Recently, in the aftermath of my writing course, i have bought a lot of books, many of them on how not to write. Although interesting, it strikes me that a lot of people out there are writing books about writing, rather than getting on with the job of actually doing it for themselves.
It used to be said that those that can do, do, whilst those that can't, teach. I guess that your views on this depend on your own experiences. Everyone has been to school so everyone is an expert on teaching. It is such an easy job, with short hours and long holidays, i don't know why there are not queues waiting to get into the profession. Well actually I can understand it, and have seen many people from industry rushing into schools wondering why the kids won't listen, why they won't behave themselves and why they can't impart that mass of knowledge and experience that they are so proud of.
Teaching is bloody hard, if you do it properly. It requires knowledge yes, but so much more than that. At the heart of it lies an understanding of the kids. It is so easy to forget what that is like. They are not just little adults and more importantly they are all different, with different needs and problems. As a teacher, each day you may stand in front of a hundred or more human beings, each one a complex personality, and many of whom will be carrying baggage from the outside world that has far more impact on their life than you ever can. It is your job to engage these young persons in whatever it is that you are paid to teach. Imagine the prospect of trying to make fractional distillation or vulgar fractions interesting to a teenage girl that has been thrown out of her home or a boy that knows that there are bullies waiting for him at the school gate. These are the realities of the job, as well as pushing motivated kids along the tedious pathway towards the examinations. Breaking up fights, being threatened and abused are all part of the normal day and i won't go into the piles of paperwork that has to justify everything that you do.
I don't believe that there are perfect teachers. Oh some are very good and some are bloody awful, i have worked with both types, but we all have our flaws and our bad days, and we are all guilty of letting some kids down, but when they come to you in groups of thirty or more, it is sometimes hard to see the wood for the trees.
I have wittered enough. I will keep reading the "how not to" books, but one of these days, as I have no real excuse, I must get around to baring my soul in writing again. I need someone to take me by the ear and force me into it. Maybe a teacher!!
Friday 30 January 2009
Thursday 29 January 2009
Damn and blast it!
I have to admit to being disappointed. I have been wasting vast amounts of life on the web recently as readers will be aware. One of the areas of interest that I signed up to on "stumbledupon" is atheism. Ok i always knew that I wasn't alone in my feelings regarding religion, but I know very few people that are as utterly convinced as I am. However, the web is awash with atheistic sites and it has become very clear to me that I need to add atheism to my list of despised religions. I know that most of the sites are of an American origin but, even so the degree of fanaticism is quite scary. Atheism has become a cult and like all cults, it is likely to be taken over by zealots and organised into a movement. Where does that leave me? Damn it, I will have to think again. I cannot associate myself with any movement that has anything to do with theism, and now that the non believers have their own religion i am stumped. Maybe I can just become a Dontgiveashit! It is getting to be very difficult to be an individual.
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Memories
I decided this week to give the dining table a new lease of life, and so in between visits to stumbledupon - thank you Judit, I have been scraping away the 30 yr old patina of grime, scratches and marks that represent a family history. They say that a family that eats together stays together. That may or may not be true but I like to think that my kids have grown up to be well balanced, social individuals, who still see the pleasures and benefits of eating together as a family, sitting down at a table.
I don't much care for TV dinners. Inevitably the TV takes over and food simply becomes a fuel, rather than the aesthetic delight that a properly presented meal should be. The dining table is a place to meet and talk and to share ideas and feelings.
This particular table has played host to people from the far corners of the globe. Being sociable people and having a large house as well as being in education has led to a vast number of house guests over the years. Sweat and grease from the skins of Canadians, new Zealanders, Japanese, Americans, Africans, Germans, French, Hungarians and more, has at one time or another adorned the wood of this item of furniture, and now as i scrape it away with painstaking trouble, i recall each and every one of them. Some I remember very well and a few have faces that are fading away with the passing of time.
It has not only been used for meals. The children would drape blankets over it and use it as a hideout. When older it served as a table tennis table as well as supporting a snooker table. It has been used for pasting wall paper and an examination paper marking surface. people have laughed a lot and cried a little at this table and it has moved house twice.
So now it is bared and covered in scrapings and I have to attempt to restore its surface to a long forgotten former glory. I hope that if any reader has sat at this table that they remember it with fondness.
I don't much care for TV dinners. Inevitably the TV takes over and food simply becomes a fuel, rather than the aesthetic delight that a properly presented meal should be. The dining table is a place to meet and talk and to share ideas and feelings.
This particular table has played host to people from the far corners of the globe. Being sociable people and having a large house as well as being in education has led to a vast number of house guests over the years. Sweat and grease from the skins of Canadians, new Zealanders, Japanese, Americans, Africans, Germans, French, Hungarians and more, has at one time or another adorned the wood of this item of furniture, and now as i scrape it away with painstaking trouble, i recall each and every one of them. Some I remember very well and a few have faces that are fading away with the passing of time.
It has not only been used for meals. The children would drape blankets over it and use it as a hideout. When older it served as a table tennis table as well as supporting a snooker table. It has been used for pasting wall paper and an examination paper marking surface. people have laughed a lot and cried a little at this table and it has moved house twice.
So now it is bared and covered in scrapings and I have to attempt to restore its surface to a long forgotten former glory. I hope that if any reader has sat at this table that they remember it with fondness.
