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.

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.

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... .

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.

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.

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!

Autumn colours