where art collides philosoperontap

February 16, 2013

Lincoln A to Z V3 Mulsanne Park – sporting triumphs and utter dejection

Filed under: A 2 Z,chinks — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 12:31 pm

When our third child was quite young he went along to Saturday morning football at Mulsanne Park. We were never sure whether Mulsanne rhymed with frying pan or window pane. I was of the former camp but others in the family claimed the latter. Being of all seeing all knowing disposition I am of course right though the argument was never truly settled and I doubt that anyone cares or even realises it was an issue.

The boy was never going to make it as a footballer. I recall a beautiful spring day when the sun was shining and for once it was a pleasure to have to perform parental duties and take him and his pals out to Nettleham. There have been other times when the icy blast of a gale blowing across from the Urals  made me wonder why he wasn’t more interested in jigsaws as a hobby but this was not one of them. It was a perfect day for football.

Conditions that are right footballing are also ideal for other activities. At Mulsanne Park these conditions are, where the parents are concerned, good for sipping a cup of tea purchased from the pavilion and chatting with other parents. Some people are more interested in following the on field activity and I must say that to some extent I fall into this camp. However I do feel that I can with a degree of concentration adequately multitask and also drink tea and chat. I know not what the chat is about – as far as multitasking is concerned “remembering” is one task to far.

You should know I am not one of those competitive parents who shout instructions from the sideline and remonstrate with the ref when he thinks that a decision has not gone the right way. Still I do like to celebrate the on-pitch success of the boy. I can be very loud in my appreciation. No wilting lily I.

This brings me to the other point about ideal footballing conditions and that is what is good for football is also good for spring growth. In the case of Mulsanne Park this might be a renewal of activity in the hedgerows and also on the playing surface itself. We like the new growth in the grass even though it means work for the lawnmower.  Unfortunately grass isn’t all that grows on a football pitch. Daisies also flourish.

On the beautiful day in question the lad was dawdling in the outfield and his attention was caught by a certain daisy. This daisy must have been a fast grower because the pitch had not long been mowed. The daisy clearly merited closer inspection.

Now one of the aspects of the game of football is that people run around the field kicking the ball this way and that and there is a good chance if you stand in one spot long enough that the play will eventually come your way. On this occasion with daisy inspection in full flow the opposition winger came thundering towards my lad who was totally oblivious to anything other than the flower. The winger shot past and with only the keeper between him and stardom made certain of his place on the scoresheet and no doubt of lasting fame in the history of Nettleham Under 6’s football.

The boy looked up and trotted over to some other part of the pitch, neither jubilant nor utterly dejected. Sorry if the title was misleading. I set out to write an imaganitive piece of on pitch excitement but that’s not what came out 🙂

The shift of the coal

Filed under: chinks — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 10:11 am

I was sat on the settee, staring into space, thinking of nothing really. The fire was crackling away. It had mesmerised me, reduced me to a state of medidative trance.

The coal shifted. I returned to a state of normality.

February 15, 2013

Freeze the nads winter

Filed under: miscellany — Tags: , , — Trefor Davies @ 3:23 pm

I can see ma breath

Freeze the nads, glow the nose, see the breath mornings,

unlockable car lock, blow fingered, arse slip car parks,

ice scraping, ear burning, toes numbing amputating cold.

 

Bottom warming, slipper finding, sleep inducing, wood smoking, blanket wrapping, crumpet toasting, whisky sipping, toes burning, isolating warmth of the log fire.

February 14, 2013

Motorbike boogie

Filed under: chinks — Trefor Davies @ 5:43 pm

We were driving home from picking up at school. The rush hour traffic was building up heading out of Lincoln but that was ok as we were going in the other direction.

We passed a motorcyclist stationary in the queue running up to the roundabout at the bypass.  Actually he wasn’t stationary. His head was bouncing vigorously from side to side, obviously listening to some loud music. It wasn’t just his head. It almost felt as if his bike was bouncing up and down like a pogo stick.

