

No. Shrove Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday which is the beginning of Lent which is when Jesus went into the wilderness. Why is it called Ash Wednesday? Silence. Something to do with smoking? Adults make a mental note to Google Ash Wednesday

Jesus was put on the cross on Easter Day. No. Jesus was put on the cross on Good Friday. Friday’s lucky. Not if you’re Jesus. So, the Last Supper must've been on Thursday. Thursday's always a good night out. Did they have pancakes?

What are you doing on Easter Day? When’s Easter Day? Silence. Easter Day’s when we have our eggs. Sunday. Yes, but how can Sunday be Easter Day? Jesus rose on the third day and there aren’t three days in between Friday and Sunday. Must be Monday then. No. Monday’s a bank holiday and they didn’t have banks then. Well, they stopped having banks because Jesus turned over all the money tables in the temple.

I think Easter Day is when Jesus descended into heaven. Do you know what descend means? Yes. It’s when he stood on a hill and a big cloud came over him. I saw a rainbow on the way here. Jesus went to heaven at Whitsun. When’s that? Spring bank holiday. We’re going to Dover then.

Why was Jesus born in a stable? Because his dad was a horse? No. Because all the inns and hotels were full up with people. Why? Because it was Christmas.

I’m going to the toilet now.

What problems?

2010-03-30T13:56:00.001+01:00

Here we are then blogspotters, back again after a short absence due to a number of problems. Back also is the man-child who, yet again, was transported home from the land of the sheep; although not without some difficulties on my part. You’d think I’d be used to that bridge by now. Not so: a major panic attack on the way over sent my body into melt-down resulting in a small Fiesta being driven at minus two miles an hour down the middle lane with hazard lights flashing. On landing in Wales, I had to park on the hard shoulder and drink a bottle of Rescue Remedy before attempting the rest of the trip.

Jack, of course, had forgotten I was coming, or forgotten not to go out the night before, or forgotten to set his alarm, or forgotten to get up when it went off or some or all of the above. Whilst waiting for him to have a shower, I sat on the edge of his bed and looked around for something to clean. It wasn’t difficult. Once secured in the car, I mentioned the dreadful experience on the bridge and asked him to talk me over it on the way back. He agreed willingly and promptly fell asleep. The bridge loomed so I awoke my companion and instructed him to start talking with a view to taking my mind off things. This he managed. The conversation went along the lines of I don’t know why you’re so scared, why don’t you look at the view and why don’t you hurry up and overtake that lorry. Then he went back to sleep.

A student came to see me with a small problem with some work and told me about a walk she’d taken with her family. The walk had taken some time. First of all, they walked from Rwanda to Burundi. They had quite a nice house in Burundi which was next door to a brand new church. Sometimes, they had visitors. These were rebels who came into the house and sat the children on their laps whilst they rested their guns on the table and talked unpleasantly with the parents. At night, the family lay in their beds and listened to the sounds of people being shot and their bodies dumped in the church next door. One night, one of those who had been shot didn’t die and because they could be heard calling for help, my student’s father went out with water. For this act of kindness, he was reported so the family had to take another trip.

This time, they walked to Zaire. The mother, who was heavily pregnant, had a particularly difficult time. Sometimes, the children had to literally push her just to keep her moving. Part of the journey was taken over mountains which were covered in forestation and always clothed in fog. It was difficult to see other people but they often heard the cries of small lost children who had been abandoned by their parents. Zaire did not welcome them. In fact, my student was poisoned and nearly died. Her mother noticed that all the birds were leaving the country. The mother believed that when birds leave it is because war is coming. So the family left Zaire and the war began two weeks later.

There were other elements to this story but they largely involve dead people. When my student arrived in England she was eleven years old and had never been to school. Now she speaks five languages and has almost completed her law degree.
What bridge?

On the corner

2010-03-02T22:02:00.000Z

Just been down to the local Turkish shop for some pre-dental Californian red anesthesia. To all intents and purposes, I live in a village so it’s quite a coup to have such a cosmopolitan corner shop. Of course, it’s also known as Spar but the demeanor of the guys behind the counter precludes this as being known as anything other than an ethnic emporium. Naturally, they sell Kingsmill cotton wool bread and Heinz baked beans, but they also offer those really sweet Muslim type affairs whereby you can feel your teeth rot as the honey soaks into your gums. More importantly, when you go in the shop, not only do they greet you, which they never do in the co-op, their salutation is inevitably….hello darling, how are you, without a hint of ulterior inference or meaning. I can do with a bit more of these niceties. No wonder that Istanbul is cultural city of the year.

During my recent excursion to Swansea I met a number of Italians. I very much like the Welsh/Italian lilt. It’s rather attractive I feel. Whilst stood outside the pub, some character, straight out of the pit valleys mafia, called me ‘chick’ as he was lurching past. In amazement, I said to the man-child, he called me ‘chick’. Misinterpreting my pleasure, Signore Dai came back to apologise with much hand-shaking of my oblivious male protector. Not a problem, said I gratefully; at which point, we had to exchange numerous cheek kisses and a handy recipe for Ossobuco.

The boiler packed up today. I’m hoping that because things go in threes, this will be it. So far this week, I’ve had the tyre problem, the printer problem and now the no hot water or heating problem. You might think that I’m freezing. Actually, I’ve got that French fan heater…the one that does an impression of cicadas. I’m boiling!

The old and the young

2010-02-28T22:25:00.001Z

In the charity shop two of those volunteering to help the aged are themselves suitably advanced in years. Currently, they are involved in a heated debate concerning what they perceive to be the Great Global Warming Conspiracy. Their shared wealth of experience is impressive and the evidence, apparently endless. I imagine that the conversation began on a contemptuous note regarding the current forecast in which we have been threatened with dangerously high speed winds. Despite the fact that traffic is at a virtual standstill at the Wallisdown junction (which, it’s true, is nothing out of the ordinary), whilst billboards and other assorted rubbish fly past the windows, I don’t doubt that these two have dismissed prevailing conditions as nothing less than typical for the time of year. They must have picked a starting point somewhere back in the dark ages because as I enter they have just reached the winter of 1963.

Aged Volunteer One is bemoaning the fact that they were advised to move south that very year as the gentle climate in Bournemouth would be far more temperate than in his home town. The bloody ice never looked near to melting point until March says he. End of, remarks Aged Volunteer Two. Bloody right says AVO; then there was the bloody floods. From there on, they recount meteorological adversities for almost every year up until the millennium which is when I interrupt apologetically to purchase a small folding stool for £4-99. Of course, it goes without saying that none of the events they describe bear any resemblance or comparison with those that they were privy to in their shoeless childhoods. I ask AVT if he was housed in a box in his infancy and he regards me with some suspicion. In the back room, a young man with ginger dreadlocks and a bandana is pretending to hoover some clothes whilst smiling silently to himself. I feel this to be a far more unusual past-time; indeed, one which I have never observed before and make a mental note to test on knobbly TK Max jumpers. The aged ones are oblivious.

On yet another endless train journey, for which, bearing in mind recent experiences, I have had the foresight to bring two books and a small picnic, we stop at Southampton Central and a veritable gaggle of noisy young men brush past on their way to minding the gap. There is a distinctive fragrance attached to unshaven, red-eyed Sunday morning lads: the pervasive combination of unwashed tee-shirts, stifled alcohol, a memory of after-shave and the vagueness of deflated testosterone. They all carry hold-alls for, were they not on a return journey, they would still be wrapped up in their own or someone else’s sheets.

Collapsed

2010-02-26T00:27:00.000Z

I’m off work in a state of disrepair. Exhaustion says the kindly doctor who, considering she’s only eleven, appears to have accumulated a wealth of experience for one of such tender years. Her prescribed remedy is to sleep and read as much as possible and see friends often. Good grief! I had no idea they offered qualifications in common sense these days. My perspective of the NHS could be in danger of changing at this rate. Sleeping and reading can both be done in bed and finally I am nearly at the end of Great Expectations. Previously, I had none of these myself but now there is a distinct possibility that I may actually finish this tome and move onto the next in the pile that, happily, awaits my attention.

