I just spent a lovely evening with friends I've known for a long time who never fail to delight. Warmth, hospitality, creative thoughts... Cally's wonderful fish pie... Harley's generous g&t's. I feel comfortably replete, sleepy and purring with well being.
And tomorrow is a day off.
29 Oct 2008
27 Oct 2008
White Poppies for Peace.
It’s that time of year again too. I have been belatedly brave (it was something I meant to do the first year the shop was open) and bought some white poppies to sell here. This is an area with a heavy preponderance of military personnel and their families so I risk being misunderstood. It’s a very emotive subject, but the red poppy seems to be being used as a kind of rallying point for pro-military feeling and an excuse for showing the Armed Forces as a noble and ‘caring’ way of life.
The White Poppy mourns those who have died in conflict but symbolises the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers.
On the White Poppy site www.ppu.org.uk/whitepoppy/index.html they can be bought in small numbers (bags of 5 or 10) as well in slightly larger numbers for distribution.
I also found a letter there sent in by a Minister of a Nonconformist Church in Eastern England. The following is a small extract.
“As a nonconformist Christian minister, I am sickened by the recent proliferation of Remembrance celebrations with their evocation of nostalgia and nationalism, and their almost saintly portrayal of ordinary servicemen and women (while largely ignoring the many innocent civilians who died). It seems self-evident to me that Christians ought to be flying in the face of the prevailing culture by affirming peace, rather than war, in the name of Christ, and I am amazed that so many in the churches never seem to question the annual Remembrance cult. Personally I would love to organise an ‘alternative remembrance service’ which focuses on repentance, prayer and recognition of the terrors of today’s world, and leave off commemorating the past. But I’m not sure if I’ve got the courage for that!”
His move to sell the white poppies was ill-received in some quarters. It’s an interesting letter.
The White Poppy mourns those who have died in conflict but symbolises the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers.
On the White Poppy site www.ppu.org.uk/whitepoppy/index.html they can be bought in small numbers (bags of 5 or 10) as well in slightly larger numbers for distribution.
I also found a letter there sent in by a Minister of a Nonconformist Church in Eastern England. The following is a small extract.
“As a nonconformist Christian minister, I am sickened by the recent proliferation of Remembrance celebrations with their evocation of nostalgia and nationalism, and their almost saintly portrayal of ordinary servicemen and women (while largely ignoring the many innocent civilians who died). It seems self-evident to me that Christians ought to be flying in the face of the prevailing culture by affirming peace, rather than war, in the name of Christ, and I am amazed that so many in the churches never seem to question the annual Remembrance cult. Personally I would love to organise an ‘alternative remembrance service’ which focuses on repentance, prayer and recognition of the terrors of today’s world, and leave off commemorating the past. But I’m not sure if I’ve got the courage for that!”
His move to sell the white poppies was ill-received in some quarters. It’s an interesting letter.
Moving in on the unusual.
Arnold Bennett; Pilgrim's Progress (V. large 18C with steel engravings;) a set of Dorothy Sayers pub. by the Folio Society; The Second Coming of Christ Within You by Yogananada, in two volumes with slipcase... All books that have been here a long time and that I rather expected to get stuck with, plus a pricey Tarot deck, have sold within the last few open days. Wey Hey!
Fidelity.
To try to shed the parting blues (and because it's time) I got together all the ingredients for this year's Christmas puddings. I have been faithful to the same recipé for 42 years. When my paperback of Robert Carrier's 'great Dishes of the World'bought in the first months of marriage (and browsed daily once I found how much I enjoyed the cooking part of my new life) fell to pieces I found a hardback copy to replace it, but I saved this page, covered with the lemon juice, Old Peculiar and brandy blobs of ages past. It also has notes along the edge giving the halves of quantities because in those early days we ate our Christmas dinner alone, too far away to visit family. I sometimes forgot as I weighed and added that I was halving and that's why I wrote the notes. There were more distraction in those days. This year I once again doubled the quantities given to make enough for all the family who will be present at the meal here in Scotland and those who will not.
I've been more faithful to this recipé than to any friendship or relationship and it has never let me down. Almost 20 years ago when the children went vegetarian I replaced the regular suet with butter and later, when it became available, with vegetarian suet. I think butter did just as well but the puddings were more crumbly in texture. Some years Old Peculiar evaded me and another dark old ale had to be used. Once I found Barley Wine which my landlady of the College years shared with me each evening as we sat in front of her TV. I poured it into the mix in memory of a kindly lady and wished her well, wherever she is now.
Oh dear. I'm getting maudlin. Better get on with the day. Parcels to wrap, books to price. Life goes on.
25 Oct 2008
Partings.
Ok now I'm upset. I've known Crawford for nearly 20 years and he's leaving. I don't like it. I didn't think I'd mind. People always come back to this place - it's au revoir not Adieu. We've had our own lives, not met up that often, but Crawford, and then later his wife Susan have been important to me, and I don't like having to part with them. I wish them Bon Voyage, of course I do, and part of me goes with them.
Nothing to do with the stock.
If I needed confirmation that the dismal summer trade was nothing to do with my stock I have it today. The score is as good, if not better, than the best of times last year.
It doesn't shake my resolve though. Oh no!
It doesn't shake my resolve though. Oh no!
Turbulence.
Most of this week has been windy. Really windy. The sort of wind that blows the air straight past your nose without giving it time to be inhaled. The sort that has to be leaned into but then suddenly lets you down. Mainly coming from the West but with the ability to whip round and come at you from the North just as you are least braced for it. My windsurfing son loves strong wind but even he admits this isn’t the best sort. It’s been blowing hard day and night and I think people are looking quite tired. D will have been sleeping on the landing. Her bedroom has two external walls and the house is on a bit of a promontory overlooking fields and woodland giving a lovely view on a fine day but very exposed to this buffeting. She spends quite a lot of time on the landing during the winters! My house is sheltered on three sides; the church to the north and the High Street buildings East and West. It also has extremely thick walls, over 2ft in places. so I haven’t suffered from lack of sleep but there has been some anticipated damaged. The rustic archway that I knew wouldn’t last out the winter has broken away one side and is only held in place by the thickness of the growth around it. Something to be sorted out next week. First find your handyman.
So many people up here live in caravans. I have spent enough months in one to know what that’s like in the windy intervals. The walls pop in and out like those toy tin frogs that croak when the metal is pressed down. However carefully the van is bolted to its moorings there is always the horrible feeling that the bonds might break and the whole thing go a**se over tip. It’s very difficult sleeping soundly in those circumstances.
This is a turbulent time of the year. Chinese medicine takes account of the between-season disturbances to physical and mental health. We are in an ‘Earth Buffer’ period now betwixt Autumn and winter. I half-remember there being a name like ‘donjon’ for this stage but Google as I might I can’t find any verification of that. A long long time ago I did a course in Chinese medicine that was the lead-up to an acupuncture course. Some of it has stayed with me, not as much as should have done because it was given in French and my brain doesn’t find the need to go into those dusty filing cabinets much. The bits that had relevance to my own state of health made most impression and the ‘buffer’ times are generally thought to be difficult times for asthmatics. It does seem that people generally are more tired at these times and I was regularly ill around these times with something or other that led to bronchitis. and once pneumonia. Interesting, but I wish I had learned a bit more about what defensive or ameliorating actions we can take.
A turbulent time for spirits too with All Hallows e’en almost upon us. All Saints Day is a holiday in most countries on the other side of the channel and when I lived there the EU personnel who came from outside Belgium were allowed an extra day on either side of it to make the journey back to their homeland to put flowers on the graves of relatives. The British contingent to the AEU (excepting my ex, a very conscientious soul) sometimes took the days off although it isn’t really an accepted custom in England, Wales or Scotland as far as I know. I’m open to correction here.
