Lying awake in bed is when you realise that when it all comes down to it we are all just animals. The grunts, loud breathing and snores coming from the person next to you!
October 30, 2010
October 14, 2010
Birthday Girl
As the civilised world revelled in the news that the 33 Chilean miners have been delivered safely from their 700m subterranean hell after 70 days, reports are coming in that one person is not at all pleased.
Insiders claimed that ex-British Premier Margaret Thatcher, reportedly suffering from terminal ‘forgetfulness’ muttered that she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about, because as far as she was concerned, there shouldn’t even be any miners because she destroyed them all in 1985.
“Not so,” said International miner’s leader Bora Hole. “Mining is still alive and kicking, despite Thatcher’s attempts to strangle it at source in the UK. It’s gone on in other countries for decades, the difference being that some nations support their workers – who after all are the backbone of any national economy – whilst others prefer the financial sector as a source of national income. We all know where that particular strategy left us.”
“Yeah, right in the mire,” said a passerby with a Yorkshire accent who overheard the conversation. “It’s all well and good all these London-based fairies deciding the future of our country based on Thatcherism – but may I be so kind as to remind you that the British Empire was built on industrialisation – not paper shuffling and number crunching. Wallies, the lot of ’em.”
Apparently yesterday was Thatcher’s 85th birthday – eclipsed totally by a mining rescue operation in Chile – funny old World; wonder what Pinochet thinks of it all.
October 10, 2010
Reasons not to have a TV (not comprehensive)
X-Factor
Big Brother
Strictly Come Dancing
Changing rooms
Come dine with me
DIY SOS
Supernanny
Weakest Link
I’m a celebrity get me out of here
The Apprentice
Master Chef
Hell’s Kitchen
Wife swap
Total wipeout
Deal or no deal
October 4, 2010
The man said swing
The man said swing
When you’re too tired to write can you slow down? What happens to the words? Do they start to slur? Does what you are saying still make sense? Should that really have been a question mark?
Keyboards don’t drag in the same way that an inkpen does. The smear on the page is missing. The clinical delete button kills off the character. The early draft of a Philosopher On Tap classic will never appear for sale at Christies, found at the bottom of a long forgotten drawer or discovered in the library of a minor country house.
Eb ain’t a great key for a guitarist
Something feels missing. The half consumed bottle of bourbon or the empty jug of black coffee with a pile of cigarette stubs in the ashtray. The pile of paper on the floor, screwed up remnants of screwed up attempts at pen on paper.
Staring at the screen just doesn’t seem to cut it, at least not from the romantic vision of the writer stuck in the attic room looking out over the red brick back streets, or was it a concrete jungle seen from a run down apartment block.
Where’s the story?
The saxophone music came through the wall from next door. At first I thought it came from a CD but then I soon realised this couldn’t be the case. Suddenly it seemed to match my mood. Tiredness. I couldn’t make out the name of the tune. Can’t say my musical knowledge stretches far anyway.
The music stopped and after a minute or so I heard a door slam. Must have been an accident. The slam didn’t match the music. I shut the lid on my laptop and called it a night.
February 2, 2010
The Funeral Service
The service was due to start at 2pm but by 1.40 if you weren’t already in you weren’t going to get a seat. We sat there in our Sunday funereal best biding our time. I was glad I had dressed soberly although I had considered doing otherwise. This didn’t stretch to a tie.
November 14, 2009
A nomad I
A nomad I, wandering these flat, people-scorched streets of sunless stone. Infinitely deep puddles crater the roads, obstructing my senses, confusing an endless search which already, unsignposted, makes no sense. Tall buildings obscure the vision and without a map make impossible a plan.
I pass brightly lit front rooms with televisions flickering through uncurtained windows, the occasional canned roar of a compliant audience sometimes audible. Not stopping in case I’m seen looking I move on and leave them to their entertainments.
Further on I come to the pub. It too is brightly lit and I can see faces leaning forwards at the bar. A log fire dances in the grate and some drinkers sit at tables either side of the hearth, warmed inside and out. More occasional laughter.
It is a Sunday and I walk by a church. Dim lighting shines through the multicoloured stained glass above. The door is open and another column of light illuminates the entrance. One of the faithful scurries past, enters and is consumed.
Arriving home at last with cold hands I fumble with my keys at the lock and open the front door. The house is dark but I switch on a light and then prod the heating. I make a cup of tea, sit in my chair and think.