Being in a state of collapse means that I have discovered that my aspirations and expectations were not as complicated and unachievable as I had imagined. Kindly and well-meaning friends and family have suggested a number of solutions ranging from selling my house to purchasing a gigolo. With regard to the latter, a more prosaic companion pointed out that I wouldn’t want this unknown being rolling around on my new carpet. Spot on! Can’t think of anything worse; especially if I was expected to roll around with him. Far better to know that, at least for a few precious days and nights, I can go to bed when I want, be that at seven o clock or after midnight, and arise when I want. And, having got up, go swimming or go back to bed if I choose. It’s too simple.

Here’s another strange thing: you might think that being down in the dumps means my house is also in a state of disrepair. Let me tell you, it’s never been so spotless. You know that old adage….if you want something done, ask a busy person….what a load of rubbish: a busy person drags themselves in from work, doesn’t open the post, looks at yesterday’s washing up, adds a bit more to it, ignores the phone messages and assumes a Scarlett O’Hara philosophy…I’ll worry about it tomorrow. A person who has been told to take things easy tidies up behind themselves, hoovers, puts out the rubbish and washes floors. Slowly. They listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4 and they don’t have to wait until Sunday for the Archers’ omnibus.

That exhausted person finally finds the time to take their beloved car to Quick-Fit. I’m not a car person but I do have a potential loyalty to my vehicle because it saw me safely through my year in France and yet I don’t treat it as it deserves. I went to get the tyres checked out which was just as well as they, too, were, apparently, on the point of collapse. A large man invited me to inspect them and pointed out their many faults. I smiled inanely and asked if I could use his phone to alert my friend who I was supposed to be meeting for lunch. I’d lost my own phone. Said friend, who is also incapacitated due to a new knee, arrived at Quick-Fit by taxi whereupon she, too, had mislaid her phone. You’re a right pair said tyre expert. We both smiled inanely and told him we’d be in the pub if he needed us.

Saturday Doors

2010-02-21T22:05:00.018Z

Despite the fact that he constantly claims to have given up the weed, by which he means buying his own, the man-child and I open the back door of the Bay Tree to partake of a cigarette. It’s difficult to see to the other side of the porch: a wood panelled sardine tin crammed with the detritus of a dozen smokers sheltering from the rain that’s blowing in off the bay. With the exception of Hywell, who is eighty, they're all female. Hywell doesn’t smoke but he’s come out of the packed bar because he knows there’s a lot of women out here; plus a spot of impromptu cabaret. The reason for the existence of all these people is that although having a fag is a good enough excuse anyway, it’s also the perfect venue to watch the fight that’s currently taking place on the pavement outside. The brawl is between two or possibly three young women…it’s difficult to tell. It peter’s out and one of the combatants hitches up her leopard skin tights, smoothes her long hair, asks us how her face looks and calls for a pint of lager. It’s Saturday night in Swansea.

Jack has had the good sense to suggest we avoid Wine Street which will, he says, be nothing short of carnage tonight. Not a good place to take your mother and not a good place to be anyway if you haven’t perfected a Welsh accent. Away from the centre, however, Swansea pubs are great at the weekend. Last night, we were over towards Uplands where, two terraced rows up from my B & B, lies Cwmdonkin Drive; birthplace of one of the city’s favourite sons, Dylan Thomas. Mind you, the bard doesn't make an appearance on the list of local luminaries apparently personally known to our taxi driver. On a six minute journey he manages to point out where Catherine Zeta Jones held her last birthday party, tell us about her new house in Mumbles and recall the number plate of Bonnie Tyler’s vintage Bentley. That was supplemental to a few snippets on Anthony Hopkins. And of course, he says, there was Richard Burton, pointing vaguely in the direction of the glowing fires of Port Talbot.

Swansea folk drink at the weekend. Big time. Old time. Thought the working class was dead? This is a sociologist’s paradise. There is no age demarcation in this ‘ugly, lovely’ town; all ages are out for a good time and they’re loving it. The best part of forty years ago, I had a boyfriend from those distant hinterlands to which we in the stifled south refer as Up North or Another Country. Come Saturday night, following an afternoon at the rugby, he religiously donned his three piece suit in preparation for an evening’s drinking. So ok, these are not our friends in the north, and there are few suits in evidence but everyone’s dressed in their glad rags to the extent that Jack and I, even though we’re clean, tidy and modern, stand out like a couple of under-dressed English thumbs.

In particular, the women are outstanding. Most are bleached blondes sporting carrot-coloured skin: an emblem of hard spent Saturday afternoons in the tannery. Their skirts are tight and short. Their tops are, without exception, very low. The prevailing ethos seems to be ‘here come my boobs; the rest of me’ll be along later’. Tattoos are conspicuous by their absence and because of this and these ladies’ absolute intent on having a good time, there isn’t an ounce of cheapness. It’s just the Swansea style.

Back in the pub, it’s jumping. The band is in full flow bringing out anthems old and new for the pleasure of those now dancing on the tables. Another drunk falls out of the gent’s toilets, arms flailing windmill-like as he shouts, to no-one in particular, Your Sex is on Fire. He’s quickly followed by a bloke on crutches who, I’m pretty sure, wasn’t in possession of the said accoutrements when he went in. Getting to the ladies’ is a far more difficult task as the door is located directly behind the bass guitarist. I politely fight my way through the fortieth birthday party, circumnavigate the amplifier, step gingerly over the leads and arrive safely. Getting back is more troublesome as the speeches have begun. I decide to take the fire exit, brave my way round the front of the pub, side-step the band who are huddled together having a quick fag break in the force nine that’s now beating off the adjacent shoreline, and re-enter, much to Jack’s surprise, through the door that proclaims this as a venue for Thai Buffets. Well, a bit short on the old lemon grass I think as the much impressed man-child asks whether I’ve dropped the baton in the relay I seem to have undertaken.

I spot my ex-husband at the end of the bar and point him out to Jack. Bloody hell, says he, it’s R.Green as I live and die. The bloke in question, sporting the trademark gerbil under his nose, is certainly drunk enough to be identifiable as the man I once married. Of course, this is, geographically, well outside his usual radius. However, for a person whose permanent address is listed as Pokesdown Station and who was last known to be on the run in Torquay, all things are possible. Mind you, there’s a lot of doppelgangers currently haunting the Bay Tree. For a start, Jack and some bloke have been acknowledging each other with raised eyebrows in half recognition most of the night. Do you know him asks my son? I don’t live here I say to the man-child who recently spent three hours drinking to the accompaniment of the Pet Shop Boys in a bar peopled solely by Freddie Mercury look-alikes before realising that he might be in the wrong place and didn’t, in fact, know anyone.

A fifty-five year old Elvis Costello dressed in an age defining waist-coat is busily chatting up a twelve year old in what we used to call hot-pants and base-ball boots. We go back through the door for another fag. Jack is wearing his football manager’s coat and someone asks him if he works here. Are you the bouncer? Jack is pleasant and funny in his response but inadvertently gives away the fact that he’s English. Proportionately, or, depending on your perspective, disproportionately, Swansea has the highest use of heroin in the UK. All the buildings surrounding his student accommodation are half-way houses for prisoners. The man who asked the question doesn’t like Jack now. He is threatening and a lovely evening is at an end. There are a number of doors to this pub. I choose one which I think will allow us the exit least likely to be observed. In an unexpected turn of events necessitating an unspoken exchange of roles, I walk my son safely home before catching a cab onwards.