The fall-back in time tonight brings the inevitable plunge into winter darkness and ensures that I will be awake tomorrow at some unholy hour wanting my coffee. It takes me months to adjust.
So many people up here live in caravans. I have spent enough months in one to know what that’s like in the windy intervals. The walls pop in and out like those toy tin frogs that croak when the metal is pressed down. However carefully the van is bolted to its moorings there is always the horrible feeling that the bonds might break and the whole thing go a**se over tip. It’s very difficult sleeping soundly in those circumstances.
This is a turbulent time of the year. Chinese medicine takes account of the between-season disturbances to physical and mental health. We are in an ‘Earth Buffer’ period now betwixt Autumn and winter. I half-remember there being a name like ‘donjon’ for this stage but Google as I might I can’t find any verification of that. A long long time ago I did a course in Chinese medicine that was the lead-up to an acupuncture course. Some of it has stayed with me, not as much as should have done because it was given in French and my brain doesn’t find the need to go into those dusty filing cabinets much. The bits that had relevance to my own state of health made most impression and the ‘buffer’ times are generally thought to be difficult times for asthmatics. It does seem that people generally are more tired at these times and I was regularly ill around these times with something or other that led to bronchitis. and once pneumonia. Interesting, but I wish I had learned a bit more about what defensive or ameliorating actions we can take.
A turbulent time for spirits too with All Hallows e’en almost upon us. All Saints Day is a holiday in most countries on the other side of the channel and when I lived there the EU personnel who came from outside Belgium were allowed an extra day on either side of it to make the journey back to their homeland to put flowers on the graves of relatives. The British contingent to the AEU (excepting my ex, a very conscientious soul) sometimes took the days off although it isn’t really an accepted custom in England, Wales or Scotland as far as I know. I’m open to correction here.
The fall-back in time tonight brings the inevitable plunge into winter darkness and ensures that I will be awake tomorrow at some unholy hour wanting my coffee. It takes me months to adjust.
24 Oct 2008
Two days is not enough!
My two days off has passed in a rush of activity although looking back I can't see what has been achieved. There should be no problem with filling in time when the shop closes! Today I spent an unconscionable amount of time booking train tickets to Cornwall. Not much excitement there in these days of world travel, but for me it was BIG. I haven't been on public transport since the end of the last millenium. I drive everywhere. 700 miles in one day is nothing to me. On the other hand I remember that on my way home last time, as I sat with my hands cramped to the wheel somewhere around Carlisle with another five hours to go, thinking: "This is daft! I could be comfortably reading a book, or writing, or watching the scenery." My ex tells me it's not so comfortable as all that. The last time he went anywhere by train he travelled frst class and it still wasn't comfortable. Well, I'm coming back in a 1st class sleeper so there! I don't like sharing with strangers.
The long stand in a draughty station this mornng very nearly put me off. Then I thought of my intrepid friend about to fly off to the States to help her daughter have her baby and decided I could probably put up with it.
I've bought myself a nice carpet bag to celebrate. It will look so shiny and new and delightful I am bound to be mugged for it.
The next plan is to bake cakes and Christmas puds to take with me to save on postage. If I put them in a separate bag I can throw a pudding at the mugger if necessary.
I'm glad I did some travelling when I was younger. We drove twice to Greece through Tito's Yugoslavia. That was a journey to remember. The first time was in an old Citroën that took in water before we got to Dover and caused lorry drivers in Germany to hoot angrily because we were going too slowly. The second time was a little more comfortable in a Renault 12. I never did like that car much but it was a good work horse, toiling through the Swiss Alps, panting along dirt roads through the Pelopónnisos in temperatures of - well, it wasn't exactly Death Valley but it felt dashed hot to me sir.
We once left Brussels at the same time as the entire Greek and Turkish work force headed back to their native lands for the summer holidays. The only hotel we could find along the road after fourteen hours driving was so full we had to wait whilst a family left and a maid went into the room to change the sheets. The 'clean' ones were still damp, verging on wet. I have never slept so well.
We saw a lot of France. It's so easy to go to Paris now my London-living daughter goes often for weekends - it's closer than going to see her brother in Cornwall. There is one serious draw-back to living in Scotland - it's far away from anywhere if like me you prefer to travel by car.
The long stand in a draughty station this mornng very nearly put me off. Then I thought of my intrepid friend about to fly off to the States to help her daughter have her baby and decided I could probably put up with it.
I've bought myself a nice carpet bag to celebrate. It will look so shiny and new and delightful I am bound to be mugged for it.
The next plan is to bake cakes and Christmas puds to take with me to save on postage. If I put them in a separate bag I can throw a pudding at the mugger if necessary.
I'm glad I did some travelling when I was younger. We drove twice to Greece through Tito's Yugoslavia. That was a journey to remember. The first time was in an old Citroën that took in water before we got to Dover and caused lorry drivers in Germany to hoot angrily because we were going too slowly. The second time was a little more comfortable in a Renault 12. I never did like that car much but it was a good work horse, toiling through the Swiss Alps, panting along dirt roads through the Pelopónnisos in temperatures of - well, it wasn't exactly Death Valley but it felt dashed hot to me sir.
We once left Brussels at the same time as the entire Greek and Turkish work force headed back to their native lands for the summer holidays. The only hotel we could find along the road after fourteen hours driving was so full we had to wait whilst a family left and a maid went into the room to change the sheets. The 'clean' ones were still damp, verging on wet. I have never slept so well.
We saw a lot of France. It's so easy to go to Paris now my London-living daughter goes often for weekends - it's closer than going to see her brother in Cornwall. There is one serious draw-back to living in Scotland - it's far away from anywhere if like me you prefer to travel by car.
23 Oct 2008
Back in balance.
I'm sitting here floating at least a foot above the chair. I feel so ridiculously light and breathing is so easy it's almost as if I'm having an out-of-body experience or I've been given an anaesthetic. It isn't until my daughter treats my back that I realise how much low level (and not so low level) pain it gives me most of the time these days. She's worth her weight in gold that girl.
The amazing sense of relief sent me into a philosophical thought-line about how much pain we can all carry around with us scarcely realising it because we get so used to it until something happens that makes it all finally insupportable and we crack.
The amazing sense of relief sent me into a philosophical thought-line about how much pain we can all carry around with us scarcely realising it because we get so used to it until something happens that makes it all finally insupportable and we crack.
22 Oct 2008
Dullness. The eighth deadly sin?
"You're not suggesting dullness is a justification for murder?"
"I can think of less credible motives, dear boy."
An exchange between two of P.D.James's characters in "The Murder Room."
She really is a VERY good writer.
"I can think of less credible motives, dear boy."
An exchange between two of P.D.James's characters in "The Murder Room."
She really is a VERY good writer.
Lightening.
Suddenly expensive books are fnding new owners. Bizarre. Could it be that the universe is supporting my need to travel south and have spare cash to support new grandchildren?
Probably not. Christmas is on it's inexorable way.
The promise of visitors today. M & V are coming to pick up ordered books, to chat and for V to have a treatment with Chloë. Then the gay young Jonathan who has returned to check out this corner of Scotland once more. There was a conversation Saturday evening about the pointlessness of saying goodbye when folk claim they are leaving here for ever. Whether they have had anything to do with the Foundation or not they all return eventually, (unless they move on to another plain of consciousness when I bet they still return here but don't get offered coffee.)
George Macdonald in 'Lillith' talks about the 'liquidity of light' in the night skies in these northern climes. That light stayed with him wherever he was. 'Lillith' is a dark book, notwithstanding such beautifully poetic phrases. It's the heaviest of all his works I think and I'm glad I have 'done' it so I never have to again! At least he speaks for Christian universalism. He believed that everyone will be saved.
