Privy to flirting
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames
What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned
A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
A Post on the Subject of Mundane Violence - Spiritual, Physical, Memorial.
I felt – interpreted, sensed, imagined – a disjuncture, as I recently listened to the cremation service of my mother’s aunt. At one point, biblical references were creatively and affirmatively related to the dead woman always having ensured that the (food) cupboards were well-stocked – something about providing for the family, et cetera, et cetera, and so I’m sitting there knowing that this was a woman who was a generally prolific consumer… often received as communicating pride in her personal appearance, in her home, and in much else that no one (except her) really cared about. I found this vulgar, and dubious, to say the least, in what it and she communicated in terms of the Christian values that were said to underpin the service, throughout which, the speaker – a collared churchwoman – spoke without the merest flicker of embarrassment or irony. And so it goes.
Whilst in the north east (above), it was good to reacquaint with the deceased aunt’s husband, daughters, and their families. I also got to hear my mother and sister discussing various local folk’s trials and tribulations. For much of the time, I was left with the sunken feeling (sinking didn’t last very long) that these locals were the cast of soap operas that were routinely so violent, far-fetched and lacking in basic humanity that no outsider would wish to endure their grim narratives. And so I went. Leaving early, my drive back to the Midlands coincided with quiet roads – good thing, autopilot, quick. Whatever it was that I had on the radio – maybe podcasts, possibly Saturday evening Radio Four, I failed to take in – distracted. Sister’s casual mention of the young woman who’d just skipped out of town with her own sister’s husband, that was nothing – that occupied me as far as the end of my mother’s street. The matter of the house with the big shed changing hands, that was with me through to somewhere in North Yorkshire – say, Leeming Bar. It wasn’t so much the house, but more the previous owner. ‘What happened to him?’, I’d asked. ‘He went to prison, didn’t he. D’ y’ not remember?’, said mother. I didn’t remember, I’d never been told. She explained, sort of - ‘Prison - somethin’ t’ do with his step-daughters… y’ know’. His step-daughters, yes, I remembered them - the ones who my own sister used to play with. But for much of the journey, I was thinking about the old friend who I’d run into at the town’s football club earlier that day. As teenagers, we’d played football and knocked about together. At around 16, maybe 17, we drifted apart. My pathway was study and getting away, his was different. He didn’t have the scar when I knew him. Of course, as we caught up, I didn’t mention the line across his face. We talked jobs, where we now lived, and how our footballing allegiances had shifted over the years. His physique told me that it was a long long time since he’d last played football. As sister and I later departed the football club, she explained the old friend’s changed appearance - ‘It was Lenny Fulton that did it’. The name meant nothing to me. ‘He’d be about 40 now, lived down at the bottom of Chapel Street. They got into an argument one night, Lenny just slashed him.’ As sister sought out her car keys, I asked more – why did Old Friend and Lenny Fulton argue, why the violence, and what happened to knife artist Lenny. She explained, ‘It was nowt – drugs probably… He went to prison for it, though he’s dead now - alcohol.’ All of that, and the perfectly horizontal register of it – from just behind the ear, through the ear, across the left cheek, falling just short of Old Friend’s top lip – consumed me across the M62, to the M6.
In around 1990, maybe ’91, I thought it was cute, the way sister – then aged about five or six - would tackle a minced beef pie, as I watched the town’s football team with pals. She would then go and run up and down the undulating hills that flanked the western side of the football ground – all within my sightlines. We’d later jog back home – a distance which must have felt enormous to her short legs. In the same place, now, she explained to me how one of those pals who’d have been with us happened to look like something from a horror film.
For the final, short rainy stretch of the M6, I wondered about Lenny Fulton, about the final words that would have been conjured by and for his kith and kin, and whether his mother's food cupboards would have been well-stocked. My guess was that they weren't.
Monday, July 05, 2010
stayers
I attend The Boy's sports day. He is to race the three-legged race (they won, with his larger sidekick practically carrying him over the line - messy, but victorious) and the bean-bag race (a creditable finish somewhere in the middle).
At some distance from us, Emma spies the egg-and-spoon racers lining up.
And they are off.
They totter and teeter and wibble and wobble towards us.
Absent-mindedly, I gaze around, as many about me squeal and applaud in support.
Emma: Those eggs don't look even.
Shane: There'll be fallers.
Emma: No. I mean the actual eggs. They're not egg-shaped.
Intrigued, I look, and focus in, and all becomes clear.
Shane: That's because they're not eggs.
The racers get ever nearer.
Emma: They're potatos.
Shane: Potatos, they are. And the girl in yellow seems to be suffering from a particularly knobbly potato.
Emma: Stewards enquiry?
Shane: (momentary ponder) Not at all. This is education. It's all about how they deal with the uneven playing field.
Emma: (sighs) Profound.
Shane: Thanks.
And I am gone - remembering walking up Snowdon with my favourite spoon.
A potato bobbles towards my feet, a child in green feverishly following it, snatching it back and pressing on for the line.
My revery is mashed.
At some distance from us, Emma spies the egg-and-spoon racers lining up.
And they are off.
They totter and teeter and wibble and wobble towards us.
Absent-mindedly, I gaze around, as many about me squeal and applaud in support.
Emma: Those eggs don't look even.
Shane: There'll be fallers.
Emma: No. I mean the actual eggs. They're not egg-shaped.
Intrigued, I look, and focus in, and all becomes clear.
Shane: That's because they're not eggs.
The racers get ever nearer.
Emma: They're potatos.
Shane: Potatos, they are. And the girl in yellow seems to be suffering from a particularly knobbly potato.
Emma: Stewards enquiry?
Shane: (momentary ponder) Not at all. This is education. It's all about how they deal with the uneven playing field.
Emma: (sighs) Profound.
Shane: Thanks.
And I am gone - remembering walking up Snowdon with my favourite spoon.
A potato bobbles towards my feet, a child in green feverishly following it, snatching it back and pressing on for the line.
My revery is mashed.
Monday, June 07, 2010
passions
We've been back in blighty for a week, having spent a few days at the festival in Hay-on-Wye. The week of down-time left space for several longish local walks - woodland, meadows, canal - all with Alex several counties away (he returned well, he returned happy, he returned yesterday). The following notes are late reflections on what I - we - sat in on (and missed), whilst in Hay.
Henning Mankell (Saturday 29 May, morning): cancelled. Explained here (Mankell was aboard one of the flotilla boats that sought to break the blockade of Gaza).
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Ruth Rogers, in conversation with Jim Naughtie (Saturday 29 May, early afternoon): The River Cottage and River Cafe chefs and food writers spoke in memory of Rose Gray (co-founder of the River Cafe). Whilst Rogers extolled the virtues of Italy and its sun-drenched produce, Hugh F-W's bent was differently located. Throughout, there was a quiet distinction in that the ethics and politics of food were much more to the fore in F-W's general message. Key word: sustainability. Jim Naughtie left enough space for the foodies to speak for themselves, and was a beacon of how best to facilitate engaging and occasionally challenging discussion.