Monday 26 January 2009
Time wasting
I have been sucked into a new way of wasting time. Not that I need much encouragement, my motivation seems to have vanished almost completely. The thing in focus at the moment is www.stumbleupon.com, and i warn you, it is totally addictive. It is mostly a portal to the web, and like many other sites of this nature you can personalise it by noting your own particular interests. By pressing a button - as is often the case, one is randomly steered towards sites of interest, and i have to say that many of them are amazing, though none have been any use whatever at the moment. You know what? i don't really care about that, but I do have to keep going back to look again. I really should do something constructive but I have no ideas right now. Any suggestions??
Thursday 22 January 2009
En attendant Godot
Well it is back to reality again. Cold wet days and winter blues settling back into place. I have just about finished the writing course and now really need to find another outlet. It is so easy to do very little and I find that the less i do, the less I feel like doing and so it goes on. I know that I should write but even that seems to be hard at the moment. I find motivation very elusive.
The next thing to look forward to is a performance of Waiting for Godot in Brighton, with patrick Stewart and Sir ian McKellan. It isn't the most cheery of plays, even though there are moments of mirth. It is a play about helplessness in which two old tramps meet in the same place each day to wait for Godot, who never comes and even though we know that he never will, and so do they, they still meet each day in the vain hope that today will be different. They aimlessly wander between optimism and pessimism, finding ways to pass the time - "it would have passed anyway." They try to hang themselves from a tree. The rope is weak and snaps, a bittersweet moment as the rope had been used to keep up Estragon's trousers. Their lives are brightened when they meet one who has been enslaved by a tyrannical master. rarely do they find anyone worse off than themselves.
It is a black comedy from the pen of Samuel Beckett, encapsulated in the only line that I can remember right now. "They give birth astride of a grave. The light gleams an instant, and then it is night once more." Right now, the light is gleaming, but there are daily reminders that night is not far away.
The next thing to look forward to is a performance of Waiting for Godot in Brighton, with patrick Stewart and Sir ian McKellan. It isn't the most cheery of plays, even though there are moments of mirth. It is a play about helplessness in which two old tramps meet in the same place each day to wait for Godot, who never comes and even though we know that he never will, and so do they, they still meet each day in the vain hope that today will be different. They aimlessly wander between optimism and pessimism, finding ways to pass the time - "it would have passed anyway." They try to hang themselves from a tree. The rope is weak and snaps, a bittersweet moment as the rope had been used to keep up Estragon's trousers. Their lives are brightened when they meet one who has been enslaved by a tyrannical master. rarely do they find anyone worse off than themselves.
It is a black comedy from the pen of Samuel Beckett, encapsulated in the only line that I can remember right now. "They give birth astride of a grave. The light gleams an instant, and then it is night once more." Right now, the light is gleaming, but there are daily reminders that night is not far away.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Weekend part two
The weekend itself was one huge highlight, and that makes it hard to pick out individual moments. We did make the most of it and spent my birthday touring the city on an open top bus. That brought home the fact that it was mid January and by the end of the day, I for one was grateful for a hot bath. Seeing Gaudi's work for the first time was breathtaking, and surprising too. I had no Idea that the Sagrada Temple has never been used. The inside is a builder's yard and the premises remain unconsecrated. Considering that work began in 1883, that is taking Manana a little far.
Park Guell is a delight and it was good to get off the bus for a decent spell and get some food and a drink too. I love the way that Gaudi forged links with nature and how his architecture seems to blend in with the landscape.
For some the highlight of the weekend was the saturday night visit to Camp Nou, where Barcelona FC played host to Deportivo. This stadium seats 100,000 people and is the biggest in Europe. Tickets are not cheap and football is unreliable as a spectator sport. On this occasion however, the 5-0 scoreline says it all.
Suffice it to say - I had a wonderful birthday and am so thankful to those who made it possible. Now back to normal and i can apply for my bus pass.
Tuesday 20 January 2009
Weekend part one
Last weekend, I was expecting to stay with my Son, Daughter and Son in law, as a nice quiet family get together. I had been asked if i wanted a party to celebrate my birthday, but i am not one for parties really, much preferring small gatherings - at least then i have a chance of hearing what is going on.
Heading towards the M25, I was actually processing what it is that i don't like about surprises. I hate the feeling that I am not in control and that I have no power to change that. It comes i know from all that hospital time, when nothing was ever explained to me. I had no option but to comply with everything that happened to me and never knew where i was going on a day to day basis.
Anyhow, knowing where i was going to be felt good, until we turned left instead of right onto the M25. The signs for Heathrow began to look very large, and I realised that i was not going where I had hoped. I had been duped and as we parked the car in a long stay park and headed into the terminal building I still had no idea where i was going. There was apparently plenty of time, so no hurry to check in, and much faffing and fiddling ensued. First there was a need for food, then water, then the loo. Eventually I too succumbed and headed for the gents, thinking, that I was going to miss seeing the kids, but also wondering where we were going.
I came out and wandered back to the case. And then they emerged around a corner - all three of them complete with luggage. WE were ALL going. I am not easily surprised and don't much go for them, but this was a wonderful surprise indeed. My face was a picture so it is said. A package was thrust into my hands and i was instructed to open it. A travel guide to Barcelona and a book on Gaudi. We were off to Catalonia.
We checked in and i got frisked as always, then we were led to the BA lounge and sat in luxury with free food and drink until the flight was called. A wonderfully smooth flight and a couple of hours later and we were in a spacious apartment in the Gothic Region of the city, and out on the town a few moments later.
This was the start of a fabulous weekend, in a truly breathtaking city.