Oh heck, back to religion. I do, honestly, try to stay away. I blame my quasi-religious upbringing for darkening my mind and leaving me with this struggle to find lightness.
Probably not. Christmas is on it's inexorable way.
The promise of visitors today. M & V are coming to pick up ordered books, to chat and for V to have a treatment with Chloë. Then the gay young Jonathan who has returned to check out this corner of Scotland once more. There was a conversation Saturday evening about the pointlessness of saying goodbye when folk claim they are leaving here for ever. Whether they have had anything to do with the Foundation or not they all return eventually, (unless they move on to another plain of consciousness when I bet they still return here but don't get offered coffee.)
George Macdonald in 'Lillith' talks about the 'liquidity of light' in the night skies in these northern climes. That light stayed with him wherever he was. 'Lillith' is a dark book, notwithstanding such beautifully poetic phrases. It's the heaviest of all his works I think and I'm glad I have 'done' it so I never have to again! At least he speaks for Christian universalism. He believed that everyone will be saved.
Oh heck, back to religion. I do, honestly, try to stay away. I blame my quasi-religious upbringing for darkening my mind and leaving me with this struggle to find lightness.
21 Oct 2008
Divisive allegiance
The young woman killed by Taleban yesterday for being Christian.
"Her Christian faith motivated her" says the resident priest on the Amazon seller's board.
If people need motivating by anything other than their own goodness of heart then it’s a very sorry state of affairs because external motivation - which is what an impulse generated by religion necessarily IS - must in my view be seen as a lesser motivation. There is immediately another perceptable agenda - looking good for the Club Christian.
Probably this young woman would have been just as motivated if there had been no ‘christian’ church to suck her into its organisation, but the fact is that by allowing herself to be sucked in instead of presenting a caring non-judgemental all-embracing face to the indigenous peoples (the Red Cross do that) she was flying the flag of an enemy.
"Her Christian faith motivated her" says the resident priest on the Amazon seller's board.
If people need motivating by anything other than their own goodness of heart then it’s a very sorry state of affairs because external motivation - which is what an impulse generated by religion necessarily IS - must in my view be seen as a lesser motivation. There is immediately another perceptable agenda - looking good for the Club Christian.
Probably this young woman would have been just as motivated if there had been no ‘christian’ church to suck her into its organisation, but the fact is that by allowing herself to be sucked in instead of presenting a caring non-judgemental all-embracing face to the indigenous peoples (the Red Cross do that) she was flying the flag of an enemy.
20 Oct 2008
Nothing to read.
'You'll never go short of something to read' is a frequent customer comment.
Wrong.
Right now I am in turmoil. I MUST have a book to read. There is NOTHING on the shelves I want to read. Nothing I want to RE-read.
I sit here and stare at titles, unable to go to bed.
Wrong.
Right now I am in turmoil. I MUST have a book to read. There is NOTHING on the shelves I want to read. Nothing I want to RE-read.
I sit here and stare at titles, unable to go to bed.
Unusual excursion.
I'm not much of a one for going out at the end of the working day but a friend persuaded me to go to with him to Phil Kay's gig on Saturday. It was more of a chuckle than a belly laugh but at least Phil is one of the few stand-up's who's neither repetitvely crude nor abusive. He's a thoroughly nice guy who has been a customer of mine on occasions (a sure passport to OK-ness.) I recognised him the first time he came in because I really liked some adverts he did years ago for Whyte & MacKay's Whisky.
As a gentle evening out it was a success. The one almost-excitement was a hair-raisingly fast ride to the venue because my companion wanted time for a joint before we went in. It's a long time since I have taken a drag or two and sadly it had absolutely no discernable effect whatsoever.
Disappointing.
As a gentle evening out it was a success. The one almost-excitement was a hair-raisingly fast ride to the venue because my companion wanted time for a joint before we went in. It's a long time since I have taken a drag or two and sadly it had absolutely no discernable effect whatsoever.
Disappointing.
18 Oct 2008
Streuth!
The shop door bell's been going so often today I'm getting ringing in my ears... and the money has been flowing in... I shall end up with more in four days sitting here like an anxious hen than I'd been getting in six days sitting like the same poor daft bird.
There's nice.
There's nice.
On being alone.
No, this isn't going to be a quasi-philosophical rumination on 'alone-ness.' That's something I dealt with a long time ago. This is about Sandy. Just as I think of crusading against religion Sandy tells us that wherever he is at the moment he feels alone. The other people in his dorm are 'cardboard' and he even feels alone in his own bed at home. Oh goodness me. He's an intense high-stress little soul, much like both his parents, and an only child, athough I'm not sure that having sibling keeps this wolf away for ever.
His mother, aunt and uncle had comforting guardian angels to see them through this existential crisis, beings intrinsic to everything the Steiner School stands for and happily supported by me. I find no problem in accepting the presence of supra-consciousnesses and an after-life, it's just religion I kick against and 'god' as a single consciousness in control of everything, making us mind our p's and q's. This is the happy age of pick'n'mix and if we aren't infected by the fundamentalists we build the 'reality' that fits our own experience eventually. Unfortunately Sandy hasn't been exposed to a belief in these kindly forces and everyone knows that once you get to ten what granny says isn't going to have much validity. We're pondering ways to bring this to him comfortably, or at least to give him something to remind him that even when he is alone we, his family, are thinking of him.
His mother, aunt and uncle had comforting guardian angels to see them through this existential crisis, beings intrinsic to everything the Steiner School stands for and happily supported by me. I find no problem in accepting the presence of supra-consciousnesses and an after-life, it's just religion I kick against and 'god' as a single consciousness in control of everything, making us mind our p's and q's. This is the happy age of pick'n'mix and if we aren't infected by the fundamentalists we build the 'reality' that fits our own experience eventually. Unfortunately Sandy hasn't been exposed to a belief in these kindly forces and everyone knows that once you get to ten what granny says isn't going to have much validity. We're pondering ways to bring this to him comfortably, or at least to give him something to remind him that even when he is alone we, his family, are thinking of him.
15 Oct 2008
New blog?
I think I might have to start a subsidiary blog to accomodate my anti-religious views. Today a copy of Sam Harris' book 'Letter to a Christian Nation' arrived and I galloped through it. So much less effort than Dawkins and more to the point. I did some googling in the heat of the read and found an intelligent and very readable blog by someone who evidently feels it's worth raising the standard: http://agodlessheathen.blogspot.com/
Religion isn't something that can be ignored as harmless any more. I don't suppose the Irish (or the Glaswegian football teams) have seen it that way for generations but in middle England and up here in Scotland, it's all (mostly) quite genteel and just a part of the traditional way of life along with the Women's Institute and home made jam. Recently this cosy image has started to slip and a dangerous underbelly is showing which could prove a real menace to society. I admit to feeling scared. Not just of the obvious extremism but simply of the threat to free thought. I hope I am exaggerating under the influence of fever.
edited to add: I don't think I quite have the energy for a whole new crusading blog so will warmly support the godless heathen who drives an excellent blog.
Religion isn't something that can be ignored as harmless any more. I don't suppose the Irish (or the Glaswegian football teams) have seen it that way for generations but in middle England and up here in Scotland, it's all (mostly) quite genteel and just a part of the traditional way of life along with the Women's Institute and home made jam. Recently this cosy image has started to slip and a dangerous underbelly is showing which could prove a real menace to society. I admit to feeling scared. Not just of the obvious extremism but simply of the threat to free thought. I hope I am exaggerating under the influence of fever.
edited to add: I don't think I quite have the energy for a whole new crusading blog so will warmly support the godless heathen who drives an excellent blog.