Small Space (by Jane Nash and Dan Milne) (Saturday 29 May, early evening): We met by the town's clock tower. And were then guided towards this piece of theatre - a one hour two-hander, performed in the kitchen-diner of a nearby cottage, to a sell-out audience of 20. Themes of intimacy and honesty were charted through the fragmented story of a couple's meeting, marriage, and learning to live with one another. It's rare that theatre gets to be so intimate that you really are looking into the whites of the actors' eyes, and they your's, but more importantly - it's rare that theatre is so tightly written and sharply executed. A great production, that made me want to return to New York, stand up from my uncomfortably high stool and applaud loudly, then quickly push on with my own writing pursuits.
Richard Layard, Geoff Mulgan and Anthony Seldon discussing the Movement for Happiness (Sunday 30 May, early evening): We attended this for a mix of professional and personal interest reasons - as if those things could so easily be separated. It was reference to what this movement's aims might yield - in terms of an approach to education - that drew us in. In short, the movement - as it is being referred to - seeks to provoke people into thinking and acting their way into living in both more personally fulfilling, and socially conscientious ways. Discussion of this raised enormous questions regarding the political, economic and psychological affiliates to what initially sound like radical changes to how we live - or rather why we live how we live. Many questions were discussed, rather than answered - and herein lies the central challenge to the happiness movers (and to many other fantastically worthwhile and creative intellectual endeavours). Translating big thinking into coherent, digestible, points for practicable action is not always so straight forward - although Seldon did articulate a 5-point list that I didn't make a note of. We'll be watching and listening and making some contribution to the furtherance of ideas that were presented, as we work on through 2010 and beyond.
One more point on the above session: Rosie Boycott, entirely open in her manner and (stand-in) chairing of this discussion, made interjections which seemed to naively lay bare the kinds of personal dissonance and social discord that will occur when a critical mass of individuals pursue lifestyles that are largely, if not entirely, self-serving. In suggesting that our domestic economy and broad social behaviour would become 'just a little boring' were they to more closely resemble those of, say, Denmark, the example of the individual chasing down 'some hot-shit media job' and all of the prizes that go with that (read personal wealth, reward, and an enhanced sense of self... self self), Boycott provoked a murmur of disapproval and a more glaring sense of cultural disunity within the room. Anthony Seldon seemed to observe that it was exactly such a profoundly self-oriented caricature (as was perhaps chairing the discussion) that was anathema to what the Movement for Happiness sought to inspire. Whilst not righting off personal ambition, the suggestion was that this might be most socially progressive were it wedded to (what I read as) an Adlerian sense of gemeinschaftsgefuhl - simply put, a sense of community, or social interest. That said, perhaps the entirely self-oriented individual will read their own progress as absolutely a matter of broad social interest. And so it goes.
Audrey Niffenegger in conversation with Lisa Allardice (Monday 31 May, morning): The author of The Time Traveller's Wife, and Her Fearful Symmetry, proved to be an elegant, engaging, and wry discussant of her motivations, passions and working practices. This was most in evidence as the hour-long session was opened up to questions from the floor. For the 25 minutes up to this point, I was reminded of how good an interviewer Jim Naughtie had been on Saturday afternoon. Whilst Allardice' editorship of the Guardian Review is no doubt high office, it probably demands a different set of qualities than does the task of being a stimulating literary interrogator. At times, Niffenegger appeared justifiably bored by the fawningly fannish initial questioning.
And that, was that.
Henning Mankell (Saturday 29 May, morning): cancelled. Explained here (Mankell was aboard one of the flotilla boats that sought to break the blockade of Gaza).
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Ruth Rogers, in conversation with Jim Naughtie (Saturday 29 May, early afternoon): The River Cottage and River Cafe chefs and food writers spoke in memory of Rose Gray (co-founder of the River Cafe). Whilst Rogers extolled the virtues of Italy and its sun-drenched produce, Hugh F-W's bent was differently located. Throughout, there was a quiet distinction in that the ethics and politics of food were much more to the fore in F-W's general message. Key word: sustainability. Jim Naughtie left enough space for the foodies to speak for themselves, and was a beacon of how best to facilitate engaging and occasionally challenging discussion.
Small Space (by Jane Nash and Dan Milne) (Saturday 29 May, early evening): We met by the town's clock tower. And were then guided towards this piece of theatre - a one hour two-hander, performed in the kitchen-diner of a nearby cottage, to a sell-out audience of 20. Themes of intimacy and honesty were charted through the fragmented story of a couple's meeting, marriage, and learning to live with one another. It's rare that theatre gets to be so intimate that you really are looking into the whites of the actors' eyes, and they your's, but more importantly - it's rare that theatre is so tightly written and sharply executed. A great production, that made me want to return to New York, stand up from my uncomfortably high stool and applaud loudly, then quickly push on with my own writing pursuits.
Richard Layard, Geoff Mulgan and Anthony Seldon discussing the Movement for Happiness (Sunday 30 May, early evening): We attended this for a mix of professional and personal interest reasons - as if those things could so easily be separated. It was reference to what this movement's aims might yield - in terms of an approach to education - that drew us in. In short, the movement - as it is being referred to - seeks to provoke people into thinking and acting their way into living in both more personally fulfilling, and socially conscientious ways. Discussion of this raised enormous questions regarding the political, economic and psychological affiliates to what initially sound like radical changes to how we live - or rather why we live how we live. Many questions were discussed, rather than answered - and herein lies the central challenge to the happiness movers (and to many other fantastically worthwhile and creative intellectual endeavours). Translating big thinking into coherent, digestible, points for practicable action is not always so straight forward - although Seldon did articulate a 5-point list that I didn't make a note of. We'll be watching and listening and making some contribution to the furtherance of ideas that were presented, as we work on through 2010 and beyond.
One more point on the above session: Rosie Boycott, entirely open in her manner and (stand-in) chairing of this discussion, made interjections which seemed to naively lay bare the kinds of personal dissonance and social discord that will occur when a critical mass of individuals pursue lifestyles that are largely, if not entirely, self-serving. In suggesting that our domestic economy and broad social behaviour would become 'just a little boring' were they to more closely resemble those of, say, Denmark, the example of the individual chasing down 'some hot-shit media job' and all of the prizes that go with that (read personal wealth, reward, and an enhanced sense of self... self self), Boycott provoked a murmur of disapproval and a more glaring sense of cultural disunity within the room. Anthony Seldon seemed to observe that it was exactly such a profoundly self-oriented caricature (as was perhaps chairing the discussion) that was anathema to what the Movement for Happiness sought to inspire. Whilst not righting off personal ambition, the suggestion was that this might be most socially progressive were it wedded to (what I read as) an Adlerian sense of gemeinschaftsgefuhl - simply put, a sense of community, or social interest. That said, perhaps the entirely self-oriented individual will read their own progress as absolutely a matter of broad social interest. And so it goes.