In the car Radio2 was blaring out Bryan Ferry – Let’s Get Together. I wondered if he was listening to the same thing. We moved on…

February 12, 2013

Hywel Harris and Mrs Evans the cleaning lady

Filed under: short stories — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 9:31 pm

When I was a younger man and full of the joys of spring with no plans for the future I lived at Coleg Y Bedyddwyr Bala Bangor. Bala Bang was a Baptist church hostel in Bangor and part of the University. There came a time when the final test of my knowledge of the subject to which I had devoted the previous three years of study began to loom large.

This was a matter of concern as much of the time allocated to the study itself had been squandered. The essential life skills such as how to drink ten pints of beer and how to go at least five pints without breaking the seal would serve me well as I set out, suitcase in hand, to make my fortune. However it did little for my chances of achieving a level of performance in the final examination that would satisfy those deciding what class of degree I should receive, if any.

So there I was, sat incongruously on my own in the small but excellent library of the hostel, surrounded by theological works and my own small pile of engineering books trying to remember Laplace transforms and communication theory when in walked Eurig.

Eurig was a second year theological student. He wasn’t destined for a life of the cloth but was an aspiring teacher of Religious Education. This doesn’t mean that he wasn’t made of the right stuff. It can’t be easy teaching RE to kids, most of whom have at best no interest in the subject and at worst even less than that. You need to be of strong moral character to do it.

Eurig, who I remember was from Ystalafera in South Wales, came in to the library and proceeded to arrange his books tidily at one end of the single long table in the library. Having done his preparation Eurig proceeded to lean back, hands behind his head and stare into space. This was a bit off-putting for me. I desperately needed to learn all the stuff I had neglected over the previous year and couldn’t concentrate with Eurig there just staring into space.

“Thinking Eur?” Eurig continued to gaze at the light fitting and replied in the affirmative.

“What are you studying?”

“Hywel Harris” said the light fitting.

Now most of you will know that Hywel Harris was a famous Welsh Methodist cleric from the 18th century. He was effectively the founder of the Presbyterian Church of Wales. Google him.

“Ooh I know a lot about Hywel Harris” which was a bit of a fib.  I had barely heard of him but Eurig wasn’t to know and raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Go on ask me something about him”. Quiet descended while Eurig gave this some thought.

“Ok how about this then? Who was the woman that most influenced Hywel Harris in the formation of his theological stance?”

“Oh that’s easy” I said confidently. “It was Mrs Evans the cleaning lady.”

This took Eurig completely by surprise. “But wasn’t it…?” citing a name I have long since forgotten.

“Ahah that’s a common misconception” says I. “In actual fact Mrs Evans used to come in to his study to empty his waste paper bin whilst he was beavering away on one tract or another. He threw away a lot of drafts of his stuff.  He and she would hold long conversations about life, the universe and matters Presbyterian.”

“Are you sure?” said a now totally bewildered Eurig.

“Completely, I know my Hywel Harris.”

Eurig fell for it hook line and sinker. The joke had worked so well I struggled to keep a straight face and had to leave the library before I gave the game away. Upstairs I went to the common room and told its occupants the story.

A minute or two later in came Eurig and I had to leave discretely. The risk of breaking into laughter was too great. As I left I hear him ask the other students the Hywel Harris question to which they of course replied “Mrs Evans”.

Exam revision carried on and the day came when some of the results were published. Eurig had completely failed one exam. He had swotted up five essay subjects for an examination that required him to write five essays and not a single one of them came up. He can’t have lasted more than ten minutes in the room. Just enough time to write his name and for panic to gradually take over his system.

Poor old Eurig. To the rest of us this was hilarious and I can only be glad that the Hywel Harris question didn’t come up making me partly responsible for his predicament.

We don’t need to worry too much about Eurig though. The religious establishment kicked in and looked after it’s own. He was given an opportunity to resit the exam and this time passed. Phew.

I moved on from Bangor and have never seen him since. I should look him up one day for a chat about our subject of mutual interest.


Postscript

January 2024

Coincidentally I am just reading the History of The Welsh Methodist Society – The Early Societies in South West Wales 1837 – 1750 and in it Hywel Harris features large. Turns out old Hywel’s story was quite juicy. The woman was married and her name was Madam Sidney Griffiths. Apparently his wish was for his own wife and her husband to die so that they could become an item.

