1) The Rex at Wareham is showing Morris: a life with bells on. Nothing to do with me....they've just got a copy which they're showing this Friday & Saturday
2) Managed to move offices despite one fire alarm and several tea-breaks on the part of the care-takers
3) After months of searching, have finally manged to track down Gary Nalbandyan (see youtube link below). Best listened to whilst doing something else; like sitting in a deserted French chapel on the summer solstice
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSu3LSDgYd0&feature=related
Tuesday 29 September 2009
Sunday 27 September 2009
That old memory thing
It's definitely going. Bob....you remember Bob......keeps asking me do I remember this one and that one. I think he has me confused with someone else; sadly, I don't even remember Bob but I'm going to meet him soon. Again. Last time we met we were seven or eight. Now you can add half a century and a lot of optimism. When I go to where he lives I must meet him in a public place and leave addresses and phone numbers with virtually everyone I know as they all think I will be abducted. I should be so lucky.
I am constantly amazed by details of the quotidian long past that other folk remember. And constantly worried about my lack of short or long term memory. Last night I had friends round to dinner. Actually, they're quite classy types and probably referred to it as 'supper'. The one thing I can remember is when 'dinner' used to be at 'dinner-time' which was the middle of the day and 'supper', if it ever appeared, was two Ritz biscuits, a small lump of cheese and a cup of hot milk. Last night, it was stuffed aubergines, sea bass (fresh from the quay) and some pears poached in alcohol with Amarreti biscutis and cherries. Never let it be said that I don't move with the times.
Two of the friends mentioned that they'd been to Glastonbury Festival ...with Springsteen being the highlight...this year and I suggested they should try Glastonbury Carnival which is, alledgedly ( is that the right spelling followers?), the biggest illuminated carnival in Europe. They were a little taken aback as, they informed me, they'd already been....with me! However, it's not just me: not mentioning any names, but James knows who I'm talking about. One of them said they'd queued in the post office to mail a large envelope. Whilst standing in line, he'd observed how much the place had been smartened up: water machine in the corner, pleasing pale blue decor etc. On reaching the next available assistant...cashier number six please....he'd asked how much it would cost to post his letter. Came the reply, 'no idea sir, this is Barclay's Bank'.
so, against my better judgement but in honour of great dinner guests: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPudiBR15mk
Come to think of it, if you really want to listen to this song in the most meaningful way possible, try to get hold of a film called 'Dear America: letters from Vietnam'
I am constantly amazed by details of the quotidian long past that other folk remember. And constantly worried about my lack of short or long term memory. Last night I had friends round to dinner. Actually, they're quite classy types and probably referred to it as 'supper'. The one thing I can remember is when 'dinner' used to be at 'dinner-time' which was the middle of the day and 'supper', if it ever appeared, was two Ritz biscuits, a small lump of cheese and a cup of hot milk. Last night, it was stuffed aubergines, sea bass (fresh from the quay) and some pears poached in alcohol with Amarreti biscutis and cherries. Never let it be said that I don't move with the times.
Two of the friends mentioned that they'd been to Glastonbury Festival ...with Springsteen being the highlight...this year and I suggested they should try Glastonbury Carnival which is, alledgedly ( is that the right spelling followers?), the biggest illuminated carnival in Europe. They were a little taken aback as, they informed me, they'd already been....with me! However, it's not just me: not mentioning any names, but James knows who I'm talking about. One of them said they'd queued in the post office to mail a large envelope. Whilst standing in line, he'd observed how much the place had been smartened up: water machine in the corner, pleasing pale blue decor etc. On reaching the next available assistant...cashier number six please....he'd asked how much it would cost to post his letter. Came the reply, 'no idea sir, this is Barclay's Bank'.
so, against my better judgement but in honour of great dinner guests: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPudiBR15mk
Come to think of it, if you really want to listen to this song in the most meaningful way possible, try to get hold of a film called 'Dear America: letters from Vietnam'
Sunday 20 September 2009
The boys are back in town
After a quick weekend visit, my daughter was packing up her car today when one of the aliens that inhabit the Twilight Zone in which I currently reside appeared to ask whether she was off back to uni. My daughter is an English teacher and finished her formal education some years ago but still gets asked for identification every time she wants to purchase something that necessitates her being over eighteen. We are blessed with youthful looks in our family for much longer than most folk. There is an upsetting period around the late forties when age suddenly clicks in but, as readers of this blog will be aware, we make up for this by acting anything other than what might normally be expected. We are all growing old disgracefully; just wait till I start writing about Aunty Grace! Anyway, the neighbour was too late as I’d already packed my son and his life into the car the day before for the trip back to Swansea University.