Audrey Niffenegger in conversation with Lisa Allardice (Monday 31 May, morning): The author of The Time Traveller's Wife, and Her Fearful Symmetry, proved to be an elegant, engaging, and wry discussant of her motivations, passions and working practices. This was most in evidence as the hour-long session was opened up to questions from the floor. For the 25 minutes up to this point, I was reminded of how good an interviewer Jim Naughtie had been on Saturday afternoon. Whilst Allardice' editorship of the Guardian Review is no doubt high office, it probably demands a different set of qualities than does the task of being a stimulating literary interrogator. At times, Niffenegger appeared justifiably bored by the fawningly fannish initial questioning.
And that, was that.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
six movements
Friday evening:
'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.
'No', says I.
Soon after, I'm looking at this:
...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.
On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.
Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.
'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.
Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.
Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.
Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.
I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'
And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.
Kettle on.
'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.
'No', says I.
Soon after, I'm looking at this:
...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.
On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.
Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.
'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.
Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.
Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.
Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.
I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'
And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.
Kettle on.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
onion
Derby County 3 - 0 Newcastle United.
Sitting amongst fans of the home team, I was the outsider within. Hoping to see Newcastle play a kind of football that would suggest pomp-approaching-glory, things didn't pan out that way. For all of Newcastle's 'clever' play, and their mazily tripping over of the ball, Derby played genius football - simple and effective. Very Clough. The scoreline did flatter Derby, but the honesty of their play, and the commitment of Robbie Savage, saw my non-partisan status become eroded.
Fumbly phoney photo-work, there. Fair to say, it was cold. The old lady beside me did not share her blanket.
It felt good to be lost in 90 minutes of utter nonsense.
On exiting the stadium - two minutes before the final whistle, I caught a note of burger van fried onions in the chill night air. It was a moment for huddling, for moving briskly, and for missing people.
On leaving Derby, I thought about canal boats and ceramics - traces of an earlier meeting, still occupying my mind.
And so it goes.
Sitting amongst fans of the home team, I was the outsider within. Hoping to see Newcastle play a kind of football that would suggest pomp-approaching-glory, things didn't pan out that way. For all of Newcastle's 'clever' play, and their mazily tripping over of the ball, Derby played genius football - simple and effective. Very Clough. The scoreline did flatter Derby, but the honesty of their play, and the commitment of Robbie Savage, saw my non-partisan status become eroded.
Fumbly phoney photo-work, there. Fair to say, it was cold. The old lady beside me did not share her blanket.It felt good to be lost in 90 minutes of utter nonsense.
On exiting the stadium - two minutes before the final whistle, I caught a note of burger van fried onions in the chill night air. It was a moment for huddling, for moving briskly, and for missing people.
On leaving Derby, I thought about canal boats and ceramics - traces of an earlier meeting, still occupying my mind.
And so it goes.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Q
I had a really good day last Friday, I mean really good - exhausting, exhilerating, massively affirming, and the kind of day that will stay with me for quite a while. It was also all about work - although it was really about the responsiveness of the people who I was working with, to my work.
Apart from getting a few dozen grown-ups to go on a longish walk in icy woodland conditions (they suffered, but they enjoyed), and to later gad about various eateries and drinkeries (they enjoyed), I got them to take on a seriousish photographic task (they enjoyed), but more interesting to me, I had them tackle a couple of playful but tricky questions - one from the archives, plus a new one (for me). Those questions were:-
Q1. [From the archives] Think of an occasion when you took a risk. What was that risk?
Q2. [New] You may be aware of the TV programme, Come Dine With Me. (If not, someone will explain.) You are to host a most amazing supper, at Le Chateau Imaginaire. Your guests are to be three famous/ish people - all from different walks of life (i.e. no trios of any particular professional or source of notoriety), plus one non-famous person, who is neither an existing friend or relative. So, who are your guests?
The final part to question two (the non-famous person) had the potential to unseat a few of our riders, but no, they played and they played fair.
And after that, I had them return to Q1. But this time, I asked:
Q3. [New] Think of an occasion when you avoided taking a risk. What was that risk?
This was a question that relied on my players to already be working well together, as it would require some teasing out - its meanings and possibilities. But you know what, they were fantastic. I gave them a good time, and they delivered.
So good, so very good.
If you've any thoughts on any of the above questions, feel free to share (I am interested) - whether you're a familiar to the comments box, a one-off wanderer, or someone somewhere in-between.
Apart from getting a few dozen grown-ups to go on a longish walk in icy woodland conditions (they suffered, but they enjoyed), and to later gad about various eateries and drinkeries (they enjoyed), I got them to take on a seriousish photographic task (they enjoyed), but more interesting to me, I had them tackle a couple of playful but tricky questions - one from the archives, plus a new one (for me). Those questions were:-
Q1. [From the archives] Think of an occasion when you took a risk. What was that risk?
Q2. [New] You may be aware of the TV programme, Come Dine With Me. (If not, someone will explain.) You are to host a most amazing supper, at Le Chateau Imaginaire. Your guests are to be three famous/ish people - all from different walks of life (i.e. no trios of any particular professional or source of notoriety), plus one non-famous person, who is neither an existing friend or relative. So, who are your guests?
The final part to question two (the non-famous person) had the potential to unseat a few of our riders, but no, they played and they played fair.
And after that, I had them return to Q1. But this time, I asked:
Q3. [New] Think of an occasion when you avoided taking a risk. What was that risk?
This was a question that relied on my players to already be working well together, as it would require some teasing out - its meanings and possibilities. But you know what, they were fantastic. I gave them a good time, and they delivered.
So good, so very good.
If you've any thoughts on any of the above questions, feel free to share (I am interested) - whether you're a familiar to the comments box, a one-off wanderer, or someone somewhere in-between.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
E
Years of culinary poverty mean that I'm not a credible foodie, but I do enjoy extending my repertoire of dishes - for cooking and eating. I've rarely invested time into desserts, but last night, following a noodley, gingery, sea bass stir fry, I finished it off with something sweet - as garnered from Valentine Warner.
Shane: There.
Emma: Let's see.
Shane: (shows his piece)
Emma: Eton Mess! You made an Eton Mess!
Shane: Mm, but not quite. That would be meringue with cream and a strawberry-based puree. This is raspberry-loaded. And besides, I couldn't quite bring myself to offer up anything good that brings David Cameron to mind.
Emma: So what is it, then?
Shane: (ponders the words Eton and Mess) (whispers) It's a Stoke-on-Trent Fuck-Up.
Emma: It's good.
Shane: Good. I've learned much this evening about whipping. Whipping is great. Isn't air fantastic.
Emma: (is ignoring Shane from this point - is back to watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with my young sous chef)
I look out of the window and notice our quiet man cat, dancing about in the snow. I wonder what's got into him.
Shane: There.
Emma: Let's see.
Shane: (shows his piece)
Emma: Eton Mess! You made an Eton Mess!