Whodathunk!

February 10, 2013

The third law part 15 – the fireside chat

Filed under: 3rd law — Tags: , , — Trefor Davies @ 7:33 pm

Sitting here by the fire listening so someone else’s choice of music. It’s ok. He has similar tastes to me. Bought some smokeless fuel from B&Q this morning. Some packaged “instant light” stuff. It’s not right. Coal should be delivered on the back of a lorry and the bags emptied straight into the coal hole. We don’t have a coal hole any more. It went along with the pantry. Sacrificed for a side extension – two bedrooms a garage, utility room and downstairs toilet.

I’m not complaining, just sayin’.

I occasionally think about getting a coal bunker and taking delivery of a proper load. We used to have one when I was a kid in Wales. I remember Mam used to lie in front of the fire. Then when we moved to the Isle of Man the house only had electric radiators which weren’t particularly effective and probably expensive to run. Mam then used to lie in front of the radiator, behind the settee!

Mam and Dad moved house around ten years or so ago and the new place is warm as toast. So warm in fact I get too hot there. Ours is a big house and quite draughty which you get used to. The fire when lit is a real luxury to have. We don’t really need it. When the house was built central heating was the domain of the rich and our house had a fireplace in both downstairs living rooms. The one in the TV room is long gone, it went at the same time as the coal hole.

I think most people don’t have open fires anymore though they always seem to shift a lot of coal at the Garage on Burton Road so perhaps I’m wrong. They don’t have their purchasing right though because they keep running out of smokeless first. Considering that the garage is in a smokeless zone you wonder why they even bother with the proper smoky stuff.

I know I know, people travel into Lincoln and pick up coal on their way home. They should get themselves a coal bunker then. It’s a much cheaper way to buy coal.

Dunno what got me going on coal, other than I’m sitting here enjoying the company of the fire. It’s ‘orrible out there. Drizzly with the promise of hail and snow later. Bring on the real stuff. The big flaked deep drifting hole up for the winter stormy weather blotting out the sun snow. Ya have to lurve the stuff. Never mind about the aftermath. Enjoy the moment.

Anyway it isn’t snow at the moment it’s drizzle as I said. Rain is a bit of a pain if you are a bespectacled individual as I am. I used to think it would be a good idea if someone invented windscreen wipers for specs but thought that they would probably not be practical due to their being too heavy. You would think that problem could be easily overcome in these days of advanced technology wouldn’t you. Doesn’t appear to be the case.

If you are not a wearer of glasses it is hard for you to appreciate the total freedom represented by walking in the rain, face up to the heavens and letting the water run down your face. I take off my glasses sometimes to do it. Freeeedommmm. I was just imagining doing it then in case you were wondering.

Mind you don’t get me wrong I like the rain though there comes a point after forty days and forty nights where one does look forward to a bit of sun. There’s nothing quite like a summer’s day in the back garden, sipping a glass of something cool. The best bits about those kind of days are the evenings. It’s not often we can sit out in the evenings here. Maybe a week’s worth in a year. We are too far North. It’s good when we can though I do suffer from mozzies. They love me. The answer is to sit around the firepit – the smoke keeps them off. It’s worth ending up smelling of woodsmoke and it is easy enough to have a quick shower before going to bed. It’s back to the fire theme by the looks of it which wasn’t deliberate. Stop arson around Tref.

I’ve moved now from the living room to the kitchen where I am cooking roast pork for Sunday dinner. I’ve followed Michel Roux Junior’s tip for getting good crackling which is to pour boiling water over the skin of the pork before putting it in the oven. You have to dry the skin afterwards obv though as I think of it not all of you may have realised that you have to have dry pork skin to get good crackling. Especially the vegetarians amongst you who have no real need to know that information.