Going it alone

2010-02-04T23:00:00.008Z

Questions: Why is it that although you know you had a good dream you can never remember it? And why is it that when you've had the worst nightmare in the world....the one where you wake up too scared to go back to sleep and have to have the light on all night....you can remember it in explicit detail all through the following day? And although you know it so well and it includes all your work colleagues, you can't tell anyone because it's so awful. I put it down to a lack of alcohol. That's what comes of trying to have a wine-free week to avoid spillage on the new carpet. Or it could be down to the film I saw last night.

I took myself off to the Rex, the last known gas-lit cinema in the civilised world, to see The White Ribbon. No-one I know had heard of this Austrian film set in pre-world war one Germany and thus was not interested in going along. I think the Swansea-based man-child, who I spoke with on the phone prior to my departure, worries that I'm Norma-no-mates but the Rex is full of solitary women looking for a bit of culture so, no problem. Actually, regardless of the film, I love it there: there's a stair lift for the decrepit; the seats are the original sit up straight version; the music is care of the organ and the adverts are courtesy of Pearl and Dean. Wareham folk arrive and wave and shout greetings to each other across the tiny darkened auditorium as if they're in the post-office. Before the main feature, Kevin comes upstairs and asks us all if we'd like an ice-cream and after the rush he informs us that if we've all got our wafers and cornets, then he'll be off and ask for the film to start. It's all so comforting that we're lulled into a false sense of security which lasts about three minutes into this traumatising film.

Regular readers...and there are more than two...will recall that I quite like a bit of a fright. Bored by Blair Witch and reduced to hysterical laughter by Paranormal Activity, I was totally unprepared to be so dreadfully disturbed by The White Ribbon. And trust me, you will come to know this superbly acted film: it's already won the Palme d'Or and is up for an Oscar. It is big time creepy.

So, lacking in sleep and at the end of another day without a lunch break in the paradise that is work, it was a BIG effort to drag myself out again tonight on another solitary trip. I could've remained under a blanket on the settee in the unchallenging company of Judge Judy and not donned waterproofs and flippers before heading off in the direction of the King Charles. And I could've missed the treat of the year. (Yes, I know it's only the beginning of February). There is a growing and impressive arts community in Poole: musicians, writers, poets and artists of all shapes, sizes and ages gathered together to share their talents. And I do mean share. Being creative is a lonely occupation and I don't think I've ever met so many folk eager to exchange ideas, confidences and email addresses. Before you could say 'performance', I found myself in front of a microphone reading out some prose and poetry accompanied by guitarists and percussionists, simultaneously being sketched by those who'd arrived replete with paper and pencils. And I left with invitations to three other arts events. It's a brave new world out there even if it's a trifle damp.

Back to life

2010-01-27T22:58:00.003Z

The other evening I came home to find an unexpected voice mail waiting for me. (I sometimes wonder how we inadvertently, and oh so easily, slip into this terminology. We used to call them answer phone messages or just messages; now they’re quite unpretentiously voice mail). Anyway, it was unexpected to have an actual message. Generally, I open the front door and hear the welcoming peep peep of the machine alerting me to the fact that I am, after all, not friendless and that someone has been trying to contact me. And generally, on pressing the play button, there is nothing to listen to because it was some irritating sod from the sub-continent who neither knows me nor has a message, or voice mail, worth leaving. Sometimes, in these long since days of gender parity, these faceless cretins phone when I’m in and ask to speak to MISTER Green. If the mood fits, I tell them he’s dead. I’ve no idea whether he is but I suspect not. However, if they really knew me………..

Anyway, this particular message was from someone with whom I took a trip, at least fifteen years ago, to Ireland. That’s what I like about people: everyone’s so busy and time flies past but at least they make an effort to keep in touch on a regular basis. And they always think of you in such a meaningful way. This voice mail was along the lines of I’ve had rather a lot to drink and found this old CD of Irish music down the back of the settee whilst trying to retrieve a fag I’d dropped and remembered when we watched this band in Galway in 1866. It’s personal association isn’t it. Nice. I remember that night too because in Dorset you don’t get many of those Danny Boy evenings where you bump into someone at the bar who says no, you’re wrong, I’m in the real army in that wonderfully soft brogue that makes even the ugliest of men appear attractive. Or maybe that’s just Guinness. The important thing is that she’d kept both the CD and my phone number. I shall visit her soon and that’ll teach her for making random drunken phone calls.

All of this followed the exhausting and mind numbing train journey back from the city. Those trips are paranoia inducing: they’re so bloody awful that all you want to do is get indoors and get your woolly Primark PJ’s on. And because your aspirations are low but theoretically achievable, something’s bound to go wrong. I’m not naturally pessimistic: I think this feeling is a hang-over from coming home once to find I’d been burgled. All he’d taken was the Van Morrisson tickets but he’d smashed a window and been through the knicker drawer in the process. Consequently, every time you’ve been anywhere good, you’re forever sniffing the air for smoke three miles from arrival at the front door or listening for sirens as you approach your road. And as you get back into your securely locked home and hear that welcoming peep peep, you thank your particular god for small mercies.

Then you make the mistake of putting the light on and fusing everything in the house. At this point you dig out all those Santa decorated candles left over from Christmas and on discovering that a) you possess an out of date fuse box and b) gender parity does not in fact exist because you have no idea of the next step, you have to alert Frank from down the road. But at least you’ve got an old friend waiting on the voice mail who cared enough to save your number for fifteen years.

One or more perfect people

2010-01-25T23:20:00.007Z

I’m on the train. It’s a mobile mantra: useful for telling anyone who shows the slightest interest in the current point you’ve attained in your journey…yes, we’ve just pulled into Clapham but, no, we haven’t actually stopped….something to fill the time on an unexpectedly long journey apart from the obligatory Sudoko. And this journey is not what I’d expected. It’s the first train I’ve been on all weekend which is empty and this in itself is surprising given that it’s apparently passing through every single station south of the Watford Gap.

We’re allegedly heading for Weymouth. So far, we’ve been to Woking, Guildford, Havant, Fareham and are now off to Southampton Central; which means that all those wanting to catch a plane from Southampton Parkway to travel a little further afield have been denied the opportunity; although they have, nonetheless, had a bit of a scenic treat. Had they been looking. Personally, I’ve kept my eyes downward. The bloke opposite me, who I initially entertained with the utterly useless sports section of my newspaper, has, having spent the last thirty minutes chewing all the skin from his finger-tips, started talking to himself again. He seems to have a particular dislike for Fareham which is unsurprising given that it is, according to the dreary voice on the intercom, one of many locations we are visiting that involves travellers walking the length of a three mile long train in order to disembark at some random venue where the platform measures less than four feet. In fact, judging by my travelling companion’s utterances, it may well be the second time we’ve been here during this interminable journey.

I’ve been up to town to see the new Van Gogh exhibition. What joy! Firstly, there is the pleasure of having a daughter who lives in Bromley who possesses an extremely laid back partner. Not for me the anxieties of wondering how to pass the time with one’s son-in-law who is keen to off-load the old baggage. We meet at Waterloo and instead of some marathon-like yomp to Kent, we partake of a little wine and beer on the platform in a leisurely style before chatting our way onwards to all points east. Obviously, the satisfaction of watching the world and his wife pass by whilst imbibing a surprisingly good Shiraz is marginally counteracted by discovering that Waterloo is second only in price in the whole world to doing likewise in St. Mark’s Square, Venice. But who cares and what joy to get up late the next morning and carelessly plan the trip into London.