Wednesday 14 January 2009
Fads and fancies
Thank you to the dear friend who, after yesterday's posting sent me a recipe for pigeon pie. I have to say that it sounds delicious and has to be worth a try. Having said that, in line with the many variations on Sod's law, have i seen a pigeon since? Of course not, and anyhow, I'd still have to catch them, and worse, kill and prepare them. I think I could if I had to, but I am not really very good at killing things.
I know someone, OK he is from New Zealand, so is bound to be odd, who, will not eat anything that he would not kill. So he eats chicken and fish and maybe rabbit, but draws a line at pigs, sheep and cattle. Personally I can't really see much difference. Meat is meat and there are people who are quite happy to kill and butcher so that the rest of us can eat well. The mammals that he refuses to eat would not even be there had it not been for their nutritional and commercial values. They would all have been killed off long ago.
I have other acquaintances who are vegetarians and even Vegans, and of course that is their choice and their preferences must be respected. It does irk me a little though, that when a vegetarian comes to dinner, that we always ensure that a vegetarian option is available or that the meal itself is geared towards their particular fancy. Does the reverse apply? Of course not. Whenever did anyone eat meat in the home of a vegetarian? It seems that for some, vegetarianism is a sort of religion, and whenever you mix religion into anything, you come up with something bordering fanaticism.
Anyhow i won't continue along that line.
I'd just like to say that the rat seems to have vanished for the time being, so please do not send recipes for Rat soup, Fricassee of Rat or Rat au Van (sic). I remember Blackadder IV very well.
I know someone, OK he is from New Zealand, so is bound to be odd, who, will not eat anything that he would not kill. So he eats chicken and fish and maybe rabbit, but draws a line at pigs, sheep and cattle. Personally I can't really see much difference. Meat is meat and there are people who are quite happy to kill and butcher so that the rest of us can eat well. The mammals that he refuses to eat would not even be there had it not been for their nutritional and commercial values. They would all have been killed off long ago.
I have other acquaintances who are vegetarians and even Vegans, and of course that is their choice and their preferences must be respected. It does irk me a little though, that when a vegetarian comes to dinner, that we always ensure that a vegetarian option is available or that the meal itself is geared towards their particular fancy. Does the reverse apply? Of course not. Whenever did anyone eat meat in the home of a vegetarian? It seems that for some, vegetarianism is a sort of religion, and whenever you mix religion into anything, you come up with something bordering fanaticism.
Anyhow i won't continue along that line.
I'd just like to say that the rat seems to have vanished for the time being, so please do not send recipes for Rat soup, Fricassee of Rat or Rat au Van (sic). I remember Blackadder IV very well.
Tuesday 13 January 2009
Pigeons
Feeling somewhat better today. At least i am vertical and functioning on some sort of level. I get colds so very rarely so I am easily laid low by one when it does come along. However hopefully i can put it behind me for a while at least.
I have been watching the pigeons that wait for me to fill the bird food container every morning and they are getting to be very fat. I suppose it is no surprise given the amount of feed that they are getting through. Well they are birds and therefore just as deserving as any of the others I guess, despite their lack of charm, subtlety and grace. They are rather like natural hoovers, and once they appear, the food is gone and so are the other birds. I find myself thinking of ways to offset their advantage of size in order to give the rest a chance, and, in these difficult times I find myself wondering what they taste like.
I have been watching the pigeons that wait for me to fill the bird food container every morning and they are getting to be very fat. I suppose it is no surprise given the amount of feed that they are getting through. Well they are birds and therefore just as deserving as any of the others I guess, despite their lack of charm, subtlety and grace. They are rather like natural hoovers, and once they appear, the food is gone and so are the other birds. I find myself thinking of ways to offset their advantage of size in order to give the rest a chance, and, in these difficult times I find myself wondering what they taste like.
Monday 12 January 2009
Saturday 10 January 2009
Saturday and all is not well
Some days i get very tired of feeling unwell. This is one of them. I have broken out in hives yet again, my hands and scalp itch like crazy and I generally feel pretty much out of sorts. I wish i knew the cause of this, but I don't. It seems to have a life all of its own and periodically strikes me down, usually just as i am beginning to feel better.
I know that I have no right to moan and complain but it does seem that it is one thing after another right now and if this is a natural part of the aging process then I am not sure that it is better than the alternative. When i feel like this I seem to be able to do very little and what i do tends to work out badly.
Oh well i pledged to myself to attempt a daily entry here and that is the only reason that I am writing this. i am sure that it is not the sort of thing that people want to read anyhow, so i will stop.
I know that I have no right to moan and complain but it does seem that it is one thing after another right now and if this is a natural part of the aging process then I am not sure that it is better than the alternative. When i feel like this I seem to be able to do very little and what i do tends to work out badly.
Oh well i pledged to myself to attempt a daily entry here and that is the only reason that I am writing this. i am sure that it is not the sort of thing that people want to read anyhow, so i will stop.
Friday 9 January 2009
Atheist Adverts
The British Humanists et al have produced a range of posters carrying the message -There is Probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy life. Seems to me like a sensible message, and note the use of the word "probably".
The National Director of Christian Voice, is taking this campaign to task on the grounds that there is plenty of evidence for the existence of God. Can anyone out there provide a single scrap of it?
The National Director of Christian Voice, is taking this campaign to task on the grounds that there is plenty of evidence for the existence of God. Can anyone out there provide a single scrap of it?
Hell is other people
This is a week packed with social engagements that I have no real enthusiasm for. I know that i am not the world's most sociable of animals but I do make an effort, and when invited, it is polite to accept invitations. It just so happens that every night this week apart from sunday, has been a night out.