The beloved one had the grace to be reasonably emotional about leaving as he looked out across the heath towards the water. Let’s face it, he’d been home for four months. Mind you, he wasn’t as emotional as I was when I went to clean his room! Once my car has established the fact that it isn’t going to work, it pretty well knows its way to South Wales now including the turn-off which avoids Bath and takes us over a little toll-bridge manned by strange folk who exact sixty pence for the pleasure of cutting straight onto the road up to the M4. Once into Wales, we felt the urgent need for coffee and pulled off towards some services. ‘Do you remember that strange place we stopped at before?’ he says. ‘Yes, I think we might be there again’; which, of course, we were. It’s a geographical void inhabited by extremely obese people. Well, that’s Wales; but I’m talking about some weird place west of Cardiff.
This year, my son, along with nine other lads, is renting an ex-guest house on the front. Currently, there’s only one other occupant so it’s looking good. I hate to think what it’s going to be like in about two week’s time. There are two kitchens and four fridges. Ten into four doesn’t go: folk coming in looking for something to eat after a night on the lash head for anything readily available. I am so glad I don’t live there. He arrived home after the first year minus anything I’d sent him off with: not a memory of bed-linen and no cutlery. This time, I’m wiser. No point trying to buy the best…just go to Asda. I thought they’d picked this place for the convenience of the uni and because it’s right on the beach; turns out they hadn’t noticed this but it is five minutes walk from the nearest student friendly pub.
On the way back I had to do the Severn Bridge alone. I don’t like bridges. It’s yet another phobia and one I’ve inherited from my grandma. I am that person who is irritating every other motorist by driving at a steady sixty in the middle lane which, by virtue of traffic passing either side, precludes me having to glimpse the peripheral reaches of the Severn. This time I was ready for it. Last time I did the journey back I was feeling tired and decided I needed a sugar hit. Spotting a sign for services, I turned off in search of chocolate. Many miles later, with all signs leading to Chepstow, I found myself on the old bridge completely alone. Now, I only have to see a bridge looming and my palms start to sweat. If there’s someone else in the car I make them talk incessantly to take my mind off the fact I’m in mid-air. Then, there was no-one. Coupled with that, I was on another attempt to give up the weed. I crossed that bridge dragging frantically on my imitation cigarette; I sucked the thing dry. All alone on that old bridge which is about two feet wide and contains every pot-hole you could dream of, I had a nervous break-down. No-one knew I was up there in the air. When I finally reached the other side and thus located the services I was a wreck. I staggered into the shop which no-one has visited for the last twelve years and bought all the old dried up fags that they still had. I think they were Capstan Full Strength.
Here come the boys! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaZCZnmdmbA
The beloved one had the grace to be reasonably emotional about leaving as he looked out across the heath towards the water. Let’s face it, he’d been home for four months. Mind you, he wasn’t as emotional as I was when I went to clean his room! Once my car has established the fact that it isn’t going to work, it pretty well knows its way to South Wales now including the turn-off which avoids Bath and takes us over a little toll-bridge manned by strange folk who exact sixty pence for the pleasure of cutting straight onto the road up to the M4. Once into Wales, we felt the urgent need for coffee and pulled off towards some services. ‘Do you remember that strange place we stopped at before?’ he says. ‘Yes, I think we might be there again’; which, of course, we were. It’s a geographical void inhabited by extremely obese people. Well, that’s Wales; but I’m talking about some weird place west of Cardiff.
This year, my son, along with nine other lads, is renting an ex-guest house on the front. Currently, there’s only one other occupant so it’s looking good. I hate to think what it’s going to be like in about two week’s time. There are two kitchens and four fridges. Ten into four doesn’t go: folk coming in looking for something to eat after a night on the lash head for anything readily available. I am so glad I don’t live there. He arrived home after the first year minus anything I’d sent him off with: not a memory of bed-linen and no cutlery. This time, I’m wiser. No point trying to buy the best…just go to Asda. I thought they’d picked this place for the convenience of the uni and because it’s right on the beach; turns out they hadn’t noticed this but it is five minutes walk from the nearest student friendly pub.