Mind you, the big day out is fraught with potential difficulties if your daughter is a very well organised school teacher. For a start, I didn’t help matters by having lost my cross-London travel ticket by the time we disembarked at Charing Cross. Apparently, we are only one stop away from our destination by the tube that we might have used had I still been in possession of the said rover’s ticket. My purse and handbag are taken from me and searched thoroughly whilst I sit happily in a semi-comatose state of existence knowing only that she won’t find the missing ticket. I can’t understand how you lost it says Little Miss Perfect. I expect it fell out when I retrieved my fags I say. The usual mutterings about lung cancer ensue. Do you want to go to the toilet she asks? No thank-you. Two ladies, aged about forty and sixty emerge. Do you want to go to the toilet the younger asks the elder. She speaks to her mother like you speak to me I observe pleasantly. Well, you always want to go to the toilet says my daughter to the mother apparently on the verge of incontinence addled Alzheimers.

As soon as we’d come out of the exhibition we were planning how to get back in. It was glorious. Sometimes I go to bed unable to sleep because my head is full of France. It seems that my life is focused on trying to determine ways to return to the south. If I could only write the words in the way that Van Gogh captured the essence I would be a very rich woman. And here’s the surprise with this tremendous event: not only are we faced with far more paintings than we had imagined or anticipated, but we have these carefully chosen and beautifully illustrated letters that he worded in four different languages. And of course, what my daughter and I have shared on more than one occasion is the first hand experience of Arles, Les Alpilles, the mausoleum and the starry, starry nights of St. Remy; as well as the stupendous projections of Van Gogh in the Cathedral of Images. What lucky, privileged women we are.

The rat man cometh

2010-01-20T23:24:00.003Z

I haven’t previously mentioned the latest four-legged friend that currently inhabits my garden for obvious reasons: a rat is not a possession to boast about. When the ice and sleet first kicked in, (there is little that resembles snow in Dorset), I had a day off work, feeling, in all senses of the expression, under the weather. Sick days are marked by an excuse to watch day-time TV: Bargain Hunt awaits. If we have a colleague who is feeling particularly depressed…and let’s face it, there are a lot of those around these days…we always suggest they stay home for the day, wrap themselves up in a blanket on the settee and watch the Jeremy Kyle Show. If nothing else, they’ll soon realize the people they spend Monday to Friday with are not quite as awful as they’d come to believe.

Anyway, as it was so cold and miserable, I thought I’d sprinkle a few nuts on the patio so I could watch the little birds. No sooner had I settled myself down, than Ratty made his first appearance on the decking. I emailed work for advice and had so many replies that it was obvious that a new wave of Bubonic Plague was imminent. Respondents had diverse ideas, mostly ranging from ‘draw the curtains and hope it will go away’ to ‘why not invite it in for company’. You can always depend on the sympathy vote.

I stopped feeding the birds for a week but, contrary to popular opinion, it made no difference: the rat became bolder and bolder. I telephoned the environmental health people at the council. They were about as useful as a chocolate teapot and offered to charge me £29.50 to come out and put some poison down. I can do that myself…I was thinking more in the line of traps. Now apparently, with poison, comes a moral dilemma. It seems the rat will die a long and lingering death which is inhumane. Yes, so is Salmonella and Black Death. B & Q do a wonderful choice of poisons. The shelves are virtually empty and the queues at the tills are three deep with folk clutching rat bait. (What about cats? Exactly: what about cats. Go and poo in your own garden). The poison comes with its own handy to construct cardboard boxes which I secreted under the decking. Helpful advice: if the poison disappears, the rat has eaten it. If the poison remains the rat has cleared off or is dead. No advice is given as to the meaning of the trays disappearing altogether.

Well, you can be assured that the rat is more scared of you than you of it they said. Oh yes? It no longer bats an eyelid if I make a lot of noise with the patio door; it just sits there and looks at me. And of course, I’m assuming it’s the same rat each time. In her usual helpful way, daughter number one, who has read Wind in the Willows too many times, suggests I give it a name. I have, I say. Oh really? What is it called? Bastard I reply.

I bought a trap and because I’m rather attached to my fingers, I asked Phil to come and help me set it. Phil says I mustn’t wear any perfume in case it recognises me. So when did rodents become au fait with Georgio Beverly Hills? In the kitchen, we fill the receptacle with peanut butter, a substance I haven’t seen for some time because, much as I like it, I am forbidden nuts. I’ve bought the smooth variety so I can eat the remainder. Phil tests the trap which means that, although he still has all fingers intact, the spring no longer works. We search the garden for twigs, find one and mange to keep the lever raised. We choose a suitable venue and the trap is set.

I came home from work today expecting to find a headless pigeon. Instead, I discovered that the empty trap is still set, replete with ingredients but, has been moved down the garden out of the path of Ratty. Now that is one clever rodent. The plot continues.

Carpets and suchlike

2010-01-11T20:28:00.001Z

Not much action in the blogosphere lately as there’s little to write about except the weather. However, as arctic conditions are forecast to be with us for the foreseeable future, one must press onwards and upwards. After all, like it or not, we are British and along with the stiff upper lip, everything else remains frozen.

All is weather related. For a start, I had to get the man-child back to the land of the sheep in time for the commencement of second year examinations. The window of opportunity was shrouded in ice and sleet so a trip to Swansea looked out of the question. Maybe, Salisbury was a better point of exit? Salisbury may not have much to recommend it, apart from the obvious, but it does have a railway station at which direct trains to Newport stop. Quite a coup really given that catching a train to Wales from Poole involves registration for the Duke of Edinburgh’s gold award. Naturally, the lad wanted door to door travel laid on and a major sulk ensued. Is this the same person that has traversed the length and width of the sub-continent without a whinge? Who can say? Anyway, getting out of bed at the allotted time was a non-starter as was packing a bag or six; which meant, along with slow driving on precariously surfaced roads, we missed the train for which tickets had been pre-booked. Our student of business management had incorrectly written down the reference number for said ticket so was unable to retrieve it from the machine and thus unable to obtain a replacement, refund or anything else beginning with R. I left him at the station with cheese and pickle sandwiches and skidded on back to Dorset.

Meanwhile, there had been an incident with a cup of tea, which was most unusual as the majority of accidents indoors seem to involve red wine. Two years’ worth of spillage has latterly been covered by a small sheep-skin rug purchased in the sales. Accordingly, I moved to the other settee only to chuck a mug of Darjeeling over the only part of the carpet thus far unblemished. The apparently fortuitous positioning of the next to useless Radio Times only served to separate the ensuing stain into two distinct blobs. A very nice man arrived from the insurance company with a number of carpet samples. I was all for the black feeling it would enhance my current ‘shabby chic’ décor. The carpet man was not in agreement feeling, I suspected, that I was more shabby than chic. Looks as if it’s going to be beige again then.

Some way up

2010-01-02T21:45:00.002Z

I asked Jack whether he had any idea of how he wanted to celebrate his birthday. It’s not until June but he’ll be 21 and these things have to be catered for. We were on the top of the world at the time. Flowers’ Barrow to be precise; looking down in one direction over Worbarrow Bay from whence the sometime inhabitants of nearby Tyneham had been relocated during WW2 in order that the MOD could practise for the D-Day landings on the beach; and in the other direction, to Arish Mell and other latter day smuggling points.

‘Is the 21st birthday significant then?’ asked the man-child experiencing day two of the New Year’s Eve hangover. I explained the concept of the key of the door but he didn’t really get it. Then I explained how this has been superseded by the 18th birthday. ‘Well’, says he, ‘I had a door key long before that’. ‘Obviously, because in between they invented latch-key children of whom you were necessarily one’ I replied. He didn’t get that bit either.

Meanwhile, the sun was showing off. ‘You thought yesterday was good’ it said; ‘how about this for a follow-up?’ ‘Superb’ we said; ‘thank-you so much’. We rounded a gorse-covered corner and startled Bambi who had, apparently, become separated from the rest of the herd. Bambi ran into the bushes but there was no escape and we could see him anxiously watching us through the winter-bare branches. Behind him was the fence that marked the way to the land of unexploded shells. It’s a shame: on one hand you have to keep to the path because, more than sixty years on, the villagers have not been allowed back and the MOD are still firing away up here; alternatively, as no-one can build anything that might spoil this epitome of England’ green and pleasant land it’s a haven for wild life.