14 Oct 2008
Letter writing: phase 2
I managed a letter finally, including mottos from last year's Christmas crackers which came to hand plus a few illicit drawing pins to keep his poster up above his bed. They are supposed to use Blutack but as the board is rough corkboard it won't stick. Daft! It was VERY hard to think of suitable chit chat. I shall have to start a subsidiary blog of child-friendly blether so I've got something to dip into. Easier to write to a girl maybe? I can't join him on the finer points of tackling, or when it's best to pass. I can commiserate with injuries of course. His friend has a big purple bruise on his forehead and a torn ear. Ye gods!
It simply wouldn't interest Sandy to hear about the chap who just came in to offer me anything I care to glean from his mother's books - for free! It doesn't sound too bad a collection either. A month or so back I bought a nice leatherbound set of Dickens from him which sold at the Aberdeen fair. He offered to sort through them first - please don't! What the civilian would pick out as being useful (modern novels, 'vintage' classics, etc. etc. will almost inevitably leave out the really interesting je ne sais quoi.
I have come to loathe that word 'vintage.' On ebay it is used for everything older than 10 years as far as I can tell, and no-one has the nous to use synonyms to break the monotony.
Sandy wouldn't be interested in that either. What makes a good letter? One that brings news from home at a guess. He told his mother that he worries about us during the week and insisted that he get news straight away 'if anything happens to Mr McSeed, Rabbit, Star, Kes, you Mum, Granny or Grandad.'
So that puts Nick and I in 6/7th position after a hamster. We have decided that if the worst happens to Mr McSeed (he is getting on a bit) he will have to go into the deep freeze till the weekend then be defrosted Friday. Chloë just doesn't fancy arriving at the school to take Sandy away because his hamster has crossed beyond the veil.
She may have to do the same with us.
It simply wouldn't interest Sandy to hear about the chap who just came in to offer me anything I care to glean from his mother's books - for free! It doesn't sound too bad a collection either. A month or so back I bought a nice leatherbound set of Dickens from him which sold at the Aberdeen fair. He offered to sort through them first - please don't! What the civilian would pick out as being useful (modern novels, 'vintage' classics, etc. etc. will almost inevitably leave out the really interesting je ne sais quoi.
I have come to loathe that word 'vintage.' On ebay it is used for everything older than 10 years as far as I can tell, and no-one has the nous to use synonyms to break the monotony.
Sandy wouldn't be interested in that either. What makes a good letter? One that brings news from home at a guess. He told his mother that he worries about us during the week and insisted that he get news straight away 'if anything happens to Mr McSeed, Rabbit, Star, Kes, you Mum, Granny or Grandad.'
So that puts Nick and I in 6/7th position after a hamster. We have decided that if the worst happens to Mr McSeed (he is getting on a bit) he will have to go into the deep freeze till the weekend then be defrosted Friday. Chloë just doesn't fancy arriving at the school to take Sandy away because his hamster has crossed beyond the veil.
She may have to do the same with us.
The perfect shape.
It's a long time since I wrote in praise of the beverage that makes the waking up moment glorious, keeps me alert through the day and creates the centre-piece for many a good discussion. To fully enjoy this alchemical elixir the ritual is important and the vessel from which it is to be enjoyed is vital to the fulfillment of the moment. This morning I wavered downstairs to begin the revivification process only to find there was no mug. At the very heart of the ceremony is its special shape, discovered after years of seeking; the perfect form. There they lay in the dish washer, all unwashed. Not so serious some might think, but it is essential to observe all form and intent to arrive at the necessary magic needed to co-ordinate my limbs and focus my brain after a heavy night. Part of that form is the opening of the cupboard door onto a phalanx of pure green china. To have to remove one from the sullied ranks is - just not the same. It won't do. There are other mugs, of course there are. The nice orange Penguin mugs with novel titles on them. I could have started the day with 'Brave New World.' Quite suitable. There is the recent addition created to promote the PBFA with mice on it (?) and the words 'The Book Fair Mug' (which I feel is rather a double entendre but there we are.)
They have one major fault in common. Straight sides. Look at the photograph. Observe the curvaceous shape. This is more than mere decoration. It is ergonometric, pleasing to fold ones fingers around on a chilly day, sensual, easy to clutch on a shaky morning or during one of life's troubling moments. It also keeps the coffee at exactly the right temperature. Note the wider mouth from which one can take the first sips; then the restriction in diameter which ensures that the lower bulb of liquid stays hot for later quaffing. Robust and serviceable without being crassly earthern (I have been given coffee in hand-thrown pots with a surface like rough sandpaper, so heavy I could hardly lift it to my lips and so thick the mouth had to open uncomfortably wide with a diameter so large that all heat is lost immediately.. a travesty of an experience.)
Some daily routines are pure ritual and my first coffee of the day is of huge importance. The movements could, and possibly should, be written in a Grimoire. Kettle half-filled with fresh water (OK OK tap sn't exactly fresh but let's not get silly here) and put to boil. Cafetière prepared, fresh grounds added. Cupboard door opened and one gleaming green shape selected to be placed ready on the tray. Boiling water onto grounds, a short moment for settling and infusing (not too long or it loses heat) then the rich dark brew poured into the mug until 2 cm of whiteness remains around the dark inner circle. Back upstairs in bed, settle pillows, open book, reach for mug, hold under nose for the full aroma, inhale deeply, cradle briefly. Sip.
Tea is best taken from fine bone china. Cocoa - well this versatile vessel is wonderful for cocoa too, the dark cocoa (must be strong) contrasting with the gleaming white of the inner glaze.
Not to get too Proustian about it, my most memorable coffee ever was in 1967 taken from a huge French breakfast bowl at 4.30am in Dieppe after a terrible crossing endured without Qwells (because I had no idea I might suffer that way!) It had left me empty and virgin for my first real French coffee with croissant and someone to teach me the pleasure of dunking.
13 Oct 2008
Letter writing.
Once a week, and early on in the week, I need to write a letter to Sandy who likes to get something from home. It is FAR more demanding than finding something to blether about in this space. I haven't written a letter for years and certainly not to a child. My daughter-in-law sent me one recently and I have/had every intention of replying but - what is it they say about good intentions paving the way to hell?
It's a shame really. I rather wish I had copies of the letters chilsider and I used to exchange once upon a time until they petered out ... not sure when that happened but it was probably my fault. I'm bad at keeping in touch.
They mght depress me of course. I was re-watching Heimat 2 yesterday whilst trying to calm myself and draw in some breath (it's been a bit of a struggle recently, hopefully just the 'flu vaccine) This is the first time I've seen it on my nice flat screen and maybe it's because I can actually see it properly that the chaotic revolutionary 60's started to worry me, almost as though it was me going through that meltdown of boundaries, that blasting of taboos and social morés again. Maybe I never went through it at all and that's the problem. The revolutionary ethos (I stand in danger of overusing that word..) the prevailing spirit of the era causes disintegration in Hermann, the main character, and is responsible for a few deaths and near deaths amongst the characters who couldn't ride it out. Art was the best way to express what was happening so the students who became artists (and didn't do too many drugs) seemed to survive best - NOT however the ones who were in film-making where the expectation of debate, consultation and equal responsibility, those cumbersome communistic ideals, made working as a team virtually impossible.
One over-emotional character, Helga, achieves fame on posters along with other members of the Baader Meinhof group, the communist 'urban guerillas' wanted for murder. Which incidentally reminded me that extremism is a part of human nature now finding its outlets through religion...
....and there I go ... I have burbled here happily for a paragraph or two whilst thinking of NOTHING to say to a 10 year old... .
It's a shame really. I rather wish I had copies of the letters chilsider and I used to exchange once upon a time until they petered out ... not sure when that happened but it was probably my fault. I'm bad at keeping in touch.