Might come in handy in a pub quiz one day though that does assume that you frequent such forms of entertainment. I don’t like pub quizzes myself because I have no idea about TV soaps and football which it seems to me is what half the questions are about. I have watched one episode each of East Enders and Coronation Street just so that I could educate myself about the genre, if that’s the right way of putting it. Must have easily been 25 years ago now. I doubt much has changed. Characters come and go and from what I can gather come back again. Woteva. Get a life people.

The other thing about pub quizzes is that some teams have loads of people in them which unfavourably stacks the odds against the smaller teams. I did once go to a Scout Group Family Quiz on a Saturday night in the Bailgate Methodist Church Hall of all places. Not my idea of a thing to do on  Saturday but one sometimes has to make these little sacrifices for the sake of the family. On this occasion Anne had to take one of the kids home at half time so I kept up the honour of the Davies’ and soldiered on for the second half. Blow me down if the first set of questions wasn’t about the Bible. Being a rampant non church goer married to a Sunday School teacher I felt helpless. I also felt that it was fair game to phone home to find out the answers to some of the questions which is what I did. Eyebrows were raised but when challenged by the Minister I explained and of course he, being a good Christian, understood and accepted the situache.

Pub quizzes are not helped by the fact that they are in pubs. Obvious I know but what I’m trying to get across is that when I’ve had a drink or two I get even worse at the quiz. It doesn’t really matter though sometimes there is a lot of cash at stake. I’ll never make my millions at pub quizzes.

I do occasionally buy a lottery ticket. Maybe two or three times a year. It is very rare for me to even get one number right. It has certainly been years since I won anything. Since the first year it came out I’d say. I think I won a tenner the first time I played it but not very much since. It’s how they get you hooked. Didn’t work in my case witnessed by the three times a year entry level. I do sometimes see people queuing up at garages to spend tens of pounds on tickets though. Probably those who can least afford to do so. Ah well.

I bet on the gee gees once a year when they run the Grand National. I’m sure it’s the same for most people.  I never win anything, or at least don’t get all my money back. I quite like going to the races themselves as opposed to watching them on tv and we have been known to go to Market Rasen for a day out. Usually the budget is a fiver a race but we’ve never had cause to pop the champagne.

One year we had to get a tractor to tow our car out of the mud! Didn’t have the Jeep then. There’s something about a race meet that is different to when you watch it on the telly. I suppose for one I have usually got a bet on at a meet which won’t be the case for the telly – except of course the Grand National. You also get the real life atmosphere, roar of the crowd, thudding of horses hooves – y’awl understand?

I’ll just go and put some more coal on the fire… 3rd Law part 14 here. 3rd law part 16 here.

Inner Turmoil

Filed under: chinks — Blues @ 4:02 pm

A middle aged woman in a red anorak grasped the handrail and peered worriedly into the empty depths, her inner turmoil etched all over her face. As I swung my black bag into the skip marked ‘Household Waste’ she turned and, with an anguished voice, confided to me. “I just can’t do it…. I’m superstitious”. Walking off, she left the intact mirror and the seven years’ bad luck by the side of the skip for someone else to deal with.

Lincoln A to Z S seven, legendary plot

Filed under: A 2 Z,fusion — Tags: , — Trefor Davies @ 3:00 pm

Did Roman legions march up Bunkers Hill, battling their way through traffic to Skegness? As they left the safety and confines of their city was it understood they were passing a special place? Maybe.

Did St Hugh tending his stone-carrying flock of Cathedral builders stand atop the quarry spreading his spirituality wide. He might.

This place is special. You feel it as you walk the grid. The names stand out.  Stukeley Cl, Ross Cl, Alexander Wlk, Warren Ct, Exley Sq. Take them in, roll them off the tongue, digest.

No heart of empire can compare. Howe Ct, Novona Ho, Olsen Ri, Olsen Ct, Stark Wy. Badges of history, worn with fierce communal pride.

Onwards to Putnam Wy, Pitcairn Av, Palatine Ho, Padley Rd, Pigot Wy; the five pioneering ps personified, lack nothing, dream of adventure.

Reed Dr, Venables Way, Marrat Cl, Carlton Sq. Memory sticking, ship launching handles of twenty one gun salutes and squadron leaders’ flypasts.

