We have become friends with a really rather cool mother and son, plus grandparents, who live in a massive, rambling, tree-lined property that's close to us. Having done a lot of running about last week and over the weekend, by Sunday afternoon I felt the need to unwind. So we took up an invite to join said mother and son, at their place - for drinks in the shade.
As I looked over some outbuildings, Emma was given the formal tour of the gardens, and Alex took a turn towards the vast hen enclosure (later showing off at being able to gently gather up the more dull-witted of hens). Later, as we exited Rambling Manor, I mentioned that I'd needed that break. The Lady of the Manor seemed glad for the remark.
Then. Yesterday evening. Just before bed-time.
Alex: (casually having a wee) Shane.
Shane: (pasteing up the toothbrushes) Mm?
Alex: Y' know when I was with the hens yesterday?
Shane: Mm.
Alex: Well, now don't tell me off for this cos it wasn't my fault -
Shane: (not impressed) What did you do?
Alex: I didn't do anything, it was the hen.
Shane: (oh Lord) What?
Alex: Well I needed a wee, so I went down to the bottom - behind the shed, near the weeds. I weed in the weeds.
Shane: Did a hen peck your pecker?
Alex: (amused) No. It tried to peck my wee.
Shane: What?
Alex: The hen tried to peck my wee! And I ended up weeing on its head.
Shane: (he weed on the hen's head!) A tiny bit funny, but really not very cool.
Alex: It wasn't my fault! It was too lazy to go up to the water buckets, so it tried to drink my wee.
Shane: That's foul. And that was it, was it?
Alex: I turned the tap on for it, but it ran back up to near the gate, so I turned it off.
Shane: Hmm.
It is with the 'Hmm' expression that I convey the moral significance of non-human animals. This, I imagine, is what The Boy reads from the Hmm, too.
If you were out, I hope you wore sun-block.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
witness
Emma and I take our seats in the theatre, for illusionist and mentalist Derren Brown's 'Enigma' show. All about us, there is an adrenal air of anticipation. Behind us, a young couple take their seats. With thoughts towards the seeds of likely tricks, the young man speculates to his irony-free companion.
Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.
Woman: I didn't see any.
I smile to myself.
The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.
Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.
Woman: I didn't see any.
I smile to myself.
The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.
Friday, May 07, 2010
unhurried
I'm taking a measure of the atmosphere, and the result demands a light note on which to end the week.
We are to move house, to not very far from where we are now. Until a week or so ago, I'd asked both Emma and Alex to not go broadcasting this information - keen as I was for the move to seem more definite before any public notice - as I say, that was until a week ago.
About a fortnight ago, collecting Alex from school, a rush of his classmates spill out into the area where their parents and so on gather to collect them. Immediately, a huddle of boys gather about me.
Boy1: Hi Shane.
Shane: Hello Boy1.
Boy2: Can Alex come round mine on Thursday?
Shane: Thursday, Boy2? Hmmm, I don't know about Thursday - I'll have to check whether we've got anything else on. He'll be able to let you know himself tomorrow.
Boy2: Okay.
Boy3: Thursday - Alex can't on Thursday - he's going to an estate agents'.
Shane: Is he? (There was never a plan to go to any estate agent on Thursday.)
Boy3: Yeah. He told us.
Shane: Who's us?
Boy3: The class. You're moving to Canal Road.
Shane: Oh, right. So it's sorted then?
Boy3: Yeah.
As per usual, Alex is one of the last to leave the building - quite unwilling to be hurried. He passes his bag to me.
Alex: I made everyone laugh today.
Shane: How did you do that?
Alex: I told them that we won't even need to get a lorry when we move house - we can just carry our stuff to Canal Road. I said, 'We'll be like an army of ants - ants carrying pants'. They all laughed.
Shane: Mm. Didn't we say that we'd not tell people about this for a little while?
Alex: Did we?
Shane: Mm.
Alex: I wasn't listening.
Shane: Ah. That'll be it.
Alex: Mm.
We walk home, glancing left down Canal Road as we pass it.
We are to move house, to not very far from where we are now. Until a week or so ago, I'd asked both Emma and Alex to not go broadcasting this information - keen as I was for the move to seem more definite before any public notice - as I say, that was until a week ago.
About a fortnight ago, collecting Alex from school, a rush of his classmates spill out into the area where their parents and so on gather to collect them. Immediately, a huddle of boys gather about me.
Boy1: Hi Shane.