Shane: Mm, but not quite. That would be meringue with cream and a strawberry-based puree. This is raspberry-loaded. And besides, I couldn't quite bring myself to offer up anything good that brings David Cameron to mind.
Emma: So what is it, then?
Shane: (ponders the words Eton and Mess) (whispers) It's a Stoke-on-Trent Fuck-Up.
Emma: It's good.
Shane: Good. I've learned much this evening about whipping. Whipping is great. Isn't air fantastic.
Emma: (is ignoring Shane from this point - is back to watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with my young sous chef)
I look out of the window and notice our quiet man cat, dancing about in the snow. I wonder what's got into him.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sighs
Yesterday was a good day. A monkey on our back was cut right down in size, and though this was explained to The Boy (for he has felt it, as we all have), and although he gave his Mum a hug, I doubt whether he yet understands the collective weight that was unburdened. And nor should he, he is only eight years old after all.
But I was so pleased with him, and for him. I gifted him the Simon's Cat book - important, as I felt it was, to mark the day somehow. He was pleased and gave implausibly emphatic thanks.
Earlier in the day, his mother had spoken the words:
'No, you don't need to give me a moment, I'm going to cry through this anyway', as good news was detailed.
At bed time, The Boy and I flicked through about half of the Simon's Cat book, recognising many of the wry illustrations.
And after reading a couple of chapters of The Fire Thief, we chatted for a while. We talked about how when you're a child, it's hard to imagine who you might meet later in your life - which new friends you'd make between the ages of eight, and say... thirty four and exactly one half. This chat led to his explaining that Daddy would like to get married, and that he uses match dot com - for meeting new people and for setting up dates. Feigning naivety, I asked questions, listened, and suggested examples of what my profile might look like on match dot com.
The Boy: It'll find people for you who like the same stuff as you. So you put in things like... your favourite colour -
Shane: Green.
The Boy: Mm. And... what you like -
Shane: Chicken in gravy.
The Boy: (hesitantly) If you like.
Shane: Mm. But what if all of the other people who like chicken in gravy live in... Africa?
The Boy: You have to put in where you live as well.
Shane: Oh. Is it best to meet people who like the same stuff as you?
The Boy: Yeah.
Shane: Is that so that you can go to a restaurant that you both like?
The Boy: (sighs, rolls his eyes) Something like that. You can put the light out now.
Shane: Alright. See you in the morning.
The Boy: 'night.
He slept soundly. I didn't... the residual thought of what might have been.
The next week or two should see some relaxing of the mind, and the shoulders.
Amen.
But I was so pleased with him, and for him. I gifted him the Simon's Cat book - important, as I felt it was, to mark the day somehow. He was pleased and gave implausibly emphatic thanks.
Earlier in the day, his mother had spoken the words:
'No, you don't need to give me a moment, I'm going to cry through this anyway', as good news was detailed.
At bed time, The Boy and I flicked through about half of the Simon's Cat book, recognising many of the wry illustrations.
And after reading a couple of chapters of The Fire Thief, we chatted for a while. We talked about how when you're a child, it's hard to imagine who you might meet later in your life - which new friends you'd make between the ages of eight, and say... thirty four and exactly one half. This chat led to his explaining that Daddy would like to get married, and that he uses match dot com - for meeting new people and for setting up dates. Feigning naivety, I asked questions, listened, and suggested examples of what my profile might look like on match dot com.
The Boy: It'll find people for you who like the same stuff as you. So you put in things like... your favourite colour -
Shane: Green.
The Boy: Mm. And... what you like -
Shane: Chicken in gravy.
The Boy: (hesitantly) If you like.
Shane: Mm. But what if all of the other people who like chicken in gravy live in... Africa?
The Boy: You have to put in where you live as well.
Shane: Oh. Is it best to meet people who like the same stuff as you?
The Boy: Yeah.
Shane: Is that so that you can go to a restaurant that you both like?
The Boy: (sighs, rolls his eyes) Something like that. You can put the light out now.
Shane: Alright. See you in the morning.
The Boy: 'night.
He slept soundly. I didn't... the residual thought of what might have been.
The next week or two should see some relaxing of the mind, and the shoulders.
Amen.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Lapwings
Soft shit, I'm a bit of a soft shit.
Stanley Matthews Way is a road that takes pressure off the A50 through Stoke-on-Trent, close to the main football team's Britannia Stadium. It's a road that offers an escape to the south, towards Stafford. I often use it as a short cut when heading north for the University Quarter. Ordinarily, it's a massively unaffecting corridor, with its industrial units, anonymous modern office blocks ('To Let') and JCB markers of devastated grasslands by the Trent and Mersey canal.
Accelerating off a roundabout, heading north along The Way, all it took was the glimpse of a father and son, walking hand-in-hand, to produce an emotional spike. Within seconds I was past them, but I still had open road on which to ponder how utterly ridiculous I can be... all it was, was a man and a boy, walking. No. Big. Deal. Yet I manage to contrive something poignant and gorgeous, troubled and troubling from that. I mean really, what a fuck-up.
I didn't used to be like this. I used to go to lots of random football matches, in peculiar backwater places. Every minute of every day, I'd be doing something that was ultimately about what I wanted to do. I lived for no-one, but myself. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I'm sure there was none of this high-sensitive paternalist lark. But you know what, it's actually not only about paternalism. In that scene, where the boy and his Dad are just walking along, all casual and big coats, I think it's the possibilities of 'But where's Mum?' that pricks at me. Maybe they walk to meet her, as she finishes a shift at the factory, maybe they're off to spot lapwings, as Mum has Saturday morning to herself, maybe maybe.
I reach my destination, the local Tesco enormo-mart. It's as I'm scanning for tomato puree that I slide by a couple, both hollow cheeks and skin that's aged beyond their years. A young boy, gazing into the distance, sits in their trolley. And another emotional spike is thrust from within. By the time I locate the double concentrate, I'm tremendously distracted and realise that I need a break. I gently place the basket on the floor and leave the store.
I take a different route home.
Stanley Matthews Way is a road that takes pressure off the A50 through Stoke-on-Trent, close to the main football team's Britannia Stadium. It's a road that offers an escape to the south, towards Stafford. I often use it as a short cut when heading north for the University Quarter. Ordinarily, it's a massively unaffecting corridor, with its industrial units, anonymous modern office blocks ('To Let') and JCB markers of devastated grasslands by the Trent and Mersey canal.
Accelerating off a roundabout, heading north along The Way, all it took was the glimpse of a father and son, walking hand-in-hand, to produce an emotional spike. Within seconds I was past them, but I still had open road on which to ponder how utterly ridiculous I can be... all it was, was a man and a boy, walking. No. Big. Deal. Yet I manage to contrive something poignant and gorgeous, troubled and troubling from that. I mean really, what a fuck-up.