October 1, 2009
consciousness
streamofconsciousnesssittinghereinthekitchentryinghardnotousethe
spacebarandlisteningtoclassicfmontheradiojosephissittingoppositem
ereadinghisbookwhilstisipataglassofchileanmerlotitisveryrelaxingivej
ustfinishedmyfishandchipsbutnotyetclearedthetableoftheremnants
ofthemealanneisoutatanotherofhermeetingsnotsurewhetheritissund
ayschoolteacherspccoreastgateschoolgovernorshannahisupinherro
omiveheardherbutnotseenherjohnhasjustchangedintohispyjamasino
rdertobeallowedtowatchtherestoftopgearandtomhasjustfinishedhis
foodhavingbeenoutatsirenfmandnowgawdonlyknowswhatheisdoing
upinhisroomthatsasnapshotofmylifebetweeneighttwentyandeightt
wentytwoonthursdaythefirstofoctobertwothousandandninewhere
doesthetimego
September 24, 2009
Early morning at Newark Northgate
There’s something about getting up early to travel somewhere. There’s a smell to it, especially if the weather looks as if it is going to be nice. The roads are clear. The journey to the station is a lot quicker than it would have been a couple of hours later. When you get there the car park is fairly empty so you can pick your spot.
This morning I am in Newark Northgate station catching the 06.46 to the big city. The situation is exactly as described above. Last night there was a red sky and so of course this is a pleasant early morning.
On my way in from the car park a man runs past. The 06.26 has just pulled in to the station and he needs to be on it. In my mind he is not going to catch it but looking up at the screen I see that he has two minutes so he is probably ok.
The staff are all in. In fact at the Costa Coffee on platform 1 there are three staff and just me. I grab a latte and a croissant and make my way to the waiting room. There’s no one else on the platform although a couple of newspaper readers have staked out the waiting room. Detectives with nobody to watch but each other.
Gradually, as we approach train time, the platform is starting to fill up. Someone strikes up a conversation in the waiting room. That first word seems almost like a wake up call. The transition of night into day. It has disturbed my reverie.
The imminent arrival of the train is announced and I emerge from the comfort of the waiting room to stand on the platform. Outside the day has definitely arrived. Whirring noises and chatty teenagers mix with still stony-faced commuters steeling themselves for another day down their pit. I get on the train and leave Newark behind…
later
the masses wash onboard at Peterborough, disrupt the carriage and settle into their own personal mode of survival. Internet access slows to a snails pace or goes into reverse, resuming normal service
September 18, 2009
5.30 am
It’s early but I’m up. When you’re awake you’re awake. So I’m sat here on the settee in the front room.
Although we live slap bang in the middle of town there is a silence about the place at this time in the morning. It’s an unusual contrast of noise and no noise. I can hear lorries as they drive past outside. I don’t normally notice the noise of the traffic outside. I’m used to it.
Then there’s the clock. I didn’t even know it ticked but I can hear it clearly now. At first when I heard it I thought to myself “that’s a clock ticking! It must be in another room”. Upon investigation I realised that it was the clock on the mantlepiece in the room where I was sat. Amazing! My life will probably never be the same again. Every time I walk into this room I will hear the clock ticking. I’m not sure that this is a change for the good.
Ah well. It must all point to our house being a noisy house though because I don’t notice any of these sounds during the day. Actually the traffic is now also irritating me. How dare it intrude. I don’t hear it when I’m in bed and the bedroom is on the same side of the house as where I’m sat now – the double glazing in the bedroom probably accounts for that.
At 5.44 I can hear Tom move about above me. It isn’t natural for a teenager to be up this early ?. It’s still very dark out although there are plenty of lights in town. They seem to contrast with the darkness. There is dark and there is light. No in between.
The traffic has died down again but the clock still ticks…
August 21, 2009
June 24, 2009
Early morning at the petrol station
It’s the beginning of a hot day in Lincoln and after dropping John off at school I take the car to fill up with petrol. The smell of the petrol and the whirring of the pumps says to me that this won’t be a pleasant place to be as the morning moves into midday. It feels inner city, radiating concrete with little relief from the sun.
At home the back doors are already open and I hear the birds calling to each other in the garden. They are enjoying themselves. I can almost hear them say “this is why we come here every summer”. I too am relaxed. Tom bustles about upstairs but everyone else is out of the house.