Shane: Hello Boy1.
Boy2: Can Alex come round mine on Thursday?
Shane: Thursday, Boy2? Hmmm, I don't know about Thursday - I'll have to check whether we've got anything else on. He'll be able to let you know himself tomorrow.
Boy2: Okay.
Boy3: Thursday - Alex can't on Thursday - he's going to an estate agents'.
Shane: Is he? (There was never a plan to go to any estate agent on Thursday.)
Boy3: Yeah. He told us.
Shane: Who's us?
Boy3: The class. You're moving to Canal Road.
Shane: Oh, right. So it's sorted then?
Boy3: Yeah.
As per usual, Alex is one of the last to leave the building - quite unwilling to be hurried. He passes his bag to me.
Alex: I made everyone laugh today.
Shane: How did you do that?
Alex: I told them that we won't even need to get a lorry when we move house - we can just carry our stuff to Canal Road. I said, 'We'll be like an army of ants - ants carrying pants'. They all laughed.
Shane: Mm. Didn't we say that we'd not tell people about this for a little while?
Alex: Did we?
Shane: Mm.
Alex: I wasn't listening.
Shane: Ah. That'll be it.
Alex: Mm.
We walk home, glancing left down Canal Road as we pass it.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
decisions
There is a definite buzz about Thursday's general election, the suggestion - a whiff in the air - that something quite unusual - historic, even - might be about to unfold. With the many and varied social media platforms awash with soundbite proclamations of political support (and apathy) and the mainstream media peddling slightly fattened versions of much the same, I will add a side note to the political aligning that is quite reasonably au fait.
On the back of the expenses scandal (in my view, the scandal being the light touch with which party leader/s were handled, and the throw-away 'we've all had our problems over expenses' euphemism), I remember raising an eyebrow at talk of one or two famous folk lining up to contest parliamentary seats. In particular, Esther Rantzen standing in Luton South seemed to get a lot of coverage. A radio programme (possibly BBC Radio 4's PM, or BBC Five Live's Drive-Time) invited discussion of the pros and cons of this kind of independents-in move. Clare Short MP, whilst acknowledging the well-meaningness of many likely candidates and the understandable public anger at the expenses furore, was not supportive of the independents' rising star/s. In short, her challenge was that independents - whilst not being aligned to any major party - could not be readily associated with a set of core principles and values, beliefs or policy intentions. On the surface, a fair criticism, it seemed - so the public would have to ask questions, or read a little deeper into independents. A problem? I didn't think so. But Clare Short's comments stayed with me, they seemed to be premised on a flawed set of assumptions.
When it comes to distinguishing between the mainstream parties we can refer to history (recent and not so recent), we can look out for specific policy pledges, and we might ask what is the fuel (political, economic, moral) that drives Party X's agenda. All sound so far. But where does this take us? We are still resting on the hopes and assumptions of candidates sticking to what they've promised, to understanding what they've promised, and to 'filling in the gaps' positively for us. I don't believe that there are many voters who would deeply believe their election choices to amount to a 'Me versus Society' play-off, even though part of my occasionally reactionary way of thinking would tell me that that is how I hear some politicians. My point - getting back to Clare Short's assumptions regarding the oblique presentation of independent candidates: the biggest variable upon which people will make their voting decisions is trust. Plain and simple. And what this does, is it somewhat undermines the need for detailed policy presentation and party affiliation. It is for this reason that we have would-be prime ministers being analysed (by 'serious political commentators') for whether they looked into a television camera, or whether they made reference to the names of people who've asked questions. It's light, it's superficial, it's ephemeral. It seems that we are next door to - if not entirely in the land of - talk of 'gameplans', and mass readings of body language. And on these terms - the terms with which ordinary punters, such as we are, come to distinguish between political leaders - independent candidates are no different from those who carry higher profiles. We will analyse them - should they get as far as the starting line - in terms of how far we might trust them to do the right thing, whilst in office.
I do not need to know what every policy initiative would look like - that would be an unreasonable ask. What I want to believe, is that under whichever administration is formed over the coming days, that those who are most vulnerable in society will be best looked after. I want government to be big enough to be paternalistic, to be strong enough to be interventionist, and to be responsible enough to not simply allow the 'natural forces of the market' to steer us to wherever. At the level of the individual candidate, there are individuals from all major parties, and several minor parties, who convince me of their goodness of thought and spirit, that would inspire my trust in them. And sadly, there are individuals who might be aligned to broad political churches with which I am comfortable, who fail to inspire such feelings.