Then the great names: Outer Circle Road, Wolsey Way, Carlton Blvd and, of course, again, Bunkers Hill.  Great corpuscular arteries, commercial lifeblood, food and drink.

And finally, the Carlton Centre. Grand central market, bread basket, meeting place, holiday booking point.

Go there. Spend time. See life happen. Be.

You have been reading S seven, legendary plot sponsored by:

Argos, Pets At Home, Lidl, McDonalds, Boots The Chemist, Poundstretcher, Norwich & Peterborough Building Society, Betfred, Post Office, Charlie’s Celebrations, Alexanders, The Coop Travel, Cooplands, Brantano, Blockbuster, Halfords, Genesis Dental Care, Liberty Hair And Beauty, Domino’s Pizza, Super Hand Car Wash, Neptune Fish and Chips, Curves, Hot Chocolate Tanning and Nail Studio, Good Condition Fitness and Remedial Centre, Texaco, Cream Hair Styling and St Georges Cars

The typo – God Bless Amurica

Filed under: thoughts — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 9:57 am

@charlesarthur @nytimes God less Amurica

oops that should have read

@charlesarthur @nytimes God bless Amurica

a simple slip by @tref consigned a whole continent to spiritual oblivion

February 3, 2013

Echoes of Madness

Filed under: poems,poetry — Tags: , , — Trefor Davies @ 7:00 pm

The Lawn, early morning silence,

the city had not yet stirred.

Footsteps in the dew

stopped to listen.

The hair blown breeze

danced around a face

focussed on a sound,

a growing whisper, a cry.

Doors slam, heavy boots,

dissident murmurs of the past.

 

The dew lifted and

came the shriek of innocence,

children hide and seek.

“No ball games allowed”

A remnant of old order,

echoes of madness

calming under the palm.

Third Law Part 14 – thief in the night

Filed under: 3rd law — Trefor Davies @ 11:48 am

I saw on Facebook just now that a dog had killed someone’s cockerel.   Not good. The trials of life in the country I guess. A friend of mine keeps chickens in the centre of town and had a cockerel that was the subject of regular complaints from a neighbour. You do hear of people moving into the countryside and finding themselves woken regularly at a very early hour by a farm cockerel. For such people I have no sympathy. It is a little different for those living in town where cockerels have probably not been common features in the urban landscape for hundreds of years now. Having said that I was a bemused bystander where it came to my friend’s situation. I wasn’t affected by the dawn cock crow and didn’t mind him having a cockerel. I think the cockerel eventually died – the strain of having to service all the hens must get to them all in the end.

A regular supply if fresh eggs is no bad thing. Makes a big difference having your eggs fresh. You don’t notice it until you’ve tried. Almost the same as with bread though not to the same marked extent. Fresh bread is a real luxury. I went to a baking master class once at the cockerel owner’s place (the one in town, not the one in the countryside). The baker told us that in “the old days” mothers would not let their kids have bread until it was a few days old as otherwise they would wolf the whole lot down. Inneresting eh?

The subtitle of this bit of the third law is “thief in the night”. Please note that only refers to the death of the cockerel initially referred to and has nothing to do with the rest of the piece unless it slips in accidentally. I’m thinking swimming now. I started swimming last summer when there was a general consensus that I needed to lose weight. The treatment is working and the inches have been disappearing.

The one thing about swimming is that it gives you a lot of time to think. The pounding of the lanes could be an intensely boring exercise were you unable to “get into the zone”. There isn’t much looking around to do. I can’t see much without my specs anyway, even to the point where I have to ask an attendant the time when I think it is getting near to when I should be getting out. This is important as I normally stop off for a swim at Yarborough Leisure Centre on my way into work and I need to make sure I’m not (too) late in.

Even though I can’t see much I do like to wear “mist resistant” goggles, given to me for Christmas by my sister Ann, fwiw. Her family are also swimmers. They are real pros compared to me. I asked one niece if she would like to come swimming with her old uncle Tref. I said I was a pretty slow swimmer at 25 minutes for 20 lengths. She said she did 16 lengths in 5 minutes. Hmm. We had a race and even with a handicap of having to swim four times as far as me she still won. Fair play.