They mght depress me of course. I was re-watching Heimat 2 yesterday whilst trying to calm myself and draw in some breath (it's been a bit of a struggle recently, hopefully just the 'flu vaccine) This is the first time I've seen it on my nice flat screen and maybe it's because I can actually see it properly that the chaotic revolutionary 60's started to worry me, almost as though it was me going through that meltdown of boundaries, that blasting of taboos and social morés again. Maybe I never went through it at all and that's the problem. The revolutionary ethos (I stand in danger of overusing that word..) the prevailing spirit of the era causes disintegration in Hermann, the main character, and is responsible for a few deaths and near deaths amongst the characters who couldn't ride it out. Art was the best way to express what was happening so the students who became artists (and didn't do too many drugs) seemed to survive best - NOT however the ones who were in film-making where the expectation of debate, consultation and equal responsibility, those cumbersome communistic ideals, made working as a team virtually impossible.
One over-emotional character, Helga, achieves fame on posters along with other members of the Baader Meinhof group, the communist 'urban guerillas' wanted for murder. Which incidentally reminded me that extremism is a part of human nature now finding its outlets through religion...
....and there I go ... I have burbled here happily for a paragraph or two whilst thinking of NOTHING to say to a 10 year old... .
11 Oct 2008
Concert
Great concert at the school yesterday. I rarely get cultural treats. This new school is bringing ME pleasure and enrichment never mind what it is giving Sandy.
It was the sort of length my mind and body can easily endure too, so although the pews are brand new and therefore extremely flat with no comfortably worn indentations from the butts-of-ages I hardly noticed once the music started. The upper school choir did a spirited Kyrie Eleison and In Excelcis Deo then moved on to a more secular piece from a musical I've never heard of which gave the opportunity for a tiny girl with a tremendously powerful Janis Joplin growl to belt out some stuff about love. After that the orchestra got going on 'The Lord of the Dance' The violins nearly went into orbit, the brass section blew its own head off and the tympani - well, Sandy now wants a set of drums. I was practically out of my seat dancing in the aisle and the heads of the younger ones in front of me were bobbing up and down so far that (like Gillian's amazing photo) I'm sure there was a metre or two of air between their bottoms and the pew.
It was the sort of length my mind and body can easily endure too, so although the pews are brand new and therefore extremely flat with no comfortably worn indentations from the butts-of-ages I hardly noticed once the music started. The upper school choir did a spirited Kyrie Eleison and In Excelcis Deo then moved on to a more secular piece from a musical I've never heard of which gave the opportunity for a tiny girl with a tremendously powerful Janis Joplin growl to belt out some stuff about love. After that the orchestra got going on 'The Lord of the Dance' The violins nearly went into orbit, the brass section blew its own head off and the tympani - well, Sandy now wants a set of drums. I was practically out of my seat dancing in the aisle and the heads of the younger ones in front of me were bobbing up and down so far that (like Gillian's amazing photo) I'm sure there was a metre or two of air between their bottoms and the pew.
Helpful customers.
So many helpful people with ideas for the bookshop. Most recent was the young chap who cycles in from an outlying village with a bag of books, some bought here and some from charity shops which he wants to swop for something different from my shelves. He cheerfully promises to actually spend some real money too. Normally I get frosty about this sort of bartering (there's a perfectly good library in town if all he wants is a free read) but for once I waived the grump and agreed because they were all possible internet fodder. He asked how much he was allowed then carefully spent 50p more than that sum. He handed me the coin with pride. The worm of cynicism wriggled irritably in my solar plexus. Along with the 50p he offered me suggestions for boosting sales, one being a once-a-week 'Beautiful Book Day' a promotion to be linked in with other bookshops in other towns. He would sit here for that day. Or, more simply (and a damn sight less costly... imagine promoting this BB day in the local papers... it would take a couple of years to pay for the adverts!) I could just open one day a week on which he would be sure to visit.
Sit here for eight hours for 50p. Hmmm. Let me think....
He meant well. That's the trouble. They all do. I feel mean for being so ungrateful really. The fact is that any idea, however crazy, has a good chance of success if driven by enthusiasm, energy and willpower. None of which I can rustle up because - I am looking forward so much to my next personal project: - the Age of Irresponsibility.
Sit here for eight hours for 50p. Hmmm. Let me think....
He meant well. That's the trouble. They all do. I feel mean for being so ungrateful really. The fact is that any idea, however crazy, has a good chance of success if driven by enthusiasm, energy and willpower. None of which I can rustle up because - I am looking forward so much to my next personal project: - the Age of Irresponsibility.
Apple tree
This tiny tree is amazing. It has already yielded double the number to be seen on its branches. They are the first apples I've enjoyed for years - probably because they grew in my garden!
9 Oct 2008
Remember her?
Here's one for Chillsider, the sculptress responsible for the head which has travelled through many years and lived with me in many, many houses.
Now you see it....
....now you don't. Not the church. It remains, no longer warmed by the pink of early morning sky which was the effect I was trying to catch with the photo. What has changed in the hour or two since I took it is the row of flowers. They have gone! UNBELIEVABLE! The council truck came, they were dug up and slung in the back. WHY???? This is the first year I have really liked the display opposite. They filled out nicely and have looked pretty.
I would prefer to think that they have been saved from the oncoming frosts and will reappear somewhere next year. Is that too much to hope for?
Red sky in the morning...
.....shepherd's warning. There's always someone who has a new-to-me slant on these old saws. To me a beautiful sky like this at 6.30am means rain later. Rain = bad in my book therefore a warning to the shepherds of bad weather to come. Not so, says the other school of thought. Red sky means no rain - and harder birthing. For some reason that isn't reasonable to me (but then I know less than nothing about animal husbandry) rain makes birthing lambs easier for the mothers. Is it a lubricant??
Whatever. It was a beautiful sky.
P.S. Five hours later. It is pouring with rain!!
You know it's autumn when...
...you find yourself in the queue for a dose of the latest 'flu virus. Surrounded by soft Scottish voices and fields of grey curls I shuffled my way forward to get a little prick (well we've all had one of those!) Then instant coffee and a shortbread biscuit whilst the moment passed for any nasty reaction like anaphylactic shock. I missed the ritual last year, didn't get 'flu, but it's always better to go for the insurance even if it's more in the mind than a reality. Today I feel a bit sick and have a painful arm. Happily it's my day off and I can use it as an excuse for doing absolutely nothing. Once upon a time they fervently denied that it would give us 'flu; the story has changed somewhat; we may experience aching limbs and a rise in temperature for a few days. In short - 'flu.
(A raise or a rise in temperature? I'm unclear about transitive and intransitive verbs to this day!)
The queue was very cheery and matey. Everybody except me seemed to know everybody else but as they were talking all around, greeting each other from their various positions ahead or behind me, I was necessarily included in the wails about weather, roadworks, new traffic lights and the closeness of Christmas. Never once was the collapsing economy mentioned. Probably nobody ever talked about the war much when it was happening either. The daily round is what counts. It's soothingly normal.
Thinking about viral matters reminds me that on my way to Aberdeen last week I listened to Radio 4 and a young woman waxing enthusiastic about bacteria. She is really absorbed by her work, loves the 'old friends' she might find under the microsope and is excited by the prospect of new friends who could show up at any time. It's unfortunate that some of her friends, even the pretty ones, are quite virulent and kill their hosts. Not their fault really; they fight for survival like the rest of us.
Hmm! I suppose that could be said of Mr Toad too who continues on his pathogenic way. I have to find another name for him. The harmless toad-creature just doesn't deserve to carry the burden any longer.
(A raise or a rise in temperature? I'm unclear about transitive and intransitive verbs to this day!)
The queue was very cheery and matey. Everybody except me seemed to know everybody else but as they were talking all around, greeting each other from their various positions ahead or behind me, I was necessarily included in the wails about weather, roadworks, new traffic lights and the closeness of Christmas. Never once was the collapsing economy mentioned. Probably nobody ever talked about the war much when it was happening either. The daily round is what counts. It's soothingly normal.