I have, in the past been a guest at a dinner party when all i wanted to do was be instantly transported to anywhere else in the world that where i was, but i won't talk about that. Such things happen and sometimes we learn from them.
Last night's dinner party was, shall we say odd. The people at the table had very little in common with each other, apart from a shared part of history, and so that neutral territory tended to be the main topic of conversation. Anything outside of that box was apparently a no-go area, and although the food and wine were very good, the whole evening was reminiscent of 'Huis Clos' or 'In Camera', a play by Jean Paul Sartre, in which 3 disparate souls are gathered together in a waiting/drawing room. They have little in common but a complex triangle of lust and hate, and they know that this is forever. They are in hell and their hell is each other.
Sartre was an astute man, and i suspect that he must have found himself in similar situations to that of last night. Who knows, maybe I could find a story there too.
Four down, two to go!!
I have, in the past been a guest at a dinner party when all i wanted to do was be instantly transported to anywhere else in the world that where i was, but i won't talk about that. Such things happen and sometimes we learn from them.
Last night's dinner party was, shall we say odd. The people at the table had very little in common with each other, apart from a shared part of history, and so that neutral territory tended to be the main topic of conversation. Anything outside of that box was apparently a no-go area, and although the food and wine were very good, the whole evening was reminiscent of 'Huis Clos' or 'In Camera', a play by Jean Paul Sartre, in which 3 disparate souls are gathered together in a waiting/drawing room. They have little in common but a complex triangle of lust and hate, and they know that this is forever. They are in hell and their hell is each other.
Sartre was an astute man, and i suspect that he must have found himself in similar situations to that of last night. Who knows, maybe I could find a story there too.
Four down, two to go!!
Thursday 8 January 2009
MIsunderestimated? Impossible!
Well pretty soon now, the US will be saying their fond farewells to George W, and along with him, hopefully will go a regime that has by it's foreign policy made the USA a pariah to much of the world. America is now not just hated by Canadians, and it is a great pity that such a wonderful country should be judged on the activities of the rich and powerful Republicans that have always pulled the strings.
I know very few American people, but those I have met or had any contact with are warm, generous and lovely people and are probably more representative of the real America than those who make the policies.
Barak Obama is a highly educated and very smart young man. He seems to be a breath of fresh air and I hope that his vision will not be blurred by the weight of the money that drives American History. I am sure that I am not alone in having a fear that he may not just be the first black President, but that he may also be the first Black president to be assassinated. To oppose the money machine in the US takes a great deal of courage as well as a very tight security service.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this term of office may turn things around and bring the western world back on a road towards sanity.
I know very few American people, but those I have met or had any contact with are warm, generous and lovely people and are probably more representative of the real America than those who make the policies.
Barak Obama is a highly educated and very smart young man. He seems to be a breath of fresh air and I hope that his vision will not be blurred by the weight of the money that drives American History. I am sure that I am not alone in having a fear that he may not just be the first black President, but that he may also be the first Black president to be assassinated. To oppose the money machine in the US takes a great deal of courage as well as a very tight security service.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this term of office may turn things around and bring the western world back on a road towards sanity.
Wednesday 7 January 2009
never mind the bollocks
There are many things that I do not understand. I am not talking about the demands of my current course unit, nor the inexplicably addictive nature of curry. On this occasion I am talking about Punk Rock. I actually have in my extensive collection, a cd of The Sex Pistols. I don't ply it very much, if indeed at all these days, but I have it just as a reminder of how bad things really can be. I have heard it said that punk arose from a rejection of the then state of pop music that had become dominated by bands like Queen, Pink Floyd, Genesis and others. From this rejection came a movement dominated instead by sheer crap. Young people who had little or no talent suddenly thrust themselves to the fore, moaning and complaining about very little, being utterly obnoxious and producing antimusical sounds that were anarchic, banal and worthless. Most of the perpetrators lapsed rapidly into the obscurity from whence they had come, while others joined the Rock Money Machine that they had been rejecting, and thankfully the phase died a death very quickly. For a time the loudest noises came from these empty boxes and the big names took a rest. Now that punk is dead and buried, the big names are still there and still filling stadiums over and over again.
So what was the point? I could understand the punk movement if it had brought about change, but it didn't. Things are just the same as they always have been. The music industry is dominated at ground level by the pap, faceless boy bands and girl bands, that last five minutes and are then replaced by more of the same. Nubile young women with voices that all sound much the same warble out their imitations of good black singers, and effeminate young men do much the same. Then there are the bands that have musicians in, and who make some good records and tour the festivals and fill the odd stadium. These tend to have rather longer half lives than the boy bands and girl bands.
And yet, still at the top end of the pyramid are the elderly and tiring, who can still sell millions of recordings and fill the biggest venues whenever they can muster the energy to play.
Music should be about musicianship and quality. i don't want to hear crap music - I can sing badly enough for myself, and can even muster 5 chords on a guitar. Note that I say muster and not master. Today seems to be about mustering, and the reason that the big names survive is because they have a quality of musicianship that people really want to hear.
So what was the point? I could understand the punk movement if it had brought about change, but it didn't. Things are just the same as they always have been. The music industry is dominated at ground level by the pap, faceless boy bands and girl bands, that last five minutes and are then replaced by more of the same. Nubile young women with voices that all sound much the same warble out their imitations of good black singers, and effeminate young men do much the same. Then there are the bands that have musicians in, and who make some good records and tour the festivals and fill the odd stadium. These tend to have rather longer half lives than the boy bands and girl bands.