On the way back I had to do the Severn Bridge alone. I don’t like bridges. It’s yet another phobia and one I’ve inherited from my grandma. I am that person who is irritating every other motorist by driving at a steady sixty in the middle lane which, by virtue of traffic passing either side, precludes me having to glimpse the peripheral reaches of the Severn. This time I was ready for it. Last time I did the journey back I was feeling tired and decided I needed a sugar hit. Spotting a sign for services, I turned off in search of chocolate. Many miles later, with all signs leading to Chepstow, I found myself on the old bridge completely alone. Now, I only have to see a bridge looming and my palms start to sweat. If there’s someone else in the car I make them talk incessantly to take my mind off the fact I’m in mid-air. Then, there was no-one. Coupled with that, I was on another attempt to give up the weed. I crossed that bridge dragging frantically on my imitation cigarette; I sucked the thing dry. All alone on that old bridge which is about two feet wide and contains every pot-hole you could dream of, I had a nervous break-down. No-one knew I was up there in the air. When I finally reached the other side and thus located the services I was a wreck. I staggered into the shop which no-one has visited for the last twelve years and bought all the old dried up fags that they still had. I think they were Capstan Full Strength.
Here come the boys! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaZCZnmdmbA
Friday 11 September 2009
Unadulterated promotion
What can I say?
Following the last blog, little. Work lurches from one crisis to the next as folk are struck down by porcine flu which, on one hand reveals the voids that those in fear of redundancy have left by creating jobs that only they can do; but, on the other, offers opportunities for those lurking in the background. However, there is excellent news of the highest order: Morris: a life with bells on is, at last, on general release from 27th of this month. When I say 'general release', we're talking limited. However, if you go to http://www.morrismovie.com/ you can watch the trailer and discover where this most wonderful film will be shown. I urge you to read the reviews and make every effort to see it. I hereby announce that I will make it my personal mission to get it shown at the glorious Rex Cinema in Wareham....the last remaining gas lit picture house in Wareham.
In the meantime, here's a little, totally unrelated, blast from the past: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDvytBCh3xM
Following the last blog, little. Work lurches from one crisis to the next as folk are struck down by porcine flu which, on one hand reveals the voids that those in fear of redundancy have left by creating jobs that only they can do; but, on the other, offers opportunities for those lurking in the background. However, there is excellent news of the highest order: Morris: a life with bells on is, at last, on general release from 27th of this month. When I say 'general release', we're talking limited. However, if you go to http://www.morrismovie.com/ you can watch the trailer and discover where this most wonderful film will be shown. I urge you to read the reviews and make every effort to see it. I hereby announce that I will make it my personal mission to get it shown at the glorious Rex Cinema in Wareham....the last remaining gas lit picture house in Wareham.
In the meantime, here's a little, totally unrelated, blast from the past: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDvytBCh3xM
Wednesday 9 September 2009
The curious incident of the golf club in the night
A visitor asked me why the front window in my porch was broken. When I say broken, I mean that it looks like one of those jagged cartoon windows after a smash and grab: just a few zig zags left round the edges. I suppose I was being a tad optimistic in hoping that no-one would notice. I haven't written about it partly through embarrassment and partly because, at the time, a great deal of distress was caused. However, as I'm quick to recount the exploits of other family members, I suppose it's only fair to come clean.
Last Thursday, I spent a solitary but pleasant evening writing my blog and catching up on correspondence accompanied by two or three glasses of wine. I'd like to explain about the wine. It was purchased from a shop I'd never been in before. It was Californian, low percentage and I didn't have excess quantities due to having to work the next day. I finished what I was doing, closed the patio doors, turned the lights off and went to bed forgetting to remove the key from the front door...which meant that when Jack came home from work, he couldn't get in. For anyone that doesn't know me, I should also point out that I'm an extremely poor sleeper...have been for years. That's what I recall of the evening.
When he couldn't get in, Jack knocked on the door and rang the bell. When that didn't work, he telephoned me. Several times. For an hour. Then he phoned his sister who was away on a course for advice. She telephoned 14 times. I know this to be a truth because that's how many missed calls I had on the land line the following morning not counting those on my mobile. Then they called the police.