I didn't used to be like this. I used to go to lots of random football matches, in peculiar backwater places. Every minute of every day, I'd be doing something that was ultimately about what I wanted to do. I lived for no-one, but myself. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I'm sure there was none of this high-sensitive paternalist lark. But you know what, it's actually not only about paternalism. In that scene, where the boy and his Dad are just walking along, all casual and big coats, I think it's the possibilities of 'But where's Mum?' that pricks at me. Maybe they walk to meet her, as she finishes a shift at the factory, maybe they're off to spot lapwings, as Mum has Saturday morning to herself, maybe maybe.
I reach my destination, the local Tesco enormo-mart. It's as I'm scanning for tomato puree that I slide by a couple, both hollow cheeks and skin that's aged beyond their years. A young boy, gazing into the distance, sits in their trolley. And another emotional spike is thrust from within. By the time I locate the double concentrate, I'm tremendously distracted and realise that I need a break. I gently place the basket on the floor and leave the store.
I take a different route home.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Caring
Whilst reading Rebus, earlier, I was reminded of the times when, as kids, we would makes ramps for our bikes. A plank of wood from the garden and one brick - easy, two bricks - getting serious, three bricks - one for the crowds. The crowds would generally have been my brother - 'No, just one brick - you're too small for three'. I was caring like that. And the more impressive stunt-rider for it.
Mm.
And also earlier, in a rare moment of thinking 'Lordy, I'm being a good professional right now', the chap who I was speaking to caught me quite off-guard. He'd said that he had to go back into hospital... back into hospital. And so having forgotten the detail of his previous hospital trip, I murmured a cool murmur and asked if it would be a long stay. I asked out of caring for the man, nothing to do with 'This has the potential to be damned inconvenient'. And before I know where I'm at, he's all 'big ones', 'internal', 'haemerrhoids' - but I didn't ask, man, I didn't ask! The arse.
As these blog posts have become much more rare, I think it's important that when I post, I should post with gravitas, with thoughtful purpose.
Mm.
I think the word julienne is gorgeous. Words like julienne make me want to cook. Properly - no cheating with gadgets that do the art for you, I mean proper hand-crafting of the food - careful and caring. Julienne.
Mm.
And also earlier, in a rare moment of thinking 'Lordy, I'm being a good professional right now', the chap who I was speaking to caught me quite off-guard. He'd said that he had to go back into hospital... back into hospital. And so having forgotten the detail of his previous hospital trip, I murmured a cool murmur and asked if it would be a long stay. I asked out of caring for the man, nothing to do with 'This has the potential to be damned inconvenient'. And before I know where I'm at, he's all 'big ones', 'internal', 'haemerrhoids' - but I didn't ask, man, I didn't ask! The arse.
As these blog posts have become much more rare, I think it's important that when I post, I should post with gravitas, with thoughtful purpose.
Mm.
I think the word julienne is gorgeous. Words like julienne make me want to cook. Properly - no cheating with gadgets that do the art for you, I mean proper hand-crafting of the food - careful and caring. Julienne.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Logo
Alex missed school today - truly, a heavy cold, albeit with exaggerated symptoms.
After lunch:
Alex: I didn't much like the tuna mayo.
Shane: I thought you liked that.
Alex: Well, I do, but I added some raspberries** and it wasn't good.
Shane: Tuna, mayo and raspberries...
Alex: - not good.
Shane: Mm.
He'll be back at school tomorrow, and so I'll not be setting number quiz challenges, justifying jigsawing 'down-time', or contriving logo design work* for an eight year old. I will miss him, though. His singing about not being allowed to play on the Playstation or to watch any more television - all to the tune of Eye of the Tiger, well that was the high point of the day. I believe the term is 'LOL'.
* We support creative endeavour...
** Up to a point.
After lunch:
Alex: I didn't much like the tuna mayo.
Shane: I thought you liked that.
Alex: Well, I do, but I added some raspberries** and it wasn't good.
Shane: Tuna, mayo and raspberries...
Alex: - not good.
Shane: Mm.
He'll be back at school tomorrow, and so I'll not be setting number quiz challenges, justifying jigsawing 'down-time', or contriving logo design work* for an eight year old. I will miss him, though. His singing about not being allowed to play on the Playstation or to watch any more television - all to the tune of Eye of the Tiger, well that was the high point of the day. I believe the term is 'LOL'.
* We support creative endeavour...
** Up to a point.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Love
Oh, forgive me. It's just that, well, I've had a week or so of being all in touch with my feelings. I think this comes from peak, or rich, emotional experiences.
I've embraced the past, I've stroked the head of a dying old bird, and I've come to understand things that I hadn't realised that I'd misunderstood. And so it goes.
Where am I going with this? Where indeed. Ah yes... For this month's posts, I'm going to pepper you with tiny extracts - dialogue, oddments of reflection, insights, and the stuff of general gaping, that came from my meeting with my old pal - The Artist, as mentioned previously.
As a starter, I'll say that we met up in Manchester - last Saturday - a warm, sunny day. We met at eleven on the dot, in the top floor cafe of Afflecks Palace, where we drank earl grey and ate toast, before moving on to the first of a few pubs. Approaching from the right (I hadn't spotted the second entrance to the cafe), The Artist called out my name and offered an open hand. I smiled, chorused back his name, and opened up for a hug. Already, 15 years on, things had changed.
I've embraced the past, I've stroked the head of a dying old bird, and I've come to understand things that I hadn't realised that I'd misunderstood. And so it goes.
Where am I going with this? Where indeed. Ah yes... For this month's posts, I'm going to pepper you with tiny extracts - dialogue, oddments of reflection, insights, and the stuff of general gaping, that came from my meeting with my old pal - The Artist, as mentioned previously.
As a starter, I'll say that we met up in Manchester - last Saturday - a warm, sunny day. We met at eleven on the dot, in the top floor cafe of Afflecks Palace, where we drank earl grey and ate toast, before moving on to the first of a few pubs. Approaching from the right (I hadn't spotted the second entrance to the cafe), The Artist called out my name and offered an open hand. I smiled, chorused back his name, and opened up for a hug. Already, 15 years on, things had changed.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Kingdom
Particularly Relevant to the Beautiful People.
Perhaps overdoing it on the Take-Opportunity-To-Get-Away-And-Relax-Goddamit-Relax front, my return from the north east was but a stepping stone to a dive south (just don't even go there, sniggerers).
On Saturday morning, I took breakfast at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park - with its leafy green outlook to the west. Deftly egg-dipping a hash brown, I was roused by an unusual bird call. And thus, I spotted - clear as the blue sky - my first ever wild ring-necked parakeet. There were many of them. And later, a trio came and perched in the tree of a property next door to where I was staying.
It's good when the Red Deer faces competition for my weekly 'Most Favourite Bit of Nature' prize.
Other observation, of human nature: In the cosmopolitan centres - Manchester, London, Stoke-on-Trent, it is easy to feel surrounded by the body beautiful. On fine sunny days, the work that goes into the body beautiful is there to be seen - the doggedly determined clomping round the park, the gritty extra lap on the 21-speed racer, the comedy of the power walk. Maybe it's because much in their lives is taut, and edgy, and competitive, and all a bit brow-furrowing, but a lot of these Body Beauties look like they ought to relax a bit. Look at the ring-necked parakeet or the red deer, their's are paces that seem to be much more well-adjusted - culturally-speaking.