And yet, still at the top end of the pyramid are the elderly and tiring, who can still sell millions of recordings and fill the biggest venues whenever they can muster the energy to play.
Music should be about musicianship and quality. i don't want to hear crap music - I can sing badly enough for myself, and can even muster 5 chords on a guitar. Note that I say muster and not master. Today seems to be about mustering, and the reason that the big names survive is because they have a quality of musicianship that people really want to hear.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Bird watching
Outside my window, and not too far away, is an old camping table upon which is a bird food container that I fill with seed every day. As I write there are two robins out there. Both have their feathers fluffed up against the cold and neither is taking any food. Although there is more than enough for them both, they are more interested in fighting, each wishing to drive the other from the territory. They are genetically programmed to defend that which they feel to be theirs.
While they fight, a blackbird has taken the chance to stock up. She sits in the container and picks over the bits that she likes, throwing the rest out and onto the ground. She seems undaunted by the scrapping and stops now and then just to look at me. As I am clearly no threat, she continues to toss out the bulk of the food and sparrows are happily picking up the remnants from the frozen soil.
Inevitably the pigeons will arrive. They are not at all fussy and once there will sit in the feeder and consume as much as their crops will take and then shit in the food for good measure.
Each species behaves in a different way and it strikes me that humans, although one species, behave rather like the birds. Perhaps we too are programmed to behave, some of us like the robin and others like the blackbird and the pigeon. It would seem that the bankers that we have all taken for granted for so long, have eaten most of the food and relieved themselves quite heavily in what remains while we sparrows peck around in the mud hoping to make ends meet. In the meantime, the middle eastern Robins continue to fight while the really important pillars of society and civilization are vanishing.
(Sorry this is really naff but I had nothing else to say!)
While they fight, a blackbird has taken the chance to stock up. She sits in the container and picks over the bits that she likes, throwing the rest out and onto the ground. She seems undaunted by the scrapping and stops now and then just to look at me. As I am clearly no threat, she continues to toss out the bulk of the food and sparrows are happily picking up the remnants from the frozen soil.
Inevitably the pigeons will arrive. They are not at all fussy and once there will sit in the feeder and consume as much as their crops will take and then shit in the food for good measure.
Each species behaves in a different way and it strikes me that humans, although one species, behave rather like the birds. Perhaps we too are programmed to behave, some of us like the robin and others like the blackbird and the pigeon. It would seem that the bankers that we have all taken for granted for so long, have eaten most of the food and relieved themselves quite heavily in what remains while we sparrows peck around in the mud hoping to make ends meet. In the meantime, the middle eastern Robins continue to fight while the really important pillars of society and civilization are vanishing.
(Sorry this is really naff but I had nothing else to say!)
Monday 5 January 2009
action and reaction
Some things in life change, while others remain the same. One such thing seems to me to be the battle with the rat. Yes he/she/it is back and enjoying itself in my compost bin. Now and again he is too slow, or maybe just apathetic, and as i open the bin, there he is in all his scabby dishevelled glory, gazing at me before shuffling away down a burrow. If he had fingers, i am sure that he would be waving one at me.
As always i have resorted to poison - it remains untouched, and setting a trap. I have tried peanut butter and even a nice wedge of stilton as an attraction, but he studiously ignores it and the bait just rots in the trap. I know that I should just dig it all out and render the territory inert but I dread to think what i might unearth in the process.
It hasn't stopped the Israelis though. It seems that when they do things, there are no half measures, and now the Palestinians in Gaza are reaping the rewards of their government's concerted niggling at Israel itself. Sending random rockets into Israeli territory is a little like poking a lion with a stick, and if you want to indulge in such activity then you'd best have a backup plan or an escape route. It seems that the Palestinians have none and if the Israelis have their way, the Gaza Strip will be back in Israeli hands once and for all.
At least the rat is keeping a low profile and limiting his activities to the compost. Perhaps i'll back down until the spring, unless of course he decides to show his face in the garden. Should that happen I think maybe I'll call in the tanks.
As always i have resorted to poison - it remains untouched, and setting a trap. I have tried peanut butter and even a nice wedge of stilton as an attraction, but he studiously ignores it and the bait just rots in the trap. I know that I should just dig it all out and render the territory inert but I dread to think what i might unearth in the process.
It hasn't stopped the Israelis though. It seems that when they do things, there are no half measures, and now the Palestinians in Gaza are reaping the rewards of their government's concerted niggling at Israel itself. Sending random rockets into Israeli territory is a little like poking a lion with a stick, and if you want to indulge in such activity then you'd best have a backup plan or an escape route. It seems that the Palestinians have none and if the Israelis have their way, the Gaza Strip will be back in Israeli hands once and for all.
At least the rat is keeping a low profile and limiting his activities to the compost. Perhaps i'll back down until the spring, unless of course he decides to show his face in the garden. Should that happen I think maybe I'll call in the tanks.
Sunday 4 January 2009
In the bleak midwinter
It's Sunday again and it is so cold. I know that certain people will tell me that I don't know what real cold is like, and that may be the case, but I do recall in my childhood the extreme winter of I think 1962. Forgive me if I get dates wrong, they were never my strength, but that winter began late, and it stayed. In those days we lived in a council house in a small village, the situation of the property meant that it bore the full impact of the winds that howled through the valley and the only heat we had, came from a small coal fire in the living room. There was no double glazing, just draughty windows with metal frames. The bedrooms had no heat at all, electric fires were expensive to run and besides, we had none and there were very few sockets in the house anyway.