At risk of completely losing my thread, I will round off. On Thursday, I will vote. I won't feel any strong sense of what the next four or five years might have in store for any of us, but I will vote. And the thing that will determine who gets my 'X', will simply be that bloke (for they are all blokes) who I most believe could be relied upon to approach problems from a sound social and moral standpoint. It's not religious, it's not borne of any profound economic or even political ideology, it's just simple, human and humane.
I hope that anyone who glances over this missive will be voting too, regardless of where their X may land.
See you on the other side, perhaps for a collective sigh. Perhaps.
On the back of the expenses scandal (in my view, the scandal being the light touch with which party leader/s were handled, and the throw-away 'we've all had our problems over expenses' euphemism), I remember raising an eyebrow at talk of one or two famous folk lining up to contest parliamentary seats. In particular, Esther Rantzen standing in Luton South seemed to get a lot of coverage. A radio programme (possibly BBC Radio 4's PM, or BBC Five Live's Drive-Time) invited discussion of the pros and cons of this kind of independents-in move. Clare Short MP, whilst acknowledging the well-meaningness of many likely candidates and the understandable public anger at the expenses furore, was not supportive of the independents' rising star/s. In short, her challenge was that independents - whilst not being aligned to any major party - could not be readily associated with a set of core principles and values, beliefs or policy intentions. On the surface, a fair criticism, it seemed - so the public would have to ask questions, or read a little deeper into independents. A problem? I didn't think so. But Clare Short's comments stayed with me, they seemed to be premised on a flawed set of assumptions.
When it comes to distinguishing between the mainstream parties we can refer to history (recent and not so recent), we can look out for specific policy pledges, and we might ask what is the fuel (political, economic, moral) that drives Party X's agenda. All sound so far. But where does this take us? We are still resting on the hopes and assumptions of candidates sticking to what they've promised, to understanding what they've promised, and to 'filling in the gaps' positively for us. I don't believe that there are many voters who would deeply believe their election choices to amount to a 'Me versus Society' play-off, even though part of my occasionally reactionary way of thinking would tell me that that is how I hear some politicians. My point - getting back to Clare Short's assumptions regarding the oblique presentation of independent candidates: the biggest variable upon which people will make their voting decisions is trust. Plain and simple. And what this does, is it somewhat undermines the need for detailed policy presentation and party affiliation. It is for this reason that we have would-be prime ministers being analysed (by 'serious political commentators') for whether they looked into a television camera, or whether they made reference to the names of people who've asked questions. It's light, it's superficial, it's ephemeral. It seems that we are next door to - if not entirely in the land of - talk of 'gameplans', and mass readings of body language. And on these terms - the terms with which ordinary punters, such as we are, come to distinguish between political leaders - independent candidates are no different from those who carry higher profiles. We will analyse them - should they get as far as the starting line - in terms of how far we might trust them to do the right thing, whilst in office.
I do not need to know what every policy initiative would look like - that would be an unreasonable ask. What I want to believe, is that under whichever administration is formed over the coming days, that those who are most vulnerable in society will be best looked after. I want government to be big enough to be paternalistic, to be strong enough to be interventionist, and to be responsible enough to not simply allow the 'natural forces of the market' to steer us to wherever. At the level of the individual candidate, there are individuals from all major parties, and several minor parties, who convince me of their goodness of thought and spirit, that would inspire my trust in them. And sadly, there are individuals who might be aligned to broad political churches with which I am comfortable, who fail to inspire such feelings.
At risk of completely losing my thread, I will round off. On Thursday, I will vote. I won't feel any strong sense of what the next four or five years might have in store for any of us, but I will vote. And the thing that will determine who gets my 'X', will simply be that bloke (for they are all blokes) who I most believe could be relied upon to approach problems from a sound social and moral standpoint. It's not religious, it's not borne of any profound economic or even political ideology, it's just simple, human and humane.
I hope that anyone who glances over this missive will be voting too, regardless of where their X may land.
See you on the other side, perhaps for a collective sigh. Perhaps.
Monday, April 19, 2010
economics
I have just engaged in an economic transaction. On reflection, this is how it feels like it went:
Shane: Hello. I need a quote for a windscreen replacement.
WomanOnPhone: Okay. Make and model?
Shane: Oh, I don't know, just an ordinary windscreen - whichever is most popular. Or cheapest. And safe.