I'm also liking deadwood - it's likely to be a contender for this week's prize. Never to be overlooked, though, is the mid-evening goldfinch rhapsody.
Perhaps overdoing it on the Take-Opportunity-To-Get-Away-And-Relax-Goddamit-Relax front, my return from the north east was but a stepping stone to a dive south (just don't even go there, sniggerers).
On Saturday morning, I took breakfast at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park - with its leafy green outlook to the west. Deftly egg-dipping a hash brown, I was roused by an unusual bird call. And thus, I spotted - clear as the blue sky - my first ever wild ring-necked parakeet. There were many of them. And later, a trio came and perched in the tree of a property next door to where I was staying.
It's good when the Red Deer faces competition for my weekly 'Most Favourite Bit of Nature' prize.
Other observation, of human nature: In the cosmopolitan centres - Manchester, London, Stoke-on-Trent, it is easy to feel surrounded by the body beautiful. On fine sunny days, the work that goes into the body beautiful is there to be seen - the doggedly determined clomping round the park, the gritty extra lap on the 21-speed racer, the comedy of the power walk. Maybe it's because much in their lives is taut, and edgy, and competitive, and all a bit brow-furrowing, but a lot of these Body Beauties look like they ought to relax a bit. Look at the ring-necked parakeet or the red deer, their's are paces that seem to be much more well-adjusted - culturally-speaking.I'm also liking deadwood - it's likely to be a contender for this week's prize. Never to be overlooked, though, is the mid-evening goldfinch rhapsody.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Camp?
This past weekend, Emma and I headed south on a long ago booked trip. In the here and now, the timing wasn't great.
As we made for the station, the city rose to clear blue sky. That afternoon, the Britannia Stadium would bounce to men, women and children singing 'Delilah', a song that features the line 'I put my dick in her hand, and she laughed no more'. Where to begin, where to begin... Perhaps best to not begin at all.
The paltry offerings in the station's Virgin Lounge ensured that we were at the platform well before the 10:12 to Euston rolled in from Manchester.
What would our trip feature. Healthy-living and broadsheet analysis?
Perhaps.
Approaching midday, Tottenham Court Road was as clear as the Potteries had been. We made our way directly towards Monmouth Street, off Shaftsbury Avenue, in the hope of an early check-in. Staying at the Radisson Edwardian Mountbatten ensured that this trip into the capital - my second in three days - could pass without need for bus, tube or taxi - a quiet victory for good planning (and liberal dolings of sterling). In terms of cultural tastes, this was very much World of Emma, just shy of Wince of Shane.
In the thrall of the techno-snacks, I forgot to take pictures of things like the main fixtures and fittings of the gaffe. But instead, I did get a sign on the discreetly located 'Interactive Minibar'.
Touch those Pringles and They Will Know.
Saturday afternoon was spent in and around Neal's Yard - small boutique shops - green teas, sitting in the sun, sauntering. That was after we'd taken lunch in Covent Garden - some bistro in a cellar - good food, but really not the day to be underground.
Back at the hotel, brief lounging, a change, and out for dinner - to Soho's Bocca di Lupo. I'd remembered Matthew Norman's review. This paid dividends.
Sitting at the bar, overlooking the main hubbub of food preparation area, good choreography came to mind. Welcoming the ethos of good, simple food, prepared well, Emma opted for a red prawn risotto.
I chose the grilled sea bream.
And then, the main event:
Priscilla - Queen of the Desert, at the Palace Theatre.
This was our first visit to this theatre. I knew that we were heading for good seats, as we headed up the stairs to Dress Circle Row A.
The curtain hid an incredibly clever, albeit mechanically simple set. Reviews have not made enough of this - despite their generally holding the show in high regard.
Though no further shots can be shared (I'm sorry, I dared to forget myself), all praise for costumes, cast, script-updating and direction is justified - a big successful production. No sneering rejoinder to be added, here. Whereas Abba were heavily referenced in the screen version of Priscilla, Kylie was now the wholly lauded - an entirely bearable shift - especially with Mamma Mia (((shudder))) playing just round the corner.
Overlooked in many of the reviews - something that is easy to understand amid such high campery, has been the matter of Priscilla being underscored by two fairly weighty relationship dramas. Within the first 5 minutes of the show, I was welling up at the clearly signposted Father-Son denouement that we were headed for - Jason Donovan's Tick (Mitzi) is off to meet his son for the first time. His drag act trio's provision of a stage show for his wife's (yes, wife's) resort hotel is the hook for the group's road trip from Sydney to Alice Springs. That's the story. But also, the ageing drag queen - Tony Sheldon's Bernadette - charts a course that is, at its heart, about accepting oneself, showing trust in others and redirecting the lifecourse. As I write this, I'm feeling partisan. For reasons that I can't fully unpick, or neatly clarify, Priscilla is a production that touches me.
During the interval, Emma waxed lyrical about the show - the scale of production, its values, the audience. This was all pleasing - the whole trip was very much a one-off, designed to please. Smiling, she then queried:
'Does it not make you feel even a bit gay?'
Amused, puzzled, appalled, I gently queried.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, the whole thing. It's fairly amazing, isn't it.'
'The costumes, the dancing, the set design, the dialogue, the easy affection and charm, the barbed wit - garish, but all attractive. I'd love to be able to sing and move like some of those people on stage. But as for wanting to put specific bits of my body anywhere near any other men's bodies - even those men's bodies, well, that's a kind of gayness that doesn't appeal. But thanks for asking.'
Seemed a reasonable enough response. She wouldn't have asked if she'd have thought there was the possibility of any other kind of answer.
At the standing ovation, I noticed the four occupants of one of the boxes - two men (in their 30s, together), and two older women (both in their 60s). I gauged a mother and friend, plus son and his partner. The son figure hugged both of the ladies, whilst partner leaned in to ensure that a good evening had been had. It looked like an important moment.
Dodging the boas, the mincing and the people like us, we strolled back to the hotel, and thus turned into the straight that would lead us back to the West Midlands.
Sunday breakfast was as it should have been - hearty, if a little too neat.
Emma's:
Only 5 / 10, for presentation there.
Shane's (Part I):
Square.
I didn't picture the rest - what kind of weirdo goes around taking pictures of his breakfast.
Back out into the streets, Emma managed to turn the short walk back up to Euston into a mini research exercise. Over-riding my disdain for such gross opportunism, I played along as best I could.
Obscene, unsightly, gratuitous and ghastly - the lot of them.
If there is a grindstone, then now, we are very much back at it, but still we may daydream (a link for added non-gayness).
The word from above is that (work) things should get easier in late June, and at such a time, then this kind of trip should occur more casually. If they don't, then I shall just have tobugger naff off on my own.