The officers of the law arrived and battered on the door. Nothing. Then they all climbed over the back fence and shone torches into the house whereupon they could see me silent as the grave in bed. Being agents of calm, the officers then informed my son that I was probably dead. They went into the garden shed and chose an implement suitable for gaining entry: an iron golf club. (Whatever happened to truncheons?) My son was fraught...'you don't know my mum'! The first I knew about all this was when I was (at last) woken by the sounds of glass smashing. I jumped out of bed...it was hot so no nightie....and rushed into the hall just in time to see the golf club coming through the window again. Terrified, I wondered whether I should call the police as I was unaware they'd already arrived. I shouted out and quickly donned a handy fur (fake) jacket and opened the door. 'What the .......'
Temporarily blinded by flashing blue lights, I recognised my son, his friend, half of Dorset Police and all of the neighbours from within a two mile radius. My son was relieved, distraught and cross. The police cleared off in their landrover without exchanging a word and the neighbours disappeared, clearly upset that I was alive and still shouting.
I cannot explain how this happened. I crept out of my house the next morning like Lazarus risen. As I was clearing up the shreds of glass, a man who I've never seen before called out 'how are you feeling missus?' 'Missus'? He sympathised with my son informing him that they'd already had one woman die in our house, another gone from liver rot over the road, an alcoholic hidden next door but one and folk on the corner plagued by gangsters looking for the drug runners that had lived there before. This is such a quiet little corner of the world. The whole double glazed unit is waiting to be replaced and I must pay for having the first good night's sleep in years. I know what you're thinking but you're wrong. It's a complete mystery.
And now, from the ridiculous to the sublime: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFLu6bu7LEk
Last Thursday, I spent a solitary but pleasant evening writing my blog and catching up on correspondence accompanied by two or three glasses of wine. I'd like to explain about the wine. It was purchased from a shop I'd never been in before. It was Californian, low percentage and I didn't have excess quantities due to having to work the next day. I finished what I was doing, closed the patio doors, turned the lights off and went to bed forgetting to remove the key from the front door...which meant that when Jack came home from work, he couldn't get in. For anyone that doesn't know me, I should also point out that I'm an extremely poor sleeper...have been for years. That's what I recall of the evening.
When he couldn't get in, Jack knocked on the door and rang the bell. When that didn't work, he telephoned me. Several times. For an hour. Then he phoned his sister who was away on a course for advice. She telephoned 14 times. I know this to be a truth because that's how many missed calls I had on the land line the following morning not counting those on my mobile. Then they called the police.
The officers of the law arrived and battered on the door. Nothing. Then they all climbed over the back fence and shone torches into the house whereupon they could see me silent as the grave in bed. Being agents of calm, the officers then informed my son that I was probably dead. They went into the garden shed and chose an implement suitable for gaining entry: an iron golf club. (Whatever happened to truncheons?) My son was fraught...'you don't know my mum'! The first I knew about all this was when I was (at last) woken by the sounds of glass smashing. I jumped out of bed...it was hot so no nightie....and rushed into the hall just in time to see the golf club coming through the window again. Terrified, I wondered whether I should call the police as I was unaware they'd already arrived. I shouted out and quickly donned a handy fur (fake) jacket and opened the door. 'What the .......'
Temporarily blinded by flashing blue lights, I recognised my son, his friend, half of Dorset Police and all of the neighbours from within a two mile radius. My son was relieved, distraught and cross. The police cleared off in their landrover without exchanging a word and the neighbours disappeared, clearly upset that I was alive and still shouting.
I cannot explain how this happened. I crept out of my house the next morning like Lazarus risen. As I was clearing up the shreds of glass, a man who I've never seen before called out 'how are you feeling missus?' 'Missus'? He sympathised with my son informing him that they'd already had one woman die in our house, another gone from liver rot over the road, an alcoholic hidden next door but one and folk on the corner plagued by gangsters looking for the drug runners that had lived there before. This is such a quiet little corner of the world. The whole double glazed unit is waiting to be replaced and I must pay for having the first good night's sleep in years. I know what you're thinking but you're wrong. It's a complete mystery.