I don't remember when it began, but once the first blizzard struck, the snow lay and unusually it didn't go away. The nights were bitter, and snowfall after snowfall piled it deeply in huge drifts that made travel impossible and blanketed the village with silence.
Each night frost would form on the insides of the windows and glasses of water left at bedsides would freeze solid too. We'd dress and undress under the bedclothes and in the mornings press pennies against the windows to thaw out a peephole to se what the night had brought.
The rivers froze over and then seemed to freeze solid. We could walk to the next village on the ice and frequently did. I remember hands and feet numb with cold. Woolen gloves and wellington boots quickly became wet, but we still remained out of doors more or less until the light began to fail.
The nights were the worst time and the almost smoky cold seeped into everything and it felt like we'd never be warm again. In the evenings we'd cluster around the tiny fire while wet garments hung steaming on the clothes horse. We'd dread bedtime and the prospect of the icy sheets.
Now we have double glazing and central heating and the prospect of power cuts in the next few months. What then? Most of us have no coal fires and if the power does go and the freeze continues people will be in deep trouble. Let's hope that it doesn't come to that.
I don't remember when it began, but once the first blizzard struck, the snow lay and unusually it didn't go away. The nights were bitter, and snowfall after snowfall piled it deeply in huge drifts that made travel impossible and blanketed the village with silence.
Each night frost would form on the insides of the windows and glasses of water left at bedsides would freeze solid too. We'd dress and undress under the bedclothes and in the mornings press pennies against the windows to thaw out a peephole to se what the night had brought.
The rivers froze over and then seemed to freeze solid. We could walk to the next village on the ice and frequently did. I remember hands and feet numb with cold. Woolen gloves and wellington boots quickly became wet, but we still remained out of doors more or less until the light began to fail.
The nights were the worst time and the almost smoky cold seeped into everything and it felt like we'd never be warm again. In the evenings we'd cluster around the tiny fire while wet garments hung steaming on the clothes horse. We'd dread bedtime and the prospect of the icy sheets.
Now we have double glazing and central heating and the prospect of power cuts in the next few months. What then? Most of us have no coal fires and if the power does go and the freeze continues people will be in deep trouble. Let's hope that it doesn't come to that.
Saturday 3 January 2009
Resolution
It is the last night of the year and he is sitting alone in his shabby sagging armchair in front of a hissing gas fire. There is a television on in the corner of the room but the sound, like the lights of the room, is off. The walls are covered with cheap woodchip paper, studded with occasional nails that once supported pictures, but which now highlight the fact that they are missing. There is a second ancient armchair that does not match the one in which he sits. It occupies its own space on the other side of the fire, closer to the TV. The carpet is worn and stained.
The ash from his cigarette topples and falls to the floor, as a thin column of blue smoke drifts towards the yellowed ceiling. He is staring into the flickering flames with rheumy and unblinking eyes and his face, lit by the flickering light of the television, carries no hint of expression. There are sounds coming from the kitchen - cutlery clanks and crockery chinks while slippered feet shuffle over the unswept bare floorboards. Somewhere he registers and processes this information, but he does not move.
Outside it is dark and bitterly cold; old snow lies on the ground, flattened into hard white ice, and the air is painful to breathe. The unlit rural streets are silent; any sounds there may be are muffled, as if they are frozen at source. The unsmoked cigarette burns away between his fingers, the ash stub growing and drooping under its own weight, before it falls again.
He is sixty-four years old, but he looks older. His unattended hair, a nondescript grey colour, lies in thin disarray and his unshaven face is covered in white bristles. He still has his own teeth, though some are broken and there are many gaps. The right hand, in which he holds the cigarette, has the word “hate” tattooed across the knuckles. There is another tattoo on his left hand, but that is in his trouser pocket. It reads “love” but he knows very little about that.
The kitchen door opens and in she shuffles, carrying two mugs of tea. She holds one out to him and he, without redirecting his stare, takes the mug and holds it between his hands, absorbing some of the heat into his icy fingers.
“Cold as a witch’s tit out there!” she speaks almost as to herself. A cigarette dangles from her lower lip and she coughs and wheezes as she sits down, or rather collapses into the depths of her own chair.
He looks away from the fire and into the mug. “Not much better in here.” He growls and slurps his tea. The double meaning is not lost on her.
Silence is restored, punctuated only by wet drinking noises and small coughs as she finishes her cigarette and lights another from it before crushing the remains into the overfilled ashtray.
She reaches for the remote control, presses a button and nothing happens. She bangs it on the coffee table and tries again. This time the channel changes and she flicks through the options several times.
“Bugger all worth watching again.” The effort of talking makes her cough again. He half expects her to spit on the floor but she doesn’t.
“No, there never is.” He turns towards the screen. He recognises the film. Familiar faces from a distant past, doing familiar things, but there is no real interest there. He looks at the screen rather than look at her.
Somewhere in the frigid distance a church bell is striking the hour. It can just be heard over the white noise of the fire, seven………eight…………nine…………ten. In two more hours it will be finished.
They met on a New Year’s Eve, thirty something years before. He was in his prime then and was making real money. His talents were prized and his fees reflected the demands. That night, he was at Marcie’s bar, drinking and chatting with Marcie. The party was in full swing and he was feeling good. The bar was packed, the band was playing well and the dance floor was filled to capacity. He looked as good as he felt and he took pride in his new dark suit. He’d had a couple of drinks, just enough to take the edge off, when she appeared. Her bright red dress clung to her like a second skin and the above the knee hemline drew his eye to legs that seemed to go on forever. She strolled to the bar and, standing alongside him, ordered a dry white wine.