As we made for the station, the city rose to clear blue sky. That afternoon, the Britannia Stadium would bounce to men, women and children singing 'Delilah', a song that features the line 'I put my dick in her hand, and she laughed no more'. Where to begin, where to begin... Perhaps best to not begin at all.
The paltry offerings in the station's Virgin Lounge ensured that we were at the platform well before the 10:12 to Euston rolled in from Manchester.What would our trip feature. Healthy-living and broadsheet analysis?
Perhaps.Approaching midday, Tottenham Court Road was as clear as the Potteries had been. We made our way directly towards Monmouth Street, off Shaftsbury Avenue, in the hope of an early check-in. Staying at the Radisson Edwardian Mountbatten ensured that this trip into the capital - my second in three days - could pass without need for bus, tube or taxi - a quiet victory for good planning (and liberal dolings of sterling). In terms of cultural tastes, this was very much World of Emma, just shy of Wince of Shane.
In the thrall of the techno-snacks, I forgot to take pictures of things like the main fixtures and fittings of the gaffe. But instead, I did get a sign on the discreetly located 'Interactive Minibar'.
Touch those Pringles and They Will Know.
Saturday afternoon was spent in and around Neal's Yard - small boutique shops - green teas, sitting in the sun, sauntering. That was after we'd taken lunch in Covent Garden - some bistro in a cellar - good food, but really not the day to be underground.Back at the hotel, brief lounging, a change, and out for dinner - to Soho's Bocca di Lupo. I'd remembered Matthew Norman's review. This paid dividends.
Sitting at the bar, overlooking the main hubbub of food preparation area, good choreography came to mind. Welcoming the ethos of good, simple food, prepared well, Emma opted for a red prawn risotto.
I chose the grilled sea bream.
And then, the main event:
Priscilla - Queen of the Desert, at the Palace Theatre.This was our first visit to this theatre. I knew that we were heading for good seats, as we headed up the stairs to Dress Circle Row A.
The curtain hid an incredibly clever, albeit mechanically simple set. Reviews have not made enough of this - despite their generally holding the show in high regard.
Though no further shots can be shared (I'm sorry, I dared to forget myself), all praise for costumes, cast, script-updating and direction is justified - a big successful production. No sneering rejoinder to be added, here. Whereas Abba were heavily referenced in the screen version of Priscilla, Kylie was now the wholly lauded - an entirely bearable shift - especially with Mamma Mia (((shudder))) playing just round the corner.Overlooked in many of the reviews - something that is easy to understand amid such high campery, has been the matter of Priscilla being underscored by two fairly weighty relationship dramas. Within the first 5 minutes of the show, I was welling up at the clearly signposted Father-Son denouement that we were headed for - Jason Donovan's Tick (Mitzi) is off to meet his son for the first time. His drag act trio's provision of a stage show for his wife's (yes, wife's) resort hotel is the hook for the group's road trip from Sydney to Alice Springs. That's the story. But also, the ageing drag queen - Tony Sheldon's Bernadette - charts a course that is, at its heart, about accepting oneself, showing trust in others and redirecting the lifecourse. As I write this, I'm feeling partisan. For reasons that I can't fully unpick, or neatly clarify, Priscilla is a production that touches me.
During the interval, Emma waxed lyrical about the show - the scale of production, its values, the audience. This was all pleasing - the whole trip was very much a one-off, designed to please. Smiling, she then queried:
'Does it not make you feel even a bit gay?'
Amused, puzzled, appalled, I gently queried.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, the whole thing. It's fairly amazing, isn't it.'
'The costumes, the dancing, the set design, the dialogue, the easy affection and charm, the barbed wit - garish, but all attractive. I'd love to be able to sing and move like some of those people on stage. But as for wanting to put specific bits of my body anywhere near any other men's bodies - even those men's bodies, well, that's a kind of gayness that doesn't appeal. But thanks for asking.'
Seemed a reasonable enough response. She wouldn't have asked if she'd have thought there was the possibility of any other kind of answer.
At the standing ovation, I noticed the four occupants of one of the boxes - two men (in their 30s, together), and two older women (both in their 60s). I gauged a mother and friend, plus son and his partner. The son figure hugged both of the ladies, whilst partner leaned in to ensure that a good evening had been had. It looked like an important moment.
Dodging the boas, the mincing and the people like us, we strolled back to the hotel, and thus turned into the straight that would lead us back to the West Midlands.
Sunday breakfast was as it should have been - hearty, if a little too neat.
Emma's:
Only 5 / 10, for presentation there.Shane's (Part I):
Square.I didn't picture the rest - what kind of weirdo goes around taking pictures of his breakfast.
Back out into the streets, Emma managed to turn the short walk back up to Euston into a mini research exercise. Over-riding my disdain for such gross opportunism, I played along as best I could.
Obscene, unsightly, gratuitous and ghastly - the lot of them.If there is a grindstone, then now, we are very much back at it, but still we may daydream (a link for added non-gayness).
The word from above is that (work) things should get easier in late June, and at such a time, then this kind of trip should occur more casually. If they don't, then I shall just have to
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Effortless
(All images taken with a not-top-of-the-range phone)
I went up north this past weekend.
On Friday morning, on a whim, I decided to take the M6 route - up to Junction 38 (Tebay Services), then across (A66), then Barnard Castle, Raby Castle, the Aucklands, on and in. The A50 > A38 (skimming Derby) > M1 > A1 > A167 alternative just isn't the same without those big industrial chimneys near Sheffield.
Listening to: The Quiet Curse of Demolition, by Everywhere Looks the Same.
It was somewhere in the low 30s junction numbers that the horizon really began to change, and the simple raw beauty of the Pennines caught me by implausible surprise. I'd driven this route dozens of times, albeit not at all in the last few years.
Approaching the westerly-most reaches of Durham, through fog, there they were - snow-flat-capped hills. Had I been holidaying with a lovebird, then maybe a lay-by, a stretch and chill deep breaths would have been on. Instead, the herbal tablets, the CD changer and I cracked on.
Listening to: Somewhere Bound, by Kirk Merrington for Lunch.
.
As with Terence Stamp, grey but gorgeous nonetheless.
Not many miles from the family home, I was taken aback in Tindale. Even here, the architectural equivalent of impetigo did its thing.
.
Amongst family, I forgot about pictures and blogging and all else. I sat back and laughed along to the sweet ferocious banter of the other Wexford offspring.
.
Prior to Saturday's football trip, sister and her copper girlfriend, their dog and me, went for a walk by the rec' in Kirk Merrington - near to where the last grandparent lives.
.
Over to the south east - some 30 or so miles away, Roseberry Topping dominated the horizon, just as it had on the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. To my right, a small dog wrestled with a tennis ball at the feet of copper girlfriend.
.
Though I'm not really a dog person, I did quite like the hound's mindless zest.
.
The playground, where we would compete to see who could jump furthest from the swings.
.
And the roundabout, that I always thought seemed a bit dangerous.
