Another one bites the dust

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

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

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

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

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.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   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

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

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

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

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

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.