Thinking about viral matters reminds me that on my way to Aberdeen last week I listened to Radio 4 and a young woman waxing enthusiastic about bacteria. She is really absorbed by her work, loves the 'old friends' she might find under the microsope and is excited by the prospect of new friends who could show up at any time. It's unfortunate that some of her friends, even the pretty ones, are quite virulent and kill their hosts. Not their fault really; they fight for survival like the rest of us.
Hmm! I suppose that could be said of Mr Toad too who continues on his pathogenic way. I have to find another name for him. The harmless toad-creature just doesn't deserve to carry the burden any longer.
8 Oct 2008
'The composition is much better...
..in the old books' remarked a customer buying one of the local authors, Maurice Walsh. The customer is my age - maybe a bit older, although that impression could come from her style of dress and hair-do which are both very old fashioned, like her taste in books.
I don't agree with her (I tried reading Walsh once and he bored me to tears) but I do understand her. Why do I like some fictional books better than others? Because I like the world they create for me to live in. The style of the old stories (I haven't heard the word 'composition' used this way since I was at school myself) carries with it the ethos of the age it was written in. Walsh also sets many of his tales in ths part of the world and if they aren't set here the places he travels to are made to sound so similar as to be quite safe. It's reassuring. His stories are slight, the atmosphere - well in truth I can't remember it as anything but dull. On the other hand I am happy enough occasionally to read the books of Alexander McCall Smith. So the setting doesn't entirely explain why I fail to bond with Walsh, Buchan or Gunn. The writers that make the Scots feel cosy.
This interests me. Is it the style or is it the place? I've never read Lillian Beckwith - I just assumed she was a Scottish 'Miss Read' and dismissed her. Last week a lady bought one saying how much she likes them but that she supposed I wouldn't understand them because they are Scottish. The irony of this is that Beckwith was English and is thought by some Scots to be - well let me use the words of a Scottish Amazon seller: ' a ghastly, condescending Englishwoman.'
It's all in the eye of the beholder then.
I don't agree with her (I tried reading Walsh once and he bored me to tears) but I do understand her. Why do I like some fictional books better than others? Because I like the world they create for me to live in. The style of the old stories (I haven't heard the word 'composition' used this way since I was at school myself) carries with it the ethos of the age it was written in. Walsh also sets many of his tales in ths part of the world and if they aren't set here the places he travels to are made to sound so similar as to be quite safe. It's reassuring. His stories are slight, the atmosphere - well in truth I can't remember it as anything but dull. On the other hand I am happy enough occasionally to read the books of Alexander McCall Smith. So the setting doesn't entirely explain why I fail to bond with Walsh, Buchan or Gunn. The writers that make the Scots feel cosy.
This interests me. Is it the style or is it the place? I've never read Lillian Beckwith - I just assumed she was a Scottish 'Miss Read' and dismissed her. Last week a lady bought one saying how much she likes them but that she supposed I wouldn't understand them because they are Scottish. The irony of this is that Beckwith was English and is thought by some Scots to be - well let me use the words of a Scottish Amazon seller: ' a ghastly, condescending Englishwoman.'
It's all in the eye of the beholder then.
7 Oct 2008
When all's said and done...
Where do these phrases come from? Why does every language have some form of throat clearing to begin statements. In French it's 'Enfin!" or "Ecoute!" The young begin with 'Basically.." until I could smack them. Or the even worse "Like..."
This rambling preambling is a prelude to a proclamation: I am not a true bookseller. The phrase "When all's said and done' has been popping into my head recently, followed invariably by the thought that when all is said and done I am not a born antiquarian bookseller. Daft. Who IS born a bookseller? What do I mean by 'bookseller' in this context? Define bookseller. A seller of books. I am certainly that at the moment (occasionally anyway!) What I am NOT is an enthusiastic pursuer or seeker out of secondhand and antiquarian books to sell to others. I love books. I want to buy them for myself. I don't much care if other people find the books THEY want, although it has been a good enough way to make a living for a while. I don't even care if the books I buy for myself are first editions as long as they are in nice bindings, on good paper with a good clear type face. I like Penguins too so I'm not going to obsess about hardbacks. Don't get me wrong, I'm not insensible to the history of a book. When I come across a first edition of Virginia Woolf's work published by the Hogarth Press, the cover designed by her sister Vanessa Bell, I feel I have in my hand a direct link to significant events and figures in the life of that exceptional, gifted, troubled lady. On the other hand I don't give a tinker's cuss about the different editions of Scott or Burns.
A pre-17th century book could give me a thrill as long as it wasn't a religious tract (so many of them are.) A grimoire or a book of animal husbandry or a medical textbook or a novel (unusual, I haven't yet handled a copy of Gilgamesh, an original Chaucer or the Satyricon!) would certainly get the juices going, but how often do I come across them? Topographical accounts, lore, legend or historical accounts - well, OK.
I am not spurred on by the thrill of the chase any more - the possibility of something rare turning up in the next box. It IS a bit like panning for gold and just as hard to stop when the next sieve might hold the nugget.
It would be lovely to own a case full of beautiful bindings, on the other hand I think I'd rather have a Lalique lampshade casting beautiful colours across the pages of the pleasant, servicable book I'm reading entirely for its content.
This rambling preambling is a prelude to a proclamation: I am not a true bookseller. The phrase "When all's said and done' has been popping into my head recently, followed invariably by the thought that when all is said and done I am not a born antiquarian bookseller. Daft. Who IS born a bookseller? What do I mean by 'bookseller' in this context? Define bookseller. A seller of books. I am certainly that at the moment (occasionally anyway!) What I am NOT is an enthusiastic pursuer or seeker out of secondhand and antiquarian books to sell to others. I love books. I want to buy them for myself. I don't much care if other people find the books THEY want, although it has been a good enough way to make a living for a while. I don't even care if the books I buy for myself are first editions as long as they are in nice bindings, on good paper with a good clear type face. I like Penguins too so I'm not going to obsess about hardbacks. Don't get me wrong, I'm not insensible to the history of a book. When I come across a first edition of Virginia Woolf's work published by the Hogarth Press, the cover designed by her sister Vanessa Bell, I feel I have in my hand a direct link to significant events and figures in the life of that exceptional, gifted, troubled lady. On the other hand I don't give a tinker's cuss about the different editions of Scott or Burns.
A pre-17th century book could give me a thrill as long as it wasn't a religious tract (so many of them are.) A grimoire or a book of animal husbandry or a medical textbook or a novel (unusual, I haven't yet handled a copy of Gilgamesh, an original Chaucer or the Satyricon!) would certainly get the juices going, but how often do I come across them? Topographical accounts, lore, legend or historical accounts - well, OK.
I am not spurred on by the thrill of the chase any more - the possibility of something rare turning up in the next box. It IS a bit like panning for gold and just as hard to stop when the next sieve might hold the nugget.
It would be lovely to own a case full of beautiful bindings, on the other hand I think I'd rather have a Lalique lampshade casting beautiful colours across the pages of the pleasant, servicable book I'm reading entirely for its content.
Frabjous day!
The last customer into the shop was loking for novels with angels and demons in them (but not written by Dan Brown.) A bit more questionning brought out the horrid truth: She normally shops in Christian bookshops and has read the whole of the 'Left Behind' series. She liked them. I was treated to an account of how it will be when the faithful are taken. A rather kindly woman at heart she emphasised the danger so I would get the message and be saved in time. I had to walk away.
OK Now I'm back in my defensive stance against religion. Sorry Merrily.
OK Now I'm back in my defensive stance against religion. Sorry Merrily.
"Liver us not into cirrhosis...
... but delirium us from tremens."