And now, from the ridiculous to the sublime: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFLu6bu7LEk
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Followers and commentators
Quite a number of people seem to be reading this blog and some have written to say that they have tried to leave a comment but failed dismally. I'm not really the person to ask being a bit of a Luddite but I think you have two options (or three if you count 'can't be bothered'):
a) Become a follower. This is better for me because the more followers I have, the more likely I am to be observed by the unknown in the digital ether which could have some benefits. At the top of the blog on the right hand side is a 'follow' box. Click this and if you've already got a Google account, sign in. If you haven't got an account open one with your email address & a password.
b) Click on the comments tab and a box will open which will ask you who you want to comment as...i.e. profile. I think you then get a choice to comment anonymously OR as a name from your Google account. Alternatively, you can leave the URL box blank. I'm not certain about this and if I'm wrong, you won't be able to tell me because you won't be able to leave a comment!
a) Become a follower. This is better for me because the more followers I have, the more likely I am to be observed by the unknown in the digital ether which could have some benefits. At the top of the blog on the right hand side is a 'follow' box. Click this and if you've already got a Google account, sign in. If you haven't got an account open one with your email address & a password.
b) Click on the comments tab and a box will open which will ask you who you want to comment as...i.e. profile. I think you then get a choice to comment anonymously OR as a name from your Google account. Alternatively, you can leave the URL box blank. I'm not certain about this and if I'm wrong, you won't be able to tell me because you won't be able to leave a comment!
Thursday 3 September 2009
Planning in advance
Well, it’s that time of year again already: the beginning of September and Christmas looms. Pardon? The first of the month finds my daughter and I, under surprisingly blue skies and in warm sunshine, swimming in the outdoor pool of a south coast hotel that has definitely, like myself, seen better days. (By lunch-time, the weather had remembered who and where it was and switched on the rain). Against my better judgement, we are discussing all things Yuletide; and it appears that I am a late entry, other family members having already undertaken preliminary talks. It’s best to get it sorted though or else folk will worry and last year, we became a geographically divided family.
And geography is the first of the problems: some live in Dorset, others in Kent and yet others in the Midlands. That’s the blood relatives and not the associates whose families abide in Somerset and Oxfordshire; and who have yet to make the torturous decision of whether to spend the festivities with their parents or us. And it doesn’t include the ex-associates who may demand to see their off-spring. Even if they could all make up their minds, where would we put them all? No-one’s got a big enough home as my son, who has never forgiven me for moving to the smallest house in the world, situated in a twilight zone with sporadic TV reception and no hope of making a call on a mobile, constantly reminds me. On top of all this, two of our party are obliged to work on Boxing Day so that narrows the options down. And noisy children are also involved in this equation.
Well, for better or worse, we’ve made a decision. Off to the woods we go on mass. We have found somewhere beautiful, surrounded by trees and fields in which 300 Sika deer roam, with glorious views across the water. And that’s all I’m saying because this is a well-kept secret location. We will be together, yet separated by a woodland track so all of those who’ve had enough of the others can disappear quietly. There are miles of walks and a pub close at hand. Problem solved. Now, who is doing the cooking? And does it really have to be turkey?
And geography is the first of the problems: some live in Dorset, others in Kent and yet others in the Midlands. That’s the blood relatives and not the associates whose families abide in Somerset and Oxfordshire; and who have yet to make the torturous decision of whether to spend the festivities with their parents or us. And it doesn’t include the ex-associates who may demand to see their off-spring. Even if they could all make up their minds, where would we put them all? No-one’s got a big enough home as my son, who has never forgiven me for moving to the smallest house in the world, situated in a twilight zone with sporadic TV reception and no hope of making a call on a mobile, constantly reminds me. On top of all this, two of our party are obliged to work on Boxing Day so that narrows the options down. And noisy children are also involved in this equation.
Well, for better or worse, we’ve made a decision. Off to the woods we go on mass. We have found somewhere beautiful, surrounded by trees and fields in which 300 Sika deer roam, with glorious views across the water. And that’s all I’m saying because this is a well-kept secret location. We will be together, yet separated by a woodland track so all of those who’ve had enough of the others can disappear quietly. There are miles of walks and a pub close at hand. Problem solved. Now, who is doing the cooking? And does it really have to be turkey?
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