A Range of things

I remember the good old days when people took their kids to the supermarket to abuse them. No matter whether it was Sainsburys or Tesco, you could be sure there would be women screaming at their offspring who were bawling in the aisles and hanging out of trolleys. It was comforting to possess that smugness that comes from having left one’s children elsewhere whilst you dashed round in mock disgust; knowing full well you’d get your own back on your own horrid offspring later with half a pound of pig’s liver, an onion and
 something that passed for mashed potato.

I went to the Range this evening to buy a photograph frame. The Range is a large store that can’t make up its mind what it wants to sell: something for the garden; something for the home; some nice things for those interested in handicrafts; some nasty looking food. Cheap and cheerful. Well, not so cheerful. It was like Armageddon in there; shortly after the four horsemen of the apocalypse had passed through on their way to neighbouring Matalan.

You can walk into some shops to be greeted by music or intercom calls relaying exciting news of the latest bargains. You walk into the Range and immediately feel lost in an NSPPC advert. The sound of children weeping envelops you. I look around to ascertain whether there is an obvious reason for such communal distress; a large dysfunctional family who have said ‘no’ to some joint childlike request perhaps; an unpleasant Bill Sikes type who has just beaten up his sons and daughters; the collapse of all the sweet-bearing shelves. But, no: this incessant screaming, screeching and wailing doesn’t emanate from a single source. Every child in this god-forsaken place has its own agenda. No-one is happy. Well, that’s extra-curricula activities for you.

Speaking of which, I escaped from work this morning to run a writing workshop for the Bournemouth Festival of Words in a local library. There were ten participants, two BFoW representatives and a photographer. We were cocooned amongst the book-shelves with plenty of room for the writers to break out and …well, write. The received comments were encouraging: excellent, instructive, inspiring. After that, I returned to work where a student told me I was fantastic. The day was progressing well. Then I spoke on the phone to a woman I’ve never met who informed me I was pretentious. It only takes one person to ruin the day. Bad move on my part to think The Range would make me feel better.

I went swimming and buried my head under water for thirty four lengths. That works!



Muffin or Spotty

In the pet shop in Royston Vaisey (aka Wareham) an ancient being is doing his best to have a pleasant conversation with the two surly looking assistants behind the counter.
On my knees, rifling through an assortment of nuts, I’m not really paying attention until I suddenly tune in and hear him saying:

They’ll have a dog up there and it’s almost bound to be called Muffin.
I used to have a dog called Muffin I say without turning round
Really, says he, pleased as punch at having some interaction. You know it all started with that mule? There was a puppet called Muffin the Mule he explains to the assistants who look as though they’d have more fun watching a jelly set. You remember how he used to walk?

This last is directed at me. Clearly, he thinks I’m also part of the bus-pass brigade. Not until September my good man. Anyway, he’s got my full attention now as he prances around the shop as if his arms and legs are worked by string that someone else is holding.

Oh no! I’m adamant. You’re getting confused with Spotty Woodentop.
Spotty Woodentop, he replies in amazement? I’m going further back than you I think.
Well, you may have started further back but you’re definitely doing Spotty Woodentop I respond. Look. And before I know what’s happening, I’ve put my bag of nuts on the floor and am doing my infamous impression of said dog. So now the two of us are pet shop puppets jumping in front of the counter.

It’s an education I smile encouragingly at the night of the living dead behind the counter. They’re not interested; too busy having fun sticking pencils in their eyes. I’d like a carrier bag for all these nuts but I’m not going to ask them. They’re a bit scary. Mind you, I expect they’re thinking the same about their customers this morning. I leave, cradling my nuts like a precious puppy.

On the way home, I decide to take a detour down Sandy Lane. I’m very impressed with a spot of topiary in a garden I saw the other day and want to take a photograph. Difficult not to notice it actually; although when I took my friend to see it, she asked what hedge?

Try looking up I said helpfully
Ah, I see what you mean

What we used to watch in the old days
 
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pffghjNSVUI&feature=related

Days like these (scroll to btm & listen to link whilst reading)

You have to be on time. Years of experience leave us with nothing but the unknown: he could be late, there could be a support artist, the band could play with no front man for half an hour …who knows? Certainly not the aged beings who pack the foyer, the toilets and the bars; all loyal followers who have grown old with the Man. The only thing I know is that special friend and I have walked two miles on this chilly March night to see him. In more years than I care to remember, this is the 24th time.


We have great seats, four rows from the front: having been on the ‘alert list’ forever helps. We might be competing with the temporal Florence and the Machine over at the BIC, but the die-hards are out in force. The auditorium is packed with so many old folk that it looks like a SAGA convention.
The announcement regarding the ejection of would-be photographers coupled with the confiscation of equipment is repeated twice. It’s harsh and unforgiving. So is the Man. We know that. We don’t read the biographies which constantly relate what an unpleasant person our hero is. We don’t care. He’s not coming round ours for dinner.

The lights dim. The band walks on stage and even before they’ve assumed instruments, Van is here at precisely 7.45, the published start time. Straight into Brown Eyed Girl and we immediately know that this could be a goodie and not one of those random, self-indulgent jamming sessions that we occasionally have to witness. And we are treated.

There’s something about him tonight. He’s having a good time. And the band is tight. Moon Dance…it’s a fabulous night for one. All in the Name of Love evolving into This is It…superbly whispered and roaring to a climax. In the Garden…Oh my god, not heard since the Georgie Fame days and the audience cheering before three notes have passed is enough to elicit a rare ‘thank-you’ from the Man who never acknowledges the fans. And now, St James Infirmary Blues, defying all description; the audience silently entranced by the chocolate brown voice; this is when we know we are in the company of genius.

One and a half hours without a pause for breath and suddenly the stewards appear at the end of the rows. Van doesn’t require bouncers because we all know how to behave so what are these guys doing here? Could it be? No, surely not? But yes, the soulful blues and jazz give way to the familiar beat and it’s Gloria: GLORIA, Gloria. Well what do these stewards think they can do? This aged audience is on its feet as a worshipful whole and we dance where we’re standing.

And the Man leaves the stage and the lights go up. No guru, No teacher, No method and no encore. An hour and a half of sheer bliss and he’s gone.

 Buy the music. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHZfWsdwKrY

Walking with Grace

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s afeard?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the boats are coming through the night

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

Singing the New Year blues

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


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

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

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

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

Oh. I’d forgotten about them

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

It’s life Jim, but not as we know it.

Not quite what you'd expect

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

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

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

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

The tapping stops again.

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













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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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