Later, there was the football - a nil-nil draw between Middlesbrough and Wigan - not as bad as it might sound. Middlesbrough were light up front, but otherwise fine. Wigan were generally square of shoulder, and blunt in attack.
.
Before the game, the ladies settled themselves - Teesside spirit.
After a Saturday evening meal out, at the Duke of Wellington pub, we all returned to the parents' house. The dog - the cute one whose name that I've forgotten - appreciated playful attention. But oh my no my - it posed the pose of a truly mentalist dog - what with its big teeth and glaring eyes.
I wondered how much effort would be called for, in order to contrive an image that would be really spooky.
Really not much effort at all.
.
My family are nice people - honest. Not like those people who have crazy dogs that eat people or anything. Besides, sister and the copper and the dog live in Gateshead - I reckon it's probably a bit rough over there.
.
On Sunday, I returned south and west for a testing, stretching week.
.
Faith - the dog was called Faith.
.
Listening to: His Body, by Man En Route to Bed.
I went up north this past weekend.
On Friday morning, on a whim, I decided to take the M6 route - up to Junction 38 (Tebay Services), then across (A66), then Barnard Castle, Raby Castle, the Aucklands, on and in. The A50 > A38 (skimming Derby) > M1 > A1 > A167 alternative just isn't the same without those big industrial chimneys near Sheffield.
Listening to: The Quiet Curse of Demolition, by Everywhere Looks the Same.
It was somewhere in the low 30s junction numbers that the horizon really began to change, and the simple raw beauty of the Pennines caught me by implausible surprise. I'd driven this route dozens of times, albeit not at all in the last few years.
Approaching the westerly-most reaches of Durham, through fog, there they were - snow-flat-capped hills. Had I been holidaying with a lovebird, then maybe a lay-by, a stretch and chill deep breaths would have been on. Instead, the herbal tablets, the CD changer and I cracked on.
Listening to: Somewhere Bound, by Kirk Merrington for Lunch.
.As with Terence Stamp, grey but gorgeous nonetheless.
Not many miles from the family home, I was taken aback in Tindale. Even here, the architectural equivalent of impetigo did its thing.
.Amongst family, I forgot about pictures and blogging and all else. I sat back and laughed along to the sweet ferocious banter of the other Wexford offspring.
.
Prior to Saturday's football trip, sister and her copper girlfriend, their dog and me, went for a walk by the rec' in Kirk Merrington - near to where the last grandparent lives.
.
Over to the south east - some 30 or so miles away, Roseberry Topping dominated the horizon, just as it had on the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. To my right, a small dog wrestled with a tennis ball at the feet of copper girlfriend.
.Though I'm not really a dog person, I did quite like the hound's mindless zest.
.The playground, where we would compete to see who could jump furthest from the swings.
.And the roundabout, that I always thought seemed a bit dangerous.
Later, there was the football - a nil-nil draw between Middlesbrough and Wigan - not as bad as it might sound. Middlesbrough were light up front, but otherwise fine. Wigan were generally square of shoulder, and blunt in attack..
Before the game, the ladies settled themselves - Teesside spirit.
After a Saturday evening meal out, at the Duke of Wellington pub, we all returned to the parents' house. The dog - the cute one whose name that I've forgotten - appreciated playful attention. But oh my no my - it posed the pose of a truly mentalist dog - what with its big teeth and glaring eyes.
I wondered how much effort would be called for, in order to contrive an image that would be really spooky.
Really not much effort at all..
My family are nice people - honest. Not like those people who have crazy dogs that eat people or anything. Besides, sister and the copper and the dog live in Gateshead - I reckon it's probably a bit rough over there.
.
On Sunday, I returned south and west for a testing, stretching week.
.
Faith - the dog was called Faith.
.
Listening to: His Body, by Man En Route to Bed.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Elegiac
I'm going to Middlesbrough on Saturday. It's not punishment or anything. I want to go. It's all part of the broad cultural experience of visiting my family.
.
Over the Christmas break, I decided to see more of the blood relatives this year. And so I'm wondering, will brother and his partner seem any more well-matched. Will sister and her copper girlfriend (now she would have been ideal for brother) continue with their appallingly modern charm (they actually take walks on the beach with the dog - bitches*). And on Friday, will I dare to 'go out' in Durham - you know, where people from the past lurk.
.
And when it comes to late Saturday afternoon, I know that I'll fancy going out for food that evening. And so I'll mention it to brother and sister, and they'll likely concur. And we could ask our parents. But then I'll want to nudge them in the direction of somewhere that they've not been before, like say, for a Thai or an Indian or Anything At All That is Just a Tiny Bit Different From What They're Used To. But then I'll anticipate their discomfort, and I'll wonder whether it's wrong to try to confer my tastes onto them - like for the few years before they begged me to stop buying them theatre tickets for birthdays and Christmas presents.
.
On this occasion, a draw would be welcome,
As welcome as a frustrating home win.
.
* affectionate.
.
Over the Christmas break, I decided to see more of the blood relatives this year. And so I'm wondering, will brother and his partner seem any more well-matched. Will sister and her copper girlfriend (now she would have been ideal for brother) continue with their appallingly modern charm (they actually take walks on the beach with the dog - bitches*). And on Friday, will I dare to 'go out' in Durham - you know, where people from the past lurk.
.
And when it comes to late Saturday afternoon, I know that I'll fancy going out for food that evening. And so I'll mention it to brother and sister, and they'll likely concur. And we could ask our parents. But then I'll want to nudge them in the direction of somewhere that they've not been before, like say, for a Thai or an Indian or Anything At All That is Just a Tiny Bit Different From What They're Used To. But then I'll anticipate their discomfort, and I'll wonder whether it's wrong to try to confer my tastes onto them - like for the few years before they begged me to stop buying them theatre tickets for birthdays and Christmas presents.
.
On this occasion, a draw would be welcome,
As welcome as a frustrating home win.
.
* affectionate.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wonder
I've previously linked to the following, but I feel that it's a really good note on which to close 2008. Thus, featuring a one-eyed fatty, a punch in the nose and a hat rack fire - 'ave it - probably my most favourite (short) blog post of all time.
.
I wish she'd write more.
.
Now then, resolutions, resolutions...
.
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I wish she'd write more.
.
Now then, resolutions, resolutions...
.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Wow
Two Saturdays ago, taking lunch at the Potteries Museum and Art Gallery, Alex ate and then began ferreting about the cafe for something to engage him. After a minute or so of drifting about, he excitedly returned to Emma and I, having found a 'mystery note', secreted in the grill of a radiator.
The note read:
'Romantic words.
Deeply.'
It's not possible to say whether the writing is that of a child or an adult, and it's not that I want to know either. But what a find... 'Romantic words. Deeply.' Gorgeous.
.
The note read:
'Romantic words.
Deeply.'
It's not possible to say whether the writing is that of a child or an adult, and it's not that I want to know either. But what a find... 'Romantic words. Deeply.' Gorgeous.
.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
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