It was she that initiated the contact. Her deep brown eyes had locked onto his and she had smiled in a way that had confused him. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, lighting her cigarette and offering the packet to him.
“Isn’t that my line?” he said, taking one and fumbling for his lighter. “Thanks, but no thanks, I need to keep a clear head.”
“On New Year’s Eve? You must be the only one here that does.” She blew a thin stream of smoke towards the dance floor. “Tell me. Why do you need a clear head tonight?”
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes glancing around the bar, as if looking for something or somebody. His gaze met hers again. “To stay alive.” he said in a matter of fact tone and without any hint of a smile.
They danced that evening, bodies pressed together getting to know each other, and it felt to him that this was what was supposed to be. Her perfume entranced him, softened him and like the drugs that he had avoided all of his life, it grabbed and held him. They left long before the clocks struck twelve and her place was warm and welcoming. The dress had not lied, her body was everything that it promised and more, and they made love until the early hours of the morning. Lying side by side under her crisp Egyptian cotton sheets, they could hear the raucous sounds of late night revellers returning to their homes.
“I should be going,” he said rising and began to gather his clothes from the floor.
“Stay,” she whispered and reached for his hand. “It’s ok. You’ll be safe enough here.” He squeezed her hand with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “Besides, you’ll never get a cab now.”
He walked to the window and stared out into the street. The moon was almost full and white frost was crusted on the roofs and windows of the parked cars. The revellers had gone and the streets were silent.
There are times in our lives when we make decisions. I mean really important decisions that change the path that we are on. Once acted upon, there can be no going back, and he knows that this was the moment when his life changed forever. His eyes are watering; it might be the cold but maybe not. He takes a deep gulp from his rapidly cooling tea while she continues to flick aimlessly through the TV channels hoping to find something to escape into.
“Please come back to bed.” Her voice was soft and seductive, and in that moment of weakness, he closed the curtains and answered the siren’s call, dropping his clothes once more and returned to the warmth and wonder of her arms, their naked bodies entwining with a passion that he had never experienced before.
“Why do you carry that knife?” She asked. The early morning sun oozed through the gap in the curtains, and she looked just as good as she had the previous night.
He told her about his life and his dubious profession and she listened. From that point onwards they were bound together. Some weeks later they had married, quietly, out of the public eye, and to begin with it worked.
“Ha!” he surprises himself by speaking out loud as he recalls the slow process by which the passion turned sour and how once that had gone there was nothing left. How his work went out of fashion and how he had become the subject of a contract, forcing them to seek anonymity in the depths of the country, and how like fish out of water they had slowly but surely suffocated, and they had grown to hate each other one day at a time.
He still has the knife. Each day he cleans it and strokes it. It has never let him down, never questioned him, and never belittled him. It has only ever given him what he wants and he knows that it still can. He moves to put down the mug but it falls into his lap, spilling the tepid remains between his legs. He tries to get out of the chair but his body will not respond. Nothing will move.
She looks away from the silent TV and smiles. “Did you enjoy your tea DEAR?”
The last things that he hears, as oblivion absorbs him, is her wheezing laughter, the sounds of washing up and the church bells chiming midnight.
The ash from his cigarette topples and falls to the floor, as a thin column of blue smoke drifts towards the yellowed ceiling. He is staring into the flickering flames with rheumy and unblinking eyes and his face, lit by the flickering light of the television, carries no hint of expression. There are sounds coming from the kitchen - cutlery clanks and crockery chinks while slippered feet shuffle over the unswept bare floorboards. Somewhere he registers and processes this information, but he does not move.
Outside it is dark and bitterly cold; old snow lies on the ground, flattened into hard white ice, and the air is painful to breathe. The unlit rural streets are silent; any sounds there may be are muffled, as if they are frozen at source. The unsmoked cigarette burns away between his fingers, the ash stub growing and drooping under its own weight, before it falls again.
He is sixty-four years old, but he looks older. His unattended hair, a nondescript grey colour, lies in thin disarray and his unshaven face is covered in white bristles. He still has his own teeth, though some are broken and there are many gaps. The right hand, in which he holds the cigarette, has the word “hate” tattooed across the knuckles. There is another tattoo on his left hand, but that is in his trouser pocket. It reads “love” but he knows very little about that.
The kitchen door opens and in she shuffles, carrying two mugs of tea. She holds one out to him and he, without redirecting his stare, takes the mug and holds it between his hands, absorbing some of the heat into his icy fingers.
“Cold as a witch’s tit out there!” she speaks almost as to herself. A cigarette dangles from her lower lip and she coughs and wheezes as she sits down, or rather collapses into the depths of her own chair.
He looks away from the fire and into the mug. “Not much better in here.” He growls and slurps his tea. The double meaning is not lost on her.
Silence is restored, punctuated only by wet drinking noises and small coughs as she finishes her cigarette and lights another from it before crushing the remains into the overfilled ashtray.
She reaches for the remote control, presses a button and nothing happens. She bangs it on the coffee table and tries again. This time the channel changes and she flicks through the options several times.
“Bugger all worth watching again.” The effort of talking makes her cough again. He half expects her to spit on the floor but she doesn’t.
“No, there never is.” He turns towards the screen. He recognises the film. Familiar faces from a distant past, doing familiar things, but there is no real interest there. He looks at the screen rather than look at her.