W.O.P.: No, no. The vehicle.
Shane: Oh. VW Passat.
W.O.P.: Registration?
Shane: Yankee Doodle Zero Blah Echo Dandy Beano.
W.O.P.: Great. And have you currently got sensors?
Shane: ('Like daleks?') Er.
W.O.P.: Rain sensors. Do the wipers come on themselves when it rains, sometimes?
Shane: ('Well, yeah. But that can't be sensors in the windscreen - I'd've seen the wires or sensor pads, surely. Must be just under the windscreen.') Er, no. I don't think so.
W.O.P.: Okay. And you'd want it doing today?
Shane: Yes please. Do you come to me? ('Or do I risk being lacerated in the face, by coming to you?)
W.O.P.: We can come to you. Where are you?
Shane: I'm in BlahBlah. ('Shit. I bet she adds More Pounds because of that.')
W.O.P.: Ok. Well that's coming out at Some Pounds.
Shane: Some Pounds? Ok. Let's do that.
W.O.P. and I agree a time at which A Man will come to me.
Later, A Man arrives and looks over his task like a true Windscreen Professional.
Windscreen Professional: Did she give you two prices?
Shane: No. Just the one for Some Pounds.
W.P.: Mm. It's just that you've got the rain sensors, see? (points at very obvious and highly visible rain sensors)
Shane: Yes, mm-hm. ('But of course, the rain sensors of obviousness')
W.P.: So that'll be More Pounds.
Shane: More Pounds, oh that's fine. ('Not that I'm rich or anything, you understand.')
W.P.: Right then, if you could pull the car forward - I'll need to open both doors. I'll get on with it.
Shane: Okay. And would you like a drink?
W.P.: No thanks, I'm not gay.
Shane: Okay.
He gets on with being A Man, and I leave him to it.
It didn't feel like a balanced transaction. Definitely a sense of being all at sea on that one.
Will have a look over the OU website later. They probably run courses on Manning Up.
Shane: Hello. I need a quote for a windscreen replacement.
WomanOnPhone: Okay. Make and model?
Shane: Oh, I don't know, just an ordinary windscreen - whichever is most popular. Or cheapest. And safe.
W.O.P.: No, no. The vehicle.
Shane: Oh. VW Passat.
W.O.P.: Registration?
Shane: Yankee Doodle Zero Blah Echo Dandy Beano.
W.O.P.: Great. And have you currently got sensors?
Shane: ('Like daleks?') Er.
W.O.P.: Rain sensors. Do the wipers come on themselves when it rains, sometimes?
Shane: ('Well, yeah. But that can't be sensors in the windscreen - I'd've seen the wires or sensor pads, surely. Must be just under the windscreen.') Er, no. I don't think so.
W.O.P.: Okay. And you'd want it doing today?
Shane: Yes please. Do you come to me? ('Or do I risk being lacerated in the face, by coming to you?)
W.O.P.: We can come to you. Where are you?
Shane: I'm in BlahBlah. ('Shit. I bet she adds More Pounds because of that.')
W.O.P.: Ok. Well that's coming out at Some Pounds.
Shane: Some Pounds? Ok. Let's do that.
W.O.P. and I agree a time at which A Man will come to me.
Later, A Man arrives and looks over his task like a true Windscreen Professional.
Windscreen Professional: Did she give you two prices?
Shane: No. Just the one for Some Pounds.
W.P.: Mm. It's just that you've got the rain sensors, see? (points at very obvious and highly visible rain sensors)
Shane: Yes, mm-hm. ('But of course, the rain sensors of obviousness')
W.P.: So that'll be More Pounds.
Shane: More Pounds, oh that's fine. ('Not that I'm rich or anything, you understand.')
W.P.: Right then, if you could pull the car forward - I'll need to open both doors. I'll get on with it.
Shane: Okay. And would you like a drink?
W.P.: No thanks, I'm not gay.
Shane: Okay.
He gets on with being A Man, and I leave him to it.
It didn't feel like a balanced transaction. Definitely a sense of being all at sea on that one.
Will have a look over the OU website later. They probably run courses on Manning Up.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
seven survey*
Having listened to his appearance on BBC Radio 4's Book Club, with James Naughtie, I've been reading Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street.
It's been a while since I experienced such a thing, but I think I've been struck by a case of Man Love. And from this (below), I think it should be easy to understand why:
Good day.