I stood behind a jolly drunk in the queue for the Post Office this morning. It was 10.30am. Another chap was buying his first tinny of the day at the shop counter. They reminded me of the above quotation - I've no idea where it originated but I first heard it in Heimat 2.
The other, less lighthearted, quotation that came to mind was from Thoreau:
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
I stood behind a jolly drunk in the queue for the Post Office this morning. It was 10.30am. Another chap was buying his first tinny of the day at the shop counter. They reminded me of the above quotation - I've no idea where it originated but I first heard it in Heimat 2.
The other, less lighthearted, quotation that came to mind was from Thoreau:
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
Choices...
... there are always choices. They usually occur to me in the small hours like today when my monkey mind woke me at 4.30. With all the other thoughts came sliding the trip across the hills to visit Bryn and Jane last week. A beautiful day, a wonderful drive and I saw 6 other cars in 1 1/2 hours. Once again I forgot to take my camera which was a shame because a few pics would have brightened this blog. I gave Jane her bookcases, bought a nice little Italian style occasional table for a very reasonable price, gossiped, then we had lunch in the deceptively named Tearoom, now quite a sophisticated licenced restaurant in Dinnet less than 100 yards from the 'Auld Alliance.' We had not-very-sophisticated toasties, with a glass of wine for me.
But to get to the choices. Dave suggested that what I really needed was not to close this shop but a change of commodity, and that he would stock it with goodies, bric-a-brac, objet d'art, etchings, engravings, for me to sell next year instead of books. At the time, full of wine, toastie and bonhommie, it sounded rather exciting. Until I remembered why I am closing the shop - because I don't want to be tied to it any more rather than because I am fed up with selling books. On the other hand.... and here comes the next choice.. I could offer to share the shelves with Jane, even Bryn should he take to the idea. The slow trade might be because my stock has dropped in interest....
Memo to self: The reason for stopping is to free myself from this chair...
.... still... it would use the space and add interest on the High Street.... oh the choices to choose....
But to get to the choices. Dave suggested that what I really needed was not to close this shop but a change of commodity, and that he would stock it with goodies, bric-a-brac, objet d'art, etchings, engravings, for me to sell next year instead of books. At the time, full of wine, toastie and bonhommie, it sounded rather exciting. Until I remembered why I am closing the shop - because I don't want to be tied to it any more rather than because I am fed up with selling books. On the other hand.... and here comes the next choice.. I could offer to share the shelves with Jane, even Bryn should he take to the idea. The slow trade might be because my stock has dropped in interest....
Memo to self: The reason for stopping is to free myself from this chair...
.... still... it would use the space and add interest on the High Street.... oh the choices to choose....
6 Oct 2008
Nick Drake, leys and Ledwardine.
What with one thing and another I am getting some religion shovelled into me recently. I've read Phil Rickman's new book 'To Dream of the Dead' twice now and can say it has lived up to my hopes and expectations. All his books have a different - slant is the only word I can think of just for the minute. The central characters have remained the same, advancing and retreating through the episodes, dancing from front to back stage, rounding, filling out, acquiring solidity as they go. I've felt myself settling into the area ever since 'Wine of Angels' when Merrily, female vicar, arrived with her teenage daughter Jane to take up her ministry in the small Herefordshire town of Ledwardine. Jane was at that point embarassed by her mother's choice of career and angered by the intrusion of God into their lives when she needed her mother to herself. In defiance, and largely as a result of meeting with a woman steeped in earth mysteries, she heads toward paganism and Wicca. After a few salutory experiences she stops short of becoming a practicing Wiccan but she never loses her pagan sensitivities toward the land. The tensions between Christian Merrily and her daughter express quite eloquently, in my opinion, the relationship between the old and new religions in the 'real' world. Merrily comes to understand Jane better as she takes on another role as Deliverance Minister (the new name the Anglican church gives exorcists.) She feels the energies Jane speaks of, sometimes called by other names. In the meantime Jane finds a justification and outlet for her feeling of connection wih the earth through the discovery of ley lines and the work of Alfred Watkins.
Watkins was a real character, an amateur self-taught archaeologist who in June 1921 visited Blackwardine in Herefordshire where he had the idea that there was a system of straight lines crossing the landscape dating from Neolithic times. His findings and conclusions were not generally accepted by the archaeologists of his day but their reasons - that neolithic man was not sophisticated enough to have devised such a complex system - look more and more ill-founded as these sites continue to come to light so thinking on their purpose is beginning to change.
Watkins summarised his findings in 'Early British Trackways' in 1922 then in 'The Old Straight Track' 1925. When writing he omitted most of what he himself must surely have believed about the spiritual importance of the tracks for the people who created them. Arguably he did that in order to make his findings acceptable in the prevailing ethos of his times. I tried reading the second book. Reducing his findings to a strictly pragmatic account, avoiding any spiritual connotations, he has produced a dry and disappointingly boring text.
The folk-lore and legend of the Black Mountains and this beautiful Welsh/English border land, beloved by Elgar, form a back-drop for several (most?) of Rickman's stories. I've visited that part of the world twice now and it holds great magnetisim for me. If things were different I would go to live there. I think my father's family may have come from Herefordshire though I have absolutely no proof of that.
It was also through Phil Rickman that I first heard of Nick Drake, the sad, introverted young song writer/ poet who died of an overdose of anti-depressants without ever realising how meaningful and how acclaimed the few haunting recordings he made would become. One of the most interesting and likeable central characters is Lol, a damaged and troubled sensitive, who was once also a singer/songwriter and greatly influenced by Nick Drake. His career looked ready for take-off when he was framed for something he didn't do, disowned by his puritanical parents and generally reviled so that h descended into a breakdown which lead to him being sectioned. In the 'Wine of Angels' he meets Merrily and eventually they become lovers. Lol regains his strength and sense of self-worth supported by her friendship, whilst in turn supporting her (and Jane) through many chapters of angst.
It may be apparent by now that I am fully absorbed into this - Rickmanverse.
Watkins was a real character, an amateur self-taught archaeologist who in June 1921 visited Blackwardine in Herefordshire where he had the idea that there was a system of straight lines crossing the landscape dating from Neolithic times. His findings and conclusions were not generally accepted by the archaeologists of his day but their reasons - that neolithic man was not sophisticated enough to have devised such a complex system - look more and more ill-founded as these sites continue to come to light so thinking on their purpose is beginning to change.
Watkins summarised his findings in 'Early British Trackways' in 1922 then in 'The Old Straight Track' 1925. When writing he omitted most of what he himself must surely have believed about the spiritual importance of the tracks for the people who created them. Arguably he did that in order to make his findings acceptable in the prevailing ethos of his times. I tried reading the second book. Reducing his findings to a strictly pragmatic account, avoiding any spiritual connotations, he has produced a dry and disappointingly boring text.
The folk-lore and legend of the Black Mountains and this beautiful Welsh/English border land, beloved by Elgar, form a back-drop for several (most?) of Rickman's stories. I've visited that part of the world twice now and it holds great magnetisim for me. If things were different I would go to live there. I think my father's family may have come from Herefordshire though I have absolutely no proof of that.
It was also through Phil Rickman that I first heard of Nick Drake, the sad, introverted young song writer/ poet who died of an overdose of anti-depressants without ever realising how meaningful and how acclaimed the few haunting recordings he made would become. One of the most interesting and likeable central characters is Lol, a damaged and troubled sensitive, who was once also a singer/songwriter and greatly influenced by Nick Drake. His career looked ready for take-off when he was framed for something he didn't do, disowned by his puritanical parents and generally reviled so that h descended into a breakdown which lead to him being sectioned. In the 'Wine of Angels' he meets Merrily and eventually they become lovers. Lol regains his strength and sense of self-worth supported by her friendship, whilst in turn supporting her (and Jane) through many chapters of angst.