June 23, 2009
the excitement of the trip
I’m pretty much all packed. A few toiletries to sort out in the morning. Passport retrieved from hibernation and fresh ironed clothes tidily, for now, tucked into the bag. Tonight is my last proper night of sleep. Tomorrow I will be on the plane, overnight, and then five late nights and forced mornings, before another overnighter back on the plane home.
The feeling isn’t quite the same as I imagine trips of old to be. The farewell dinner with best friends and loved ones. Next morning taking the trunk down to the railway station and then on to the harbour for departure on a lengthy voyage. The ceremonial crossing of the equator. Dressing for dinner on board. Interminable days of seasickness followed by long periods of intolerable heat.
The idea that I can fly for twelve hours to the far side of the earth, party for five days and then fly back doesn’t seem right. Still, everyone on the trip is excited and I can see this excitement heightening tomorrow morning as the party, from all over the country, diversely makes its way to London Airport for the departure. We even have people from as far as Dublin and New York joining the trip.
It is twilight now. Nearly ten o’clock at night at the height of the British summer. In South Africa it will be dark at this time, Lions roaring and birds screeching, night time in the wilderness. At this time on Thursday I will be gathering around a watering hole, probably singing myself, just like the lions in their own way. Hopefully tunefully.
June 20, 2009
Tomorrow is the longest day
It sounds like a dramatic post title, “the longest day”. It doesn’t, though, refer to some forthcoming ordeal, an adventure where the aircraft crashes in the jungle and it takes forever to be rescued. Tomorrow is actually the longest day. June 21st, the summer equinox.
It is somewhat disconcerting because it implies the summer, and I mean the period of semi nice weather rather than the specific season, the cricket season if you like, is half way through already. Aargh.
Wimbledon is about to start. Good. I can identify with tennis nowadays since I took John to see it last year. We saw Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal and Venus Williams in separate matches on Centre Court. A great introduction proper to the sport.
We also spent lots of money. An “official” towel was £24. We bought two. That’s roughly 20 pints of bitter’s worth for anyone reading this in the future and trying to calibrate that cost. Still we had a great day out.
The first test against the Aussies is also about to start. Another pointer to this being the height of summer. I have mixed feelings about this one. The last time they were over was probably the greatest test series ever. It is unlikely to be repeated this time but we shall see.
Anyway the effect of course of it being the longest day is that it is light both very early and very late and it is at that first part of the day that I now sit in the conservatory tapping out this conversation.
It is not a particularly nice day out. Typical British summer weather really. There is breeze and cloud although this will not stop me from putting on my shorts today. There is also a sparrow pecking away at the patio outside. I can’t say I regularly see a sparrow in the back garden but he is very welcome.
Since I sat down to write this morning the noise of the birds has grown louder. I’m surprised that I was up before them. I suppose we all need our fair quota of sleep.
Looking out into the garden I can see the detritus of childhood. A broken football goal, a football, a giant tennis ball, some football cones, a cricket catching practice net, a trampoline and a slide that must now be 12 or 13 years old and has very well withstood the rigours of its dozen British winters. It doesn’t get used much anymore.
The door of the shed that keeps all the outdoor toys stands half open. It has to go someday soon. The toys are no longer used, just like the playhouse, a treasure in its time but now occupied solely with the storage of garden furniture.
The wheelbarrow on the patio is filled with compost and has been planted with long stemmed white flowers. I know not their make. The chimeniere hides behind them.
Enough of these musings. Tomorrow is the longest day which means that today is nearly as long so I must get on with it and go and make Anne a cup of tea. It is still early but there is a lot of day to cram things into so lets go!
March 2, 2009
Yesterday was St David’s day
Yesterday was St David’s day. It has no real significance outside of Wales other than, as a Welshman, I know it is synonymous with daffodils. This year has been different because of the dearth of these yellow blooms on view.
I’m not saying that everyone in Lincoln goes around wearing ‘daffs’ on March 1st but they have usually hit the hedgerows by now. As of today they have yet to flower.
An observation would be that they are late due to an unusually hard winter. One more akin to the way winters used to be. However one might ask why they have traditionally been worn on March 1st if winters of old were harsh and daffodils late flowering.
I don’t have the answer and am not really inclined to dig deeper.
February 27, 2009
Life is short
“Sometimes you just got to eat desert first.”
Jeff Pulver, 28/1/09 though it may well not be original.