Anyway in pounding the lanes I get, as I said, time to think and to observe. The first observation is in swimming techniques. Some are really annoying. There is one woman who bobs up and down a lot and her feet seem to go at twice the rate of mine, an unfeasibly fast stroke rate. For some reason I find this irritating. Then there are the women who seem to just go for a chat. This too is irritating when I am there, totally focussed (ish) on the task in hand.

Some people swim faster than others. Most swim faster than me. I’ve long since stopped worrying about being passed by old dears who seem to glide effortlessly by. I’ve not been able to work it out. I suspect it is down to the length of my inside leg. I always buy “short” legged trousers and I reckon that the power in swimming comes from the leverage obtained from the longer leg. For the record there is an etiquette when lane swimming. The written rule is that you always swim in a clockwise manner with the slower swimmers sticking to the lanes marked out for that purpose. The unwritten rule is that if you catch up with a slower swimmer you don’t try to overtake. You just wait until nearly at the end of the lane and turn around early thereby finding, if you are lucky, a totally empty pool ahead of you. There are exceptions to this. If there are only two of you in the lane it is perfectly acceptable to pass on one side as you are not likely to encounter another swimmer coming the other way. Sorted.

Being pretty blind I have come to recognise the regulars from their outlines. If I saw them in the street, me with my specs on and they fully dressed I’d probably blank them. They’d think I was a right antisocial bastard. The average age of the regulars tends to be on the high side though you do get a younger cohort coming for the very early swim. I can’t understand how they have the discipline to do this. If they are coming out at 7.30 when I am getting in the pool they must have been up and at it by 6am wouldn’t you think?

I tend always to use the same locker, number 333 or triple Nelson. That refers to a cricketing term – Google it. I also like to use the same end changing cubicle as it is slightly bigger than the others. I reckon I only get it a third of the time as other swimmers must have the same idea. Sometimes people leave their clothes in the cubicle rather than using a locker and it can be a bit annoying when this cubicle happens to be my favourite. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a massive deal but I thought it worth mentioning. One of the culprits might read this and change his or her ways. Unlikely but you never know.

By the way I know that some of you will be thinking that these Third Law posts are longer than your average post. Well that of course is because the third law says time goes faster when using the internet so in practice they shouldn’t seem to take any longer to read than one of say 500 words which is normally considered to be more of a sweet spot for posts. I’m a reb I am.

That’s all. Gotta go swimming. Cockadoodledoo.

Part 13 is here.

Part 13 is here.

still life

Filed under: the art gallery — Tags: , , — Trefor Davies @ 10:20 am

You need to click on the image to fully appreciate this scene.  Whilst this post is entitled “Still Life” in actual fact it represents a snapshot in time. The beer was quickly consumed whilst the plant remains in all its plastic glory.

The picture was taken at the Tower Hotel in Lincoln during the England v Scotland rugby. Useful historical association 🙂

February 1, 2013

clarinet woos

Filed under: music — Trefor Davies @ 11:57 pm

the snare, gently draws me in to the room. double base lumbers. piano dances. creamy voice. mute trumpet. tenor saxophone lightly sings to me. clarinet woos.

The cold nose

Filed under: chinks — Tags: — Trefor Davies @ 5:28 pm

The cold nose

I sit here motionless waiting for my nose to warm up. The heating has just been switched on but has not had time to sufficiently warm the space around my nose to have any effect on its temperature.

I could I suppose rub my nose but that doesn’t seem totally right because actually the rest of me is just as cold as my nose. It would  be odd for my nose to be the warmest bit of my body.

It would not be unreasonable for you to wonder why I am sitting here waiting to warm up. Why don’t I at the very least go and get a blanket or a coat or a warm pullover? Not unreasonable at all.

There are some things in life that are mysteries. The meaning of life, how old is the universe and why I am sitting here being cold?

The mystery is compounded because I am unlikely to ever find the answer to the first two questions but the third is one that needn’t even be asked. I am all powerful in that respect.

The cold nose…

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