Potential birthday arrangements proved too tricky as it coincides with the world cup. I had, prosaically, thought about Newtown Conservative Cub but Prague seems to be the current favourite. ‘I don’t need you to be there’ he said. Oh ye of the short-term memory: I can remember the fall-out when I failed to materialise last year being otherwise occupied on the banks of the River Jordan wearing my world’s worst mother outfit. We deferred and made off for our favourite eatery: the Courtyard Café at Corfe where we enjoyed a bowl of Dorset Blue Vinney and Broccoli soup before embarking on a fruitless search for venison sausages.

Another four and a half miles walked after yesterday’s three mile hike. Time for a cup of tea and a raid on the Quality Street tin which now only houses strawberry crèmes and those nasty purple ones.

Repeats

2010-01-01T23:56:00.003Z

What resolutions that have been secretly made have already been abandoned until Monday when the gloom of real life kicks in. No sign of Jack by 11.30 this new year's morning. On 'phoning my son to wish him a happy one, I disturbed his reverie, still dozing in his babygrow in the back of a car somewhere in the depths of Swanage. So, no change there then. Various incoming calls were received from those passing on their own seasonal greetings: one of whom I had not heard from for so long, I thought it must have at least been the ghost of Christmas past and was surprised to hear she hadn't, in fact, had her voice box removed. I dismantled the tree and removed all the cards, saving those from folk I hadn't sent one to assuming, from their silence during the last year, that they were all dead. Maybe I'll drop them a line.

Today was a glorious sunny start to the new year. Ever since the little dog joined our extended family, we have walked the Dorset countryside with him. We should be so fit except that it's all counteracted by an urgent need to see off the remaining Christmas cake, mince pies and Quality Street along with half empty bottles of liqueur. Houns Tout was our destination today. As the weather was so fine, it was a foregone conclusion that the world and his wife would be on the beach and no-one would've ventured up on the hills behind Corfe. Wrong. It was like the exodus into Egypt up there: hoardes of them enjoying the splendid views along the Jurassic coastline. It didn't detract from the pleasure though.

Home again for a long evening of TV. I don't generally watch the thing so have to make up for investing in a license by getting all my viewing done in one go. First, The Railway Children but, sadly, not the original in which the final tear-jerking scene cannot be surpassed. Next, Charlie & The Chocolate Factory which was the original but which I still managed to sleep through. Thirdly, The Italian Job...naturally the original. Why did anyone see fit to re-make any of these films along with Pride & Prejudice? There are some things that simply can't be improved. Colin Firth emerging from the lake for example. Lastly, Spinal Tap. Never seen it before but always wanted to. Loved it. I particularly enjoyed a rare evening in with the prodigal son even if he continued with his irritating habit of putting all his used sweet wrappers back in the tin before promptly falling asleep.

One strange occurrence: went to Tesco at 4pm. It was shut! Happy Days

Biting the dust

2009-12-31T23:42:00.003Z

Well then, that's another one to strike off the list. It had some highlights: Killers at the NEC or whatever it's called now; Auschwitz in six feet of snow; Waiting for Godot in Bath (and waiting for Sir Patrick Stewart to touch my hand at the stage door); being on the radio for a whole hour in the local version of Desert Island Discs; Jordan and the birth of this blog; Burning Horses in Falmouth; burning skin and old friends in Provence; and probably the best Christmas ever at Holton Lee. Shame about the job.

It's New Year's Eve in the Twilight Zone and I am quite alone. Jack has gone to Swanage dressed in a pink babygrow and I have made an early getaway from the curry and scrabble-fest at my daughter's house. This time last year I was with Bev down in St Remy but I'm not in the mood for bonhomie tonight. Sometimes it gets you like that.

Happy New Year

Almost there

2009-12-23T14:53:00.007Z

We have a strip of spotlights in the kitchen and another in the sitting room. As it's Christmas, I thought we'd replace the bulbs which had died some months ago; an easy enough job you would've thought. Well, once we'd been out and picked up some new ones. Leonie put the new spots in: the kitchen lights worked; the sitting room ones didn't. We then played a game whereby all the bulbs get swapped around between the two fittings and Jack comes downstairs (from where he has been secreted away revising) and does the man bit i.e. shouts a lot. All the bulbs now work and we sit down quietly for twenty minutes until the whole fitting in the sitting room fizzles out and we spend an evening unable to see anything. The festive candles look pretty though. The next day we go to B & Q to buy 8 lower wattage bulbs to replace all of those in the sitting room. But the light still doesn't work. Jack comes down and shouts a bit more and everything's brewing up nicely for Christmas. Another evening by candlelight accompanied by the whirr of a fan heater which has had to be brought in to accompany the blanket that's now pinned over the dining room door in an effort to keep the arctic winds at bay. The fan heater makes me sleepy; Leonie says it's because the noise it makes sounds like cicadas. Pardon? I don't care about the light which, along with the broken dishwasher and the freezer door that won't shut, adds up to the three things that might go wrong at one time.

You know how it is though. The next morning, whilst waiting for Caroline, who's coming over for a walk, Leonie and I are sitting looking at the defunct light thinking 'it's bound to be something simple'. Like a fuse. 'Maybe if you unscrew that bit where the bar goes across, there will be a fuse we can replace' I say. Leonie misunderstands and unscrews the whole fitting which, amazingly easily, falls out of the ceiling and is swaying dangerously on an electric lead. Leonie is too short to replace it on various hooks and screws and I'm not touching it so we have to get Jack. Jack comes downstairs and shouts very loudly. He manages to get the light back in the ceiling whilst Leonie shouts at him. I make the mistake of mentioning to Leonie that I can't believe she did that and Caroline arrives for our walk to be entertained by the first of the seasonal full scale rows.

When we return forty minutes later with sodden feet the row is still ongoing and Caroline takes Jack's side. Leonie has called an electrician who wants seventy quid to come and look at the dead light and I decide to phone Nigel who is the saviour of the universe. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I have to go and purchase a new light fitting which I don't really mind because I never liked those spots anyway. And what else do I possibly have better to do on 22nd December? Nigel arrives faster than the speed of sound and tells me a long story about how he's astro-turfed two Hyundai cars. He got the job via the bloke whose caravans he wall-papers. I don't understand any of this conversation although I learn that the same company that does the upholstering for the caravans has made green seats for the Hyundais and matching grass effect curtains.

It is too surreal so I try to steer Nigel in the direction of the freezer door which, apparently, is not aligned to the rest of the world. I don't understand this either but because he is a super-hero on a par with Susan Boyle, Nigel manages to fix it for the festive period before asking whether I'd like to see some pictures of the astro-turfed cars. 'I'll get Jack' I say; 'he'll be interested'. There is some grumbling but no shouting on the part of the would-be reviser as he descends again into the now blinding light of the sitting room . Unfortunately, Nigel's phone has broken and as Nigel doesn't 'do' phones or boilers (or, sadly, dishwashers) we never get to see the photos. I give Nigel his money and send him on his way with the season's greetings that I also send to you dear reader.

Why I never write poetry

2009-12-19T23:45:00.000Z

Out of the box

He sent out a text from his hospital bed
Can you bring in my lap-top? Was meant to be read
And please send some biscuits in with Ted
As I’m now nil by mouth and I need to be fed.
And please let the pigeons out of the shed
Ignore all the mess, just mind where you tread
When I see that trolley it fills me with dread
They’re treating me like I’m damn nearly dead
I’m so bloody cross I can only see red
It’s doing my brain in…it feels just like lead
And in fact he had really done in his head
As he keeled over backwards right off the bed
The alarms were flashing in blue and in red
And the patterns on screen were no longer a zed
But seemed to be straight lines pictured instead
While his mobile vibrated just under his head
With an incoming message that never got read
Saying run out of credit and signal’s gone dead
And we’ll pass on the news to Joan and to Fred
But the nurse had to text the reply instead
He’s taken a turn for the worse she said
I advise that the pigeons stay in the shed
And cancel the biscuits, he’s already dead.

