It ain’t what you do, it’s what it does to you.

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall, picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the lightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

Simon Armitage

One of my favourite poems, by a true poet.
And is verse 3 relevant for a friend?

The Miners Arms

At present this is my favourite pub.
It's pleasantly scruffy, with a good mix of people.
Actually, I'll take that back; it's just that I like the type of people who go there.
The pub's got grubby wooden floors, not too much smoke, and a decent range of ciders and wines. Beers as well, of course.

It usually has a smattering of dogs lurking around, and all of them are well-behaved. For us, one of the best aspects is that it's just the right distance to walk to, about twenty minutes. We drop down from the park to the path by the railway, over the spring and stream, to the bohemian terraces of St Werburgh's. Returning, it's a harder walk, but it clears our brain from the befuddlement of the Stowford Press.
(Thanks for the photo)

Stogursey

This unremarkable village lies in an unremarkable position beneath the Quantocks in north Somerset, close to the Severn estuary with views across to Wales on a good day, and from a high point. Although Moonface's grandfather was born within a mile, she had never been there before our visit last week.

The butcher's had closed, but there is still a shop and a pub or two. It has a beautiful church the size of a small cathedral, an ancient spring and the ruins of an amazing moated castle. The last is unusual, as the cottage built into the ruins is available for holiday rental and looks so twee as to be out of a Disney story.

Somehow, Stogursey has the feel of rural France, with empty houses in the sidestreets and buildings in bad repair. Thet's surprising, as it's close to the nuclear power station at Hinkley Point which employs many people. Or perhaps they don't like the idea of living too close to their work.

Missed Opportunity

This afternoon, Moonface & I walked over to Clifton to look at an exhibition of Beryl Cook prints.
I'd been in a strop and a sulk, for various reasons, but the pictured cheered me up: they're all good-humoured, lively scenes of ordinary life. Perhaps she IS Britain's best-loved painter, certainly her postcards sell very well.

I've always liked her pictures, especially the fat girls in bright colours. Is her style realistic or faux-naif? Why worry: they're fun.

One of my greater regrets is that i didn't buy an original picture of hers when I was young and rich. When the Alexander Gallery first showed her work, there was a particular painting that appealed to me. I can't remember the title; only that it included parts of an egg-carton to represent a woman's breasts. I wanted to buy it, and dithered for a couple of weeks before deciding that half a month's wages was too much to pay. I could have afforded it. I should have afforded it, as her prints are now fetching almost that much, and that articular painting is probably worth tens of thousands. At least I now trust my own eye for art. I'm a pleb. If i like something, thousands of others will, as well.

Hypocrisy or irony?

There is a notice behind the bar in "The Ancient Mariner", a pub in Nether Stowey, south Somerset.

The notice states: "All persons found with drugs on these premises will be banned from this and all other local Public Houses, and will have their names notified to the Police"

Presumably alcohol & tobacco don't count as drugs these days?

And why is the pub called the Ancient Mariner? It's in honour of the poet Samuel Coleridge, who lived in the cottage opposite the pub whilst he was writing some of his most famous poetry, including The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner, and Kubla Khan.
And what was Coleridge also famous for?

Taking massive amounts of opium, that's what.
No drugs, indeed.

She did it !

One of Moonface's most attractive qualities (or one of her most infuriating, depending upon the circumstances) is that she's decisive.

We kicked around the idea of a camper-van last October, but decided that we should wait until January or February before doing anything, as prices would (should?) be lowest now. So February arrived, and we started looking. We literally looked into vans on the streets, and viewed a couple in the flesh and on forecourts. The the Iveco turned up on Ebay, during the only snowy week this winter. But we looked at it, as it was only ten miles away. We didn't bid, we bided.

After the aution finished, with no sale, we asked again, and Moonface went ahead.

A deal. A purchase. A mssive great hulking van outside our house.
And, we hope, the chance to get away from it all at a moment's whim.
Mountains, beach, moorland. Here we come. We hope.

Slowing down

Perhaps my brain is slowing down. Perhaps the stories about older people taking longer to learn, are true. I don't notice it so much in "normal" life, where the need to learn is not that great, but I do notice the slowdown in recreational activity.

An example is in my ability to learn languages. When I was younger, I seemed to acquire phrases & words in new languages by magic. I can still remember phrases in Urdu and Turkish that I haven't needed for twenty years; but in the last three or four years, I haven't picked up more than a word of Magyar or Swahili, and my French hasn't improved, either.

Though, I guess that needs might be a factor. When we travelled in our youth, we were travelling cheaper, and in the days before mass tourism to the more remote areas. Speaking English was not always an option. It's interesting that I can't remember many Greek words, because even then the alternative, "hippy" resorts had well-developed facilities for foreigners so we didn't need to learn.

And then there's driving. I've been a salesman for almost twenty-five years, and my driving ability has changed. I don't always know exactly where I am anymore, and I notice that I make mistakes. Now, that may be becaause I am more mature and more self-critical because of my experience, or it may because my mind is less sharp, and I observe less.

I'm desperate to kick-start some worthwhile intellectual activity again. Doing my Master's in my forties was wonderful; the best and most intensive intellectual challenge of my life, and I'd love to repeat it. A PhD ? I need an external driver to make me work, self-imposition won't work with me. A totally new type of job might be worth going for, but getting a new start ot my age could be a challenge. Let's keep my mind open, and hope that I'm wrong about slowing down...........

Bastard burglars

I leave bicycles out in the garden pretty frequently. Usually they are kept in the shed, but often I park them by the gate to the garden, hidden from view, inaccessible because of the enclosed triangle of houses that we back onto, and the high, locked solid gate giving access to our garden.