* references the Chapter Seven title of 44 Scotland Street: The Survey.
It's been a while since I experienced such a thing, but I think I've been struck by a case of Man Love. And from this (below), I think it should be easy to understand why:
Good day.
* references the Chapter Seven title of 44 Scotland Street: The Survey.
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.
Friday, March 12, 2010
five star
Early 2010 featured far too much death and distraction for me to commit to being anything more than a punter at the second Stoke-on-Trent Pecha Kucha event. Pecha Kucha: Japanese for chit-chat. Here, taking the form of a presentation, over 20 slides/images, each given 20 seconds - total presentation time: 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.
With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.
Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.
From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.
In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.
During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.
Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.
The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.
From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.
And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.
By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.
The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.
With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.
Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.
From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.
In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.
During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.
Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.
The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.
From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.
And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.
By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
four tits
From recent observations, a gentle audit:
Blue - simple, pretty and common.
Great - 'Fat Blue Tit, with black belly stripe', I think to myself.
Coal - my favourite - a demure wee thing.
And now, Marsh - as we approached Doxeys Marshes, I saw the fleeting wag of a tail and proclaimed, 'Long-tailed tit' - really loud and professional, like. But on closer, quieter inspection, The Boy put me right, 'It's a Marsh Tit... (whispers) punk ass fool'.
Sunday felt like Spring, and the beginning - proper - of 2010.
Blue - simple, pretty and common.
Great - 'Fat Blue Tit, with black belly stripe', I think to myself.
Coal - my favourite - a demure wee thing.
And now, Marsh - as we approached Doxeys Marshes, I saw the fleeting wag of a tail and proclaimed, 'Long-tailed tit' - really loud and professional, like. But on closer, quieter inspection, The Boy put me right, 'It's a Marsh Tit... (whispers) punk ass fool'.
Sunday felt like Spring, and the beginning - proper - of 2010.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
three moments
Eleven days ago.
Ahead of the recent cremation of my grandmother, I'd had a falling out with my sister - nothing more than a brief flare-up, but this was unusual - Sister and I generally get on well. Leaving the north east, prior to my return for the cremation, we'd not healed the rift. Unsatisfactory, but something that we could both live with.
On my return for said cremation, about to enter the familial home's front room, I wondered what kind of atmosphere awaited. As I move into the open doorway, Sister spotted me, suppressed an embarrassed smile and raised an eyebrow at me - a quiet 'Hello'. In response, I stick two fingers up at her and ask, 'Cup of tea?'.
That's how we don't deal with issues.
After the cremation service and an entirely pleasant afternoon, spent with relatives who I'd not seen in years, I requested a lift to the station from Sister, and she obliged. En route - a 15 minute hop, we discussed our mother, and strategies for helping mum - mam - to move on from our grandmother's death. Broadly speaking, we were as one. On reaching Durham, I stepped out of the car, took my bags and said thanks for the lift. Sister replies, 'Y' alright'. And then, as I have my hand on the door - about to shut it, she calls out, 'Oi! Git!' 'What?' I ask, leaning back in. 'Thanks for doing that today', she said, to which I nodded. 'See y' next month', and closed the door.
That's how we draw lines under issues.
Ahead of the recent cremation of my grandmother, I'd had a falling out with my sister - nothing more than a brief flare-up, but this was unusual - Sister and I generally get on well. Leaving the north east, prior to my return for the cremation, we'd not healed the rift. Unsatisfactory, but something that we could both live with.
On my return for said cremation, about to enter the familial home's front room, I wondered what kind of atmosphere awaited. As I move into the open doorway, Sister spotted me, suppressed an embarrassed smile and raised an eyebrow at me - a quiet 'Hello'. In response, I stick two fingers up at her and ask, 'Cup of tea?'.
That's how we don't deal with issues.
After the cremation service and an entirely pleasant afternoon, spent with relatives who I'd not seen in years, I requested a lift to the station from Sister, and she obliged. En route - a 15 minute hop, we discussed our mother, and strategies for helping mum - mam - to move on from our grandmother's death. Broadly speaking, we were as one. On reaching Durham, I stepped out of the car, took my bags and said thanks for the lift. Sister replies, 'Y' alright'. And then, as I have my hand on the door - about to shut it, she calls out, 'Oi! Git!' 'What?' I ask, leaning back in. 'Thanks for doing that today', she said, to which I nodded. 'See y' next month', and closed the door.
That's how we draw lines under issues.
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