Yet another day in paradise

2009-12-14T22:21:00.006Z

So that was winter was it? Just as we were looking forward to the possibility of a white Christmas the cold snap snapped and guess what? It's raining again. I had a bad feeling about this day. It started last night: I'd just made a large cheese and onion sandwich to enjoy whilst watching the X Factor final when I suddenly remembered that I was having my bloods done this morning and was supposed to be fasting. Sod it. Couldn't even have a paltry glass of water.

Duly arrived at the surgery to be met by the happiest nurse in the world. 'Have you got a form?' No. 'Haven't you seen the doctor?' No...they told me it wasn't necessary. 'What do you want your bloods done for?' Because they haven't been done for six months. 'Have you fasted?' Who uses that language in 2009? Begrudgingly, she took a sample. Merry Christmas to you too. Onwards to work which is about as far as it's possible to be in any direction given that it and the surgery are separated by the second largest natural harbour in the world. And on to the first meeting with the new boss which was as appalling as it could've been.

Eventually homewards via the train station to collect Jack who appears to have taken nine hours to get here from the land of the sheep. Well it would if you come by the scenic route i.e. car to Reading, train to Southampton and another train to Dorset. No wonder he was complaining of travel sickness. Then had to break the news that I was going out on his first night home: terrible mother guilt syndrome.

A cup of tea, a quick bath and back out into the wet night for the Speakeasy Christmas readings. We were supposed to take food to contribute to a mixed buffet. Being as organised as ever, I stole a packet of crisps from the Christmas supplies thinking they would at least make a change from the three zillion mince pies that were likely to be on offer. Wrong again: everyone must have thought that everyone else would bring mince pies so we were hard pressed to locate one. Plenty of Scotch eggs though. And plenty of wonderful readings. It was one of those events that one approaches with some resignation, then really enjoys. Barely anyone had written their own pieces, choosing instead to bring out all the old favourites: Elliot's Journey of the Magi, which I had thought about taking was performed much better than I could have managed by the delightful Enid. I read from my other essential seasonal text, Dylan Thomas' Memories of Christmas. Judith gave us Betjeman's Christmas and Sue chose The Night Before Christmas. We had Hardy's Oxen....we are big Hardy fans: it's compulsory if you're a Dorset based literary group. And Corsley's Innocents. And Harding's Christmas 1914. And many more. It was splendid. My faith is restored. I took home a goodie bag for Jack: 2 pieces of Stollen and some white chocolate fingers. That'll make up for it. He'd gone out!

It's beginning to look a bit like Christmas

2009-12-14T09:36:00.001Z

‘Ready for Christmas?’ It’s a mantra that the English love because it temporarily extends conversational possibilities beyond that of currently prevailing climatic conditions; which is why they start asking you round about the middle of October. After a month without a precipitation-free day, I was bored with them continually saying they’re sick of the rain. Now they’ve moved on to the past tense: ‘I was sick of all that rain…cold isn’t it’.

Of course I’m not ready for Christmas! How does that work when you’re in the day job full time? I’ve made a few lists: if in doubt, make a list. In a state of panic last weekend, I visited a butcher and ordered a turkey, a ham (cooked), some sausages, streaky bacon, two lots of stuffing and a partridge in a pear tree. I got the butcher’s boy to write down the date that the said order should be collected along with the opening hours of the meat emporium and made a list of what has to be done and in which order on the 23rd. I’ve made another list of vegetables that need purchasing on the same day, probably around 7am or earlier. Once, when I really wasn’t sleeping at all well, I went to Tesco at 4 o clock one morning. Apart from the staff, I was the only person in the joint so you might have thought that I had free rein. Actually, all the aisles were blocked by huge metal trolleys being unloaded by unfriendly looking somnambulists who were stacking shelves and who were clearly not expecting to meet any punters. Talk about night of the living dead. As I was transferring my goods into the boot of the car which sat in lonely isolation in the car park, I remember that a fox wandered over to watch me with some indifference. ‘Bloody cold isn’t it’ he said.

I had a few words with Samuel whose behaviour of late has been disturbing to say the least. Eleven of us are spending three festive days together and we don’t want any rows before Christmas lunch so, minus a bunch of lucky heather, I was charged with giving him the gypsy’s warning. Subsequently, he told his mum he was going to his dad’s for Christmas instead. So, another task handled well then. Meanwhile, everyone else appears to have independently reached a consensus to buy his six-year old sister a gift that can be used outdoors; like a road map. So far, she’ll be wearing her new fairy Wellingtons whilst tied to a tree with her very expensive French skipping rope.

Talking of wellies, there seems to be a national shortage unless you’re adult sized nine or over; in which case, you’d have been born with flippers. ‘It’s due to the weather’ said the woman in Tesco. Oh, not that old excuse again. Why else would you buy a pair of wellies unless you lived in a wet god-forsaken country. I mean, they’re not exactly a fashion statement are they. And while we’re at it, what’s with the pudding shortage? As I said to a twelve year old manger in Tesco… and why do I continue to shop there?......‘do you know there’s not a nutless Christmas pudding in this shop?’ When did they start putting nuts in puddings? ‘No idea’ says he; ‘can’t stand Christmas pudding myself’. Well that’s ok then. That’s the stock response from the rulers of the universe is it? Peace on earth and good will to you too.

I went for a walk. I’ve been shut indoors for weeks, due to the rain, so it had to be done. In a large pocket I’d secreted a plastic bag and a pair of secateurs. Look: this is council property and I pay my council tax; ergo if I want some holly I’ll have some. I’ve already replaced the three quid Asda plastic tree with a real life B & Q version…albeit, the smallest one in the shop. AND purchased sparkly twigs which are festooned with baubles. Now I’m on a mission. Except that I nearly forgot why. On a bitingly cold Dorset morning, under an exquisite blue sky, I walked along a beautifully barren edge of the harbour stopping to speak with every passing stranger and stroke their even stranger dogs. And because it wasn’t raining everyone smiled and spoke back. And as we’re going to be globally warmed, or because it’s going to be a fierce winter, the holly bushes are laden with berries, branches of which are now in my sitting room. I was going to be terribly artistic and have a few marsh ferns too but I knew they wouldn’t look as good indoors as they did at the water’s edge with the sun highlighting their colours.

Saturday night, we went over to a candle-lit Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. I sat enraptured in the stone-clad darkness thinking of all the Christmases that had become wrapped into one as they roll down the hills of our lives. Fleetingly, I wondered what we should eat for Christmas Eve lunch. During the interval, we went outside to marvel at the clear, star-packed December night. We marvelled even more at those in the porch with the foresight to bring flasks and sandwiches. Then we returned for the second part and you all know what that’s about. Somewhere in the midst’s of time, King George woke from a little nap and inadvertently stood up. And now we all rise joyfully as one for the Allejulha Chorus. And, as I wipe away that tear of emotion, I’m beginning to feel a tiny bit Christmassy. Cold though, isn’t it.

And so it begins

2009-12-08T19:42:00.005Z

I've been summoned by my boss. That would be my new boss who, contrary to expectations, is not the same as the old boss. I forgot to mention....owing to the loss of will to live....that the consultation process is over, the final paper has been published and the new boss, who was many people's old boss, was slotted neatly in without so much as a nod in the direction of an interview. So much for the democratic process then. I've been waiting for the call for three days: I'm surprised it took that long what with marked cards and payback time. I bet she's rubbing her hands with glee although, in doing so, she will have dropped the poisoned chalice she's just taken possession of. Enough already.