It may be apparent by now that I am fully absorbed into this - Rickmanverse.
Absolutely zero inspiration at the moment. The only bright spots in this day are the sunshine and the lovely exhibition pics on Chillsiders blog. I want to add a comment but as usual it is refusing to take my password... what's that about!
Fridays have become my day for going to church. Gasp. Shock. Horror! The prep school at which Sandy is a weekly border has a service for the junior school to which family and friends are invited. It's very nice and not really TOO religious although the hymns and homilies are all undeniably christian. There is also the Lord's Prayer. Sandy's grandad (my ex) claimed he heard me say 'Amen.' I am hotly denying it but secretly wondering if it may have slipped out - old habits die hard and all that.
It's nice to see the children trooping in, all smart in their kilts, mostly not looking like Just William. What I took to be a bruise on Sandy's cheek did turn out to be ink however - he hasn't quite got his new fountain pen under control. I watch anxiously for signs that he is settling in and making friends; happily those signs appear as another boy makes space for him, and then I see his rather nervous hand go up to volanteer for a part in one of the little playlets that the chaplain organises in illustration of the lesson of the week. This week it's Team Spirit and the passage about the parts of the body - the hand that can't be a hand unless it's got a foot to go with it. (Corinthians 12 "The body is a unit, though it is made up of many parts; and though all its parts are many, they form one body." It sounded MUCH more sonorous and evocative in the old translation.) Last week it was Helping Others. It's all very lightly done and humorous. The boy who got beaten up by robbers and helped by the Samaritan did an extremely realistic fall which earned him a loud round of applause.
They should get used to falling. Most of them are in the junior rugby team and I'm told there are at least two injuries per match. Sandy is a winger because he runs really fast. He explained that his friend Sam used to have a neck but since he's been in the front line of the scrum it's got shoved back into his shoulders! Both under 13 teams lost their match Saturday and Chloe heard one of the older boys coming off the field muttering 'Raped again!"
Sandy was staying over Friday because of the match, so once grandad and I had downed our tea and biscuit and spoken to his house master we drove him down to the refectory in the car to join his class mates (they must do a lot of walking in the course of a school day, the refectory is quite distance from the junior school building.) This gave us a chance to see the upper school pupils in their mufti - tight torn jeans, scruffy hoodies, they look real chavs although when spoken to they are extremely pleasant and polite. I like them. They have an enviable air of self-confidence. The school motto is: "Plus est en vous" (More is in you.) I hope Sandy soaks that up with his morning cornflakes to counteract other less positive elements in his life.
He doesn't eat the porridge. They make it with honey. Not very Scottish that.
Fridays have become my day for going to church. Gasp. Shock. Horror! The prep school at which Sandy is a weekly border has a service for the junior school to which family and friends are invited. It's very nice and not really TOO religious although the hymns and homilies are all undeniably christian. There is also the Lord's Prayer. Sandy's grandad (my ex) claimed he heard me say 'Amen.' I am hotly denying it but secretly wondering if it may have slipped out - old habits die hard and all that.
It's nice to see the children trooping in, all smart in their kilts, mostly not looking like Just William. What I took to be a bruise on Sandy's cheek did turn out to be ink however - he hasn't quite got his new fountain pen under control. I watch anxiously for signs that he is settling in and making friends; happily those signs appear as another boy makes space for him, and then I see his rather nervous hand go up to volanteer for a part in one of the little playlets that the chaplain organises in illustration of the lesson of the week. This week it's Team Spirit and the passage about the parts of the body - the hand that can't be a hand unless it's got a foot to go with it. (Corinthians 12 "The body is a unit, though it is made up of many parts; and though all its parts are many, they form one body." It sounded MUCH more sonorous and evocative in the old translation.) Last week it was Helping Others. It's all very lightly done and humorous. The boy who got beaten up by robbers and helped by the Samaritan did an extremely realistic fall which earned him a loud round of applause.
They should get used to falling. Most of them are in the junior rugby team and I'm told there are at least two injuries per match. Sandy is a winger because he runs really fast. He explained that his friend Sam used to have a neck but since he's been in the front line of the scrum it's got shoved back into his shoulders! Both under 13 teams lost their match Saturday and Chloe heard one of the older boys coming off the field muttering 'Raped again!"
Sandy was staying over Friday because of the match, so once grandad and I had downed our tea and biscuit and spoken to his house master we drove him down to the refectory in the car to join his class mates (they must do a lot of walking in the course of a school day, the refectory is quite distance from the junior school building.) This gave us a chance to see the upper school pupils in their mufti - tight torn jeans, scruffy hoodies, they look real chavs although when spoken to they are extremely pleasant and polite. I like them. They have an enviable air of self-confidence. The school motto is: "Plus est en vous" (More is in you.) I hope Sandy soaks that up with his morning cornflakes to counteract other less positive elements in his life.
He doesn't eat the porridge. They make it with honey. Not very Scottish that.
1 Oct 2008
American pie.
The world may be interested to know that the American nation has risen a long way in my estime since I watched an episode of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. That was the best satire I have seen for a long time. A small extract that sticks in my mind was the graphic illustration of what a 700 million (or billion.. no-one seemed quite steady on that) dollar bail-out (the one that didn't happen) would mean in real terms for the tax payer. His share would buy him 2000 Macdonald Apple pies. Bill Clinton said there had never looked so good a time for buying apple pies.
Christmas bling.
I bought my Christmas cards today. The Red Cross shop was selling them last week but I held out until it was at least October. The local garden centre has had most of its indoor sales room roped off for the last three weeks or more, ready for the opening of the Christmas stock so I suppose that by now the artficial trees, lights, baubles and knee-high santas are available in their full glitsy glory. The whole thing gets more and more silly and leeches all the pleasure out of the festivities by such over-exposure. There's still th glories of autumn colours to enjoy - we don't need tinsel and coloured lights to chase away the dark quite yet.
And the silly thing is they will have missed Hallowe'en completely by starting 'Xmas' so early.
Inspired more by the thought that these will be my last few months so I had better sell some of the stock than by any seasonal thoughts, I've started putting the nicest children's books in the window, ones that would make good gifts, but I refuse to add coy little signs like 'Christmas starts here!' Or helpful suggestions (for idiots too dim to think for themselves?) like "Why not buy him/her/it a BOOK for Christmas?' Bleur!
Grumpy old woman here.
Although I do think that the best Christmas gift is a good book. Chosen by me for me preferably.
There is a serious possibility that I will forget I have bought those cards and I'll buy more from elsewhere. Maybe that's the ploy.
Maybe I don't have the right marketing spirit.
And the silly thing is they will have missed Hallowe'en completely by starting 'Xmas' so early.
Inspired more by the thought that these will be my last few months so I had better sell some of the stock than by any seasonal thoughts, I've started putting the nicest children's books in the window, ones that would make good gifts, but I refuse to add coy little signs like 'Christmas starts here!' Or helpful suggestions (for idiots too dim to think for themselves?) like "Why not buy him/her/it a BOOK for Christmas?' Bleur!
Grumpy old woman here.
Although I do think that the best Christmas gift is a good book. Chosen by me for me preferably.
There is a serious possibility that I will forget I have bought those cards and I'll buy more from elsewhere. Maybe that's the ploy.
Maybe I don't have the right marketing spirit.
Erratum (or corrigendum)
Oops - wrong about Borders banning the Northern Lights. They just aren't 'promoting' it along with the banned, sorry censored, books of the past. I was a bit tired yesterday - is my excuse!
Today I have as much energy as a gutted haddock. I think it's something to do with the drop in temperature outside. Or delayed reaction from the excitements of the weekend. My life is normally so dull.
Today I have as much energy as a gutted haddock. I think it's something to do with the drop in temperature outside. Or delayed reaction from the excitements of the weekend. My life is normally so dull.
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