Somewhere in the frigid distance a church bell is striking the hour. It can just be heard over the white noise of the fire, seven………eight…………nine…………ten. In two more hours it will be finished.
They met on a New Year’s Eve, thirty something years before. He was in his prime then and was making real money. His talents were prized and his fees reflected the demands. That night, he was at Marcie’s bar, drinking and chatting with Marcie. The party was in full swing and he was feeling good. The bar was packed, the band was playing well and the dance floor was filled to capacity. He looked as good as he felt and he took pride in his new dark suit. He’d had a couple of drinks, just enough to take the edge off, when she appeared. Her bright red dress clung to her like a second skin and the above the knee hemline drew his eye to legs that seemed to go on forever. She strolled to the bar and, standing alongside him, ordered a dry white wine.
It was she that initiated the contact. Her deep brown eyes had locked onto his and she had smiled in a way that had confused him. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked, lighting her cigarette and offering the packet to him.
“Isn’t that my line?” he said, taking one and fumbling for his lighter. “Thanks, but no thanks, I need to keep a clear head.”
“On New Year’s Eve? You must be the only one here that does.” She blew a thin stream of smoke towards the dance floor. “Tell me. Why do you need a clear head tonight?”
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes glancing around the bar, as if looking for something or somebody. His gaze met hers again. “To stay alive.” he said in a matter of fact tone and without any hint of a smile.
They danced that evening, bodies pressed together getting to know each other, and it felt to him that this was what was supposed to be. Her perfume entranced him, softened him and like the drugs that he had avoided all of his life, it grabbed and held him. They left long before the clocks struck twelve and her place was warm and welcoming. The dress had not lied, her body was everything that it promised and more, and they made love until the early hours of the morning. Lying side by side under her crisp Egyptian cotton sheets, they could hear the raucous sounds of late night revellers returning to their homes.
“I should be going,” he said rising and began to gather his clothes from the floor.
“Stay,” she whispered and reached for his hand. “It’s ok. You’ll be safe enough here.” He squeezed her hand with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “Besides, you’ll never get a cab now.”
He walked to the window and stared out into the street. The moon was almost full and white frost was crusted on the roofs and windows of the parked cars. The revellers had gone and the streets were silent.
There are times in our lives when we make decisions. I mean really important decisions that change the path that we are on. Once acted upon, there can be no going back, and he knows that this was the moment when his life changed forever. His eyes are watering; it might be the cold but maybe not. He takes a deep gulp from his rapidly cooling tea while she continues to flick aimlessly through the TV channels hoping to find something to escape into.
“Please come back to bed.” Her voice was soft and seductive, and in that moment of weakness, he closed the curtains and answered the siren’s call, dropping his clothes once more and returned to the warmth and wonder of her arms, their naked bodies entwining with a passion that he had never experienced before.
“Why do you carry that knife?” She asked. The early morning sun oozed through the gap in the curtains, and she looked just as good as she had the previous night.
He told her about his life and his dubious profession and she listened. From that point onwards they were bound together. Some weeks later they had married, quietly, out of the public eye, and to begin with it worked.
“Ha!” he surprises himself by speaking out loud as he recalls the slow process by which the passion turned sour and how once that had gone there was nothing left. How his work went out of fashion and how he had become the subject of a contract, forcing them to seek anonymity in the depths of the country, and how like fish out of water they had slowly but surely suffocated, and they had grown to hate each other one day at a time.
He still has the knife. Each day he cleans it and strokes it. It has never let him down, never questioned him, and never belittled him. It has only ever given him what he wants and he knows that it still can. He moves to put down the mug but it falls into his lap, spilling the tepid remains between his legs. He tries to get out of the chair but his body will not respond. Nothing will move.
She looks away from the silent TV and smiles. “Did you enjoy your tea DEAR?”
The last things that he hears, as oblivion absorbs him, is her wheezing laughter, the sounds of washing up and the church bells chiming midnight.
La Clique
Over the holiday weekend I went to the Hippodrome in London to see La Clique. This is a modern day burlesque and is a show well worth seeing. The theatre itself is odd as theatres go, the stage being a circular raised dais no more than ten feet in diameter. Stalls seats are of the fold up wooden variety and other seats are scattered around the converted night club. There are even tables with waiter service if you can afford the drinks that is. Eight pounds a pint seems a little excessive for bottled beer, but then I guess you don't have to drink.
It is a small company and each act is very different and quirky to say the least. The semi naked male gymnast performing in a bath of water appealed to many, as did Ursula Martinez, whose only prop is a small white handkerchief, with which she tranfixes,and fascinates.
http://files.ww.com/files/21406.html
One of the most grotesque acts however was the contortionist who managed to climb through two tennis rackets. There were people there whose thighs would not fit through such a small space and yet he managed to squeeze through both rackets at the same time while entertaining everyone with his antics.
It was a wonderful evening and spending such quality time with the family was an added bonus. I do recommend La Clique, though be aware that it is for over eighteens only.
It is a small company and each act is very different and quirky to say the least. The semi naked male gymnast performing in a bath of water appealed to many, as did Ursula Martinez, whose only prop is a small white handkerchief, with which she tranfixes,and fascinates.
http://files.ww.com/files/21406.html
One of the most grotesque acts however was the contortionist who managed to climb through two tennis rackets. There were people there whose thighs would not fit through such a small space and yet he managed to squeeze through both rackets at the same time while entertaining everyone with his antics.
It was a wonderful evening and spending such quality time with the family was an added bonus. I do recommend La Clique, though be aware that it is for over eighteens only.
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