For a past-time, I'm wrapping presents. I watched my daughter doing this the other evening. Talk about multi-tasking: she had the whole lot done in an hour max whilst simultaneously eating a curry, downing a bottle of plonk....we each had our own due to colour preference - red for me, pink for her...answering a few texts and slotting in X Factor in between the Alan Bennett evening. Me, I've been wrapping mine for about six weeks. I average two a night. This evening, I had extra owing to having been allotted the task of dealing with the old boss's leaving presents which have been deposited in green crepe paper within a handy box file. I told them I wasn't much good at that sort of thing but they're all too busy counting their happy pills to be bothered.

My son was due home from uni on Sunday except that now he's not coming because he's going to a boot camp for young entrepreneurs somewhere in the land of the sheep. His best offer was a lift on Monday to any given point on the M4. Reading it is then. From here, he'll get a train to Poole. Somewhat stupidly, I suggested that we didn't really need a Christmas tree this year and had been out and bought a few sparkly branches to hang the odd bauble off. Mind you, I did make a bit of an effort: was stunned to discover you can buy a tree for three quid from Asda. So I did. Got it home and opened it...it looked like a three quid tree from Asda and now it's back in its box. I could hear the disappointment in the silence on the other end of the phone and will now, of course, buy a proper tree some time between now and next Monday.

I asked the new boss if she wanted me to bring anything to the meeting. 'No, it's just a little chat' came the response. 'Well, I would like to see your appraisal objectives and your work plan' came the afterthought which was really a primary thought. I do actually have the former. Didn't know there was plan for work though: thought you just turned up, sold your soul, stayed there until you couldn't physically stand any longer, then spent a pleasant forty minutes in assorted traffic jams trying to get home again.

Something very scary.....or not

2009-12-02T19:49:00.003Z

Being keen to experience all areas of culture, I have just returned from the cinema having seen...as advertised.. the scariest film of the year/decade/century/ever: Paranormal Activity. Or maybe it isn't. Perhaps it's just the most hyped film since the totally boring Blair Witch fiasco. I like scary films (as opposed to horror)but, like humour, what works for one person doesn't for the next.

These days, there are two problems associated with going to see a scary film: firstly, you have to find someone else who also likes to be frightened; secondly, you have to come home to an empty house. Sally and I went straight after work as it's Orange Wednesday. What a brilliant idea that is...2 for the price of 1. The timing meant that I was back indoors for 7.30 so now have all night to occupy my mind with something else. Like why is that light flashing on my turned off TV?

The best bit of the film was the audience. The place was full of screaming people followed by raucous, nervous, bordering on hysterical laughter. What a hoot! It's filmed over three weeks in someone's bedroom and as they didn't change the sheets once, they deserved everything they got. Better than Blair Witch and the last scene made even us hardened old folk gasp. Don't use this review as your bench-mark though: I can think of quite a few people who would be terrified.

A spot of entertainment

2009-11-30T18:45:00.005Z

To say it's been a busy and wet week would both be understatements. Fortunately, when it was possible to actually get out the front door without wearing goggles, some of the reasons were at least of a cultural nature in which diversity ruled ok!

Sunday night...shock, horror at venturing out on the sabbath when I could've stayed in my warm little home to watch the demise of Jedward...we ventured into Bournemouth to watch a couple of plays. The venue was a proper pub, albeit once a bank, but none of your pseudo-retro picture lined walls and fake Tiffany lampshades and not a menu in sight. A small stage, a few leather settees and a gloomy loo so far away that it warranted a return train fare to Weymouth. So, because it was charming and because it's trying to be a centre for the arts, let's give it a bit of promo: it's the Winchester and jolly good it is too. Mind you, it was a squash. With four of us squeezed onto the sofa in the front row, it was difficult not to make friends (or go home with a crick in the neck that served as a souvenir for the following three days). We were sat with a world famous writer who I'd never heard of but who has sixteen published books ... sufficient to impress. The plays were excellent and the acting superb but I wouldn't exactly class it as light relief: the first was about the last surviving orchestra in war torn Baghdad and the second concerned the incarceration in an asylum of the pilot who flew Enola Gay over Hiroshima. So, a laugh a minute then.

Talking of a lot of laughs, Monday night found me back in town once more to see Eddie Izzard. Is that guy off the wall or what? He's certainly a bit of a technophile: while we waited for his arrival, three large screens reflected members of the audience, over which ran all his incoming tweets. Eddie's a big fan of Twitter and used it constantly during his recent marathons. He has a million followers and to prove it there were messages arriving from all points on the compass; including one from him saying he'd be along soon. Hurry up Eddie, we're waiting to see whether you've turned into a stick insect after all that exercise. Actually, when he appeared, he looked quite normal. No, I take that back: 'normal' is not a word to be used in the same sentence as Izzard.

Wednesday was Writers' Circle at which each meeting seems to comprise a different membership. A fellow scribe told me that he'd heard a programme on Radio 4 about these clubs in which they said if you turn up and find a bunch of strange folk who don't seem able to write a shopping list, you know you're in the right place. That pretty much sums us up.

Thursday evening was supposed to be a quiet night in but, in the event, I got home from work at 9pm having been invited to a talent competition at work. I couldn't think of anywhere I'd like to go less after a monstrous day and, of course, it was wonderful. There were ten acts including, amongst others, singers, a band, a magician and a comedian. The less said about the latter, the better: he was out to shock and he succeeded. The rest were a joy. This little venture was organised by first term, first year students tasked with an assessed assignment to organise a venture to make money for charity. Hooray for them! Ten out of ten for sheer effort.

Friday, another friend round for a weekly moan and Saturday I cooked for that crowd of nicotine addicts I met outside Amman airport. Here's a little culinary tip: if you're going to make moussaka don't try to be clever and make half of it the day before. Aubergines that were first cooked twenty-four hours previously are unpleasant little beings. The way to compensate for this is to drink as much red wine as you can but possibly not quite that much. Sunday, I did something that I can't ever remember doing before: got up at 11am, had a bath, came downstairs and looked out at the WEATHER and....changed into a clean pair of pyjamas.

Cake with Caitlin

2009-11-15T23:12:00.010Z

This was the weekend when ALL plans fell apart. Firstly, pig flu, which we had all thought was a nasty rumour, has kicked in over in the land of the land of the sheep resulting in Jack’s lift home being null and void. Disappointing to say the least but, as Dorset has largely been cut off from the wider world for the last twenty-four hours, probably just as well. There’s no way I’d have been contemplating that bridge if the weather up there was anything like the hurricane that we experienced yesterday! We even made item number two on the national news: a bunch of numpties failing to stand upright in Bournemouth. So no change there then.

Saturday, we were all due to go to Glastonbury carnival; I could barely get out of the front door to reach Tesco. On arrival at our local branch of Rulers of the World I found myself temporarily trapped in the car as stair-rods rained down and Dorothy flew past on her way to the Emerald City. Everyone…and I mean everyone…was there. Not a trolley to be had. Strangely, on emerging, the micro-climate had undergone transformation and the sun was shining brightly whilst chuckling to itself. Perhaps we could venture into Somerset after all? No chance. By the time I’d driven the mile home tornadoes were being recorded over in Kimmeridge so we made a new plan: a spot of Christmas shopping in town followed by a trip to the cinema. Wrong.

Something happened to Poole when I wasn’t looking. The High Street, which used to be full of interesting shops, now looks, I imagine, like a lot of other towns in this green and unpleasant land: ok if you like charity shops. Actually, I do but not that many. The upside of recession-hit Britain is that you can have an eat-all-you-want buffet at The Real China for £3.95. This has got to be the bargain of the year even if your six year old grand-daughter presumes it to mean eat all the prawn crackers you want. Have you ever tried, or even seen, someone eating prawn crackers with strawberry ice-cream? As for the cinema? Well, call me mean but £28 for two adults and two children to see the new cartoon version of A Christmas Carol wasn’t viable so that didn’t happen either.