My bikes are all pretty manky; not worth much at all. They're old semi-wrecks, moderately well maintained, that let me have a fun time whilst riding. I've been leaving bikes out in the garden for years.

Then, two nights ago, Rio's boyfriend left his out there, as it was too filthy from riding through mud, to be brought indoors. And it was stolen. By bastards.

BASTARDS.

He was fond of his bike, which was only two weeks old. He'd chosen the components and the frame, then built it himself. It was expensive, with nothing but the best. He's a dedicated, keen biker, and this was just what he wanted. And being low paid, it had cost him nearly a month's salary.

BASTARDS.

The thieves must have either seen him wheeling it behind the door, or seen it from houses backing onto our garden, so they are local. The thieves came equipped to steal; they tried to prise the lock off the gate, and cut the wires and ties holding the high wire mesh over the gate. They had to lift the bike more than two metres off the ground, climbing both ways over the fence, and taking the bike with them. I guess we'll never see it again.

Jason's upset, Rio's upset, I'm angry.

BASTARDS !!

Worried?

OK, so this is the situation.
I'm an ordinary bloke approaching middle age, unemployed.
Some men not much older than me are retired, I don't think I can afford to, and Moonface wouldn't want me to stop work. Besides, I enjoy it.

I've been a salesman for more than twenty years, nearly all of that time very successfully, but the last four years have been crap. I don't think it's my fault, but one has to wonder. Have I lost my edge, or were the products rubbish? Now I need a job, but who will overlook my recent record? What type of company will employ me?

And, I don't really know what I want to do - except that I've a good commercial mind and a brain, and I like selling. So, who shall I approach? Local companies or big ones? Bristol-based, national, American, European? I'm buggered if I know.

In the past, I've sold across Europe, and across the UK. That involved lots of travel and driving, which is a pain in the arse. Frankly, I think I'd enjoy a smaller geographical patch. But, since I've mainly sold to pharma, that will be difficult as there are few local pharma customers. Or should I try to act as the EU representative of an American company?

Decisions, decisions?
And, should I accept an average salary for an easier job? Should I try to go part-time? That would be ideal, but would it be feasible for a "professional" salesman?

And most important: will anyone employ me? My recent record isn't good. Will they look beyond that? At years of being really good, of working well with people, of helping to build companies from nothing to something? Am I condemned to a life on the dole? That's what I'm afraid of, deep down.

Getting staid

Moonface wants to buy a camper van.

Are we getting middle-aged and turning into pipe-and-slippers people, or is this her mid-life crisis?

Or is it just that with a camper-van, we can escape the offspring whenever we want, to spend time together & indulge in mini-adventures?

Two seats, one bed, a cooker, basin & fridge. Do we need any more? Does she need any more?
She's excited, and wants to have one before half-term.

What should she buy? Cheap and rusty? New and shiny? Or something in between?
Watch this space!

Sunday perfection

At this time of year, the sun rises so that its first rays shine across our bedroom, neither obstructed by the houses opposite nor rising too far to the east to fall upon our bed. This Sunday the sky was cloudless and blue-pink at dawn, waking both Moonface & I up to a quiet house; both children asleep.
So, yes.

Then, whilst Moonface pottered around the house and garden, I spent an hour and a half playing with a bicycle on the Downs & in the woods, making the most of the hard ground in the early frost.

We ate, we went for a walk in the western Cotswolds, across the Iron Age fort above Horton and down into the village. There, we inspected a camper van which Moonface is threatening to buy, and felt distinctly keen about it. But it's too much money! We walked back to the car, thinking and subdued.

I cooked a traditional Sunday roast again, for all five of us, feeling relaxed at the ritual and timing of putting food onto the table. I tried a new mash of mixed parsnip & swede, which seems to combine the best of both vegetables. Its success pleased me.

Then, in the evening, I listened to music and read a blackly humorous crime thriller, pleasantly exhausted.

But not too exhausted. So yes, again.
Bliss.

Singlespeed

Going out on the singlespeed at the weekend, for the first time for about three months, wasn't like normal cycling. It's much more physical, much harder work. Instead of using gears to control how fast you travel, it's just about using the legs and body. And the body really matters. There's no way of just simply sitting on the saddle and twiddling away away at the pedals. No, it's more about standing when necessary, throwing your weight around to climb over bumps, and heaving away at the bars with your arms & shoulders to climb up the hills.

The lack of gears is psychologically satisfying, too. There's less concentration upon controls, and correspondingly more on observation of the terrain and surroundings. Mechanically simpler, singlespeeds are good for mud and winter, and wherever the rider isn't inclined to shower love and affection upon the lumps of metal that he rides.

Chard

There has been so little frost this winter that the plants usually killed off over winter, have continued to grow and crop. Moonface's allotment is still producing chard in great quantities, enough to provide vegetables & salad for a couple of meals per week. (Although it's getting a little tough to use as salad leaves)

The rocket which Moonfaces sowed last year has self-seeded, and also produces enough leaves to fill a bag every week. Spring is coming, & it's time to start the cycle again.

Addicted

I awoke with a crashing headache, after a restless sweaty night.

And why? Because I hadn't drunk any caffeine since noon the day before. All I'd had for the whole of the day before was my morning cuppa and a weak and pathetic machine tea in London. Consequently I suffered from withdrawal symptoms, as I often do when I forget to have a last cup of tea before bed-time.

One big mug later, and I'm fine.

But I'm an addict.