All of a sudden it was Sunday. The sun was shining so a whole new day loomed. However, due to yet more illness, I was unexpectedly landed with the prawn cracker queen. We decided to go to the beach except, on arrival, the beach wasn’t there due to a ridiculously high tide. It didn’t matter; we had a splendid walk and talked to a considerable number of dogs before visiting the water-logged park where I was attacked by the biggest and most angry bee in the world. Then we went home and made a Christmas cake. Have you ever made a Christmas cake with a six-year old? It takes years; especially if you have those old fashioned scales with weights, and an even more old fashioned china mixing bowl and make the mistake of doing it on the dining room table where there’s more room. There’s no compromise: 'you have to get the balance exactly right Grandma'. ( I had just explained the concept of balance and that, in French, scales translates as 'balance'. 'So what's the word for balance in French Grandma?' ) And this bowl’s too hard Grandma. And why is all that brown sugar on the table and all those raisins on the floor Caitlin? And why did I buy you a sherbet dip? And why are you asleep on my settee when there’s all this cleaning and washing-up to be done?

A small and slowly unfolding tale

2009-11-09T18:14:00.007Z

If you get to work before 8am you're in seasonal trouble because they don't put the heating on until then which means you've got to wait a good half an hour for the joint to warm up. Naturally, I've submitted a suggestion (euphemism for complaint).It was so cold today that I only ventured out to the bench once. Carole was there of course sporting a short-sleeved tee-shirt. 'Aren't you cold?' 'Getting there'. But not, apparently, as cold as the tortoises who are now re-housed in their own brand new fridge.

It's a long time since I watched Blue Peter; I think Petra might have passed on by now. However, I definitely remember them packing the tortoises away in boxes of straw for the winter so what's all this fridge business? It's a new theory...they have to be kept at a specific temperature. You can wrap them in towels and pop them in with the cheese and salad but you mustn't use the hemp that Ron had inadvertantly purchased. Take a look at this link to see everyone's at it!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-518454/Close-door-trying-sleep-The-woman-keeps-75-hibernating-tortoises-fridges.html

You wouldn't want to be trying to retrieve that bottle of wine if you'd finished one already; particularly if you had a sudden craving for a frozen pastie. Still, you could always use the hemp to insulate your office.

By the way, Liam has dumped me claiming I need an independent technician; so, basically, it's all my fault. Even Bob lasted longer than this one although sadly not long enough to fix the dishwasher!

Lewes is lovely

2009-11-09T10:49:00.002Z

For some reason, Beverley didn’t think it necessary to inform me before I left for the hinterlands of East Sussex that fireworks would be involved. When I was a child, firework night…….oh for God’s sake, you know what I’m going to say and anyway it doesn’t matter. I still ended up standing in the middle of a school playing-field somewhere in Brighton in a force nine gale inappropriately dressed. It could’ve been worse I suppose: I had intended to wear the little black dress and the fish-net tights for the evening thinking that we might be heading for the sophisticated night-spots. At one point it started to rain. Fortunately, Bev’s sister had lent us some samples from her collection of Edwardian umbrellas. The bad news was that we weren’t allowed to get them wet or use them as shelter from the hurricane in case they blew inside out. I accidentally dropped mine on the damp grass but I think I got away with it; everyone else being occupied with providing a chair for the recording photographer to stand on prior to his camera running out of battery two minutes into the display.

I’ve never been to Lewes before and it really is quite lovely. Rather too many hills perhaps for my liking and populated by folk who all have competing ideas on the location of my B & B in South Street and how to get there, but it has a castle and, having declared unilateral independence some years ago, its own currency. More importantly, about 80% of the shops are independent so quite delightful, especially at this time of year when there are gifts to buy. There is also a plethora of antique/junk emporia where one can purchase almost anything. For example, in the one where I left with a brass cupid bearing a three-pronged candlestick holder for just a negotiated tenner, it was possible to purchase a piece of attractive blue pottery dating back to the time and place of Jesus for only £63! Well, that’s what the label said. To be fair, you can (literally) pick up a bargain’s worth of Nabotean coins in Petra but……….

After the fireworks, we trundled off to the local pub to defrost. I didn’t think there were that many of us to begin with but ranks had swelled and we took over a whole corner and straddled a path to the bar. I didn’t know who many of these people were and was quite surprised when a woman from the other side of the room brought over a large selection of grand-children of assorted sizes who she lined up in front of us. From the looks on the faces of my companions, I was not alone in being unsure of procedure. Should we give them marks out of ten perhaps? We smiled inanely and the crowd dispersed.

Later in the evening, there was a very bizarre conversation about the protocol involved in using other people’s bathroom facilities. I didn’t understand this at all…maybe it’s another ritual peculiar to East Sussex? I went outside to have a fag in the pouring rain as you do when feeling surplus to requirements. I made a new friend out there who spent a good ten minutes regaling me with his views on the apparent turnaround of Saturday night values: i.e. the pub’s full of kids running wild, dominoes has been replaced by Pass the Baby and the smokers are consigned to lurking in doorways in the cold. He’s got a point.

A particularly surreal experience on Sunday morning in the B & B: it was, of course, Remembrance Day so all the Radio 4 programmes had been hijacked thereby causing more confusion than the morning after the night when the clocks go back. I began my breakfast not to the accompaniment of Clive James, but to what sounded ominously like a Brian May version of Abide With Me. Very odd.

A technophobe at large

2009-11-04T20:44:00.005Z

The man from Virgin Media Customer Services.....a contradiction in terms.....made the mistake of telephoning me. I was poorly last Thursday and had to come home from work in the morning. You know how it is: feeling run down, full of aches, in and out of the loo and generally miserable. For someone who rarely watches the box, all I wanted to do was snuggle down on the settee and watch rubbish on the TV. Good job I live in England then. The bad news being that I'm with Virgin. There was no TV. Or internet and owing to the fact that readers know I live in the Twilight Zone, no phone. I was explaining all of this to my new friend, Liam, at Virgin who I could tell had lost the will to live. I had already reported it to his colleagues in Mumbai but, as my upset stomach and general flu-like symptoms did not appear on their feed-back list of responses, they were unable to help. As I told Liam, this is not me being racist; I don't care who they are...I care where they are and what script they have. Liam said a lot of folk say this. Well, there's a surprise then.

On Saturday, a technician arrived to tell me that the reason I had no communication facility was because a neighbour had made the mistake of signing up with Virgin. As they wanted to create a positive first impression, and as there was 'no more room in the box', they had disconnected me. I've often been told I function outside the box but this is the first tangible evidence. Anyway, I shared this with Liam too. And the fact that I'm being 'cut back'. I don't know this lingo any more than I know Italian but I know I'm not getting the broadband speed I pay for. 'Do you mean you're affected by traffic management?' asked Liam. Possibly. He then donned his Spanish Inquisition party outfit to enquire what I was trying to download/upload/transfer etc etc. Pictures of Robert de Niro? The odd photo attachment to my parents? The Waitrose Instant Christmas Dinner portfolio?

'Liam, it must be clearly obvious that I have no idea what I'm talking about and all I want to do is let my parents and other bored people know what's occurring'. That's when Liam became my friend. We have now exchanged phone numbers...ones that only put you through to the UK...and email addresses. The man's on a mission. I have refunds and am on an official no-pay policy until they can resolve local problems.

'Well, Liam, let me tell you about my son, a poor starved student in Swansea who is also having terrible problems with Virgin.' I swear I could hear him sharpening the razor blades.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xokHofcS3ik&feature=related