Romance?

Moonface is feeling rather fragile, these days, since her mother is so seriously ill. And the weather's been rotten, so she con't get outside as much as she'd like, and I'm not looking after her because I'm working, and we have spent the last three weekends apart.

We went for a stroll this evening, as we frequently do, just to talk and stretch our legs. On the return leg, she decided that she wanted some fish and chips. It's been years since we had any; I don't know why, but we rarely seem to buy take-away food these days. We bought cod and chips, then sat on someone's garden wall to eat them out of the paper,just like we did when teenagers, sharing the chips and breaking bits of battered fish to eat with our fingers.

It felt very romantic and, for some reason, quite naughty but very relaxing.


:0)

The Godfather

Thomas with his grandfather

I became a godfather for the first time at the weekend. It's been a long time coming, but I guess that is not surprising, since most of my friends and relatives are not churchgoers, and I have been an atheist since my 20's

My new godson, Thomas, is my first real girlfriend's grandchild: I saw a lot of his mother (my girlfriend's daughter) when she was a girl and adolescent, when I was working from Leeds, and we have stayed in touch. She's a good girl who seems to get pregnant easily, with a devoted and decent man; I like both of them immensely.

I felt honoured to be invited to bear some responsibility for Thomas' upbringing, to be made to feel like part of the family, so I enjoyed the party and chat afterwards. There were strange undercurrents at the "reception" as Fiona (granny) had three of her men there: her current man (a pilot who looks like a minor civil servant, for whom I have a great affection), myself (first boyfriend), and her ex-husband, to whom she didn't talk, nor did Fiona's beau, and with whom I have difficulty holding a sustained conversation. It was good to talk to Fi's son again, who is something of a lost soul in spite of being good at heart. A nice lad.


But the church ceremony was awkward. Yes, I like being in churches, reading the architecture and decoration; and there is something soothing about singing the hymns and listening to the readings and lesson. But as an atheist it was hard to make the promises that a godfather has to make. Promises yes, but promises to God? I felt hypocritical and uncomfortable in the extreme, but tried to justify them to myself by rationalising that "God" could mean the common weal or mankind; and that I made the promises for Thomas and his parents' sake. But frankly, I was lying. I had no faith in god so I shouldn't have taken part. It was wrong to make those statements, for even if I have every intention of helping with the boy's upbringing as requested, I don't think that god should have anything to do with it. There's another fig-leaf gone from my own standards of morality.

Still, I need worry. The other godfather was a tall, blond handsome young man, very gay. He must have had even more difficulty in making the promises - or perhaps he has fewer scruples. We kept the parents happy, though, and that's the main thing.


:-)

Stuff

One of the people whom I met last weekend was a classic downshifter; a man who had run a small company of his own, but who chucked it to become a one-man business and move into a house that is barely more than a cabin, but that has a location and grounds to die for. His two-room house sits about fifty meters from the wooded banks of the Moselle, with a southern aspect and space for a lawn, vegetable patch, plunge pool and open-air dining table.

To move there, he had to get rid of all the junk, all the redundant and superfluous stuff that he had accumulated over the course of his life and relationships. His single living, working and dining room is sparsely decorated to the point of austerity except for the kitchen area which is equipped for real use. He was one of the cooks whose skill and cooking I so admired.

And, it's made me think. Moonface & I have been in this house for twenty-five years and more, accumulating goods faster than we dispose of them. So it's steadily silting up. The attic is nearly full, after it was emptied when the old lady moved out. Some of the stuff is building materials for the work that we never got around to doing, some is a collection of cardboard boxes for electronic equipment that we will move one day.......and other stuff is just, well, stuff.

Elsewhere in the house, I don't throw out clothes unless they're worn out (although Moonface does) and we buy books faster than we can dispose of them. We've had equipment for hobbies that we no longer pursue, but "might" come back to one day, vinyl records from the 70's and '80's, and a cupboard full, very full, of tools that only rarely come in useful. How many bicycles? I'm almost a collector. There are pictures on my office pin-board that are ten years old. I'm sure it must be bad Feng Shui. Or something.

Our son, bless him, is even worse and is pathologically resistant to throwing anything at all out, so in spite of having a huge room, all the available space is occupied to the point of worry. Our worry, that is. He likes it.

So, inspired by what others can do and thinking that my life is too cluttered, I am resolved to throw more out. Anything will be a start.


:o)

Nanny

Nanny's in hospital. Moonface's mother, Nanny, Midge, Margery, call her what you will. She's 87 and frail. Her hands are arthritic and she has had difficulty walking; last Saturday (while I was away) she fell at home and broke her hip. Fortunately one of her grandsons found her and called the ambulance to accompany her to hospital. She's had the operation to repair her old bones so she's now slowly recovering.

The poor old thing. She's probably not eating enough for her, and has difficulty raising her water-glass to her lips to drink from it. Her face is scabby and mottled with sun-spots, some of which we assume are cancerous. She's thin. Her mind is wandering: when I called in to see her yesterday she told me that Moonface has visited when I knew that she hadn't, and Midge thought that another relative had been three times although that woman hadn't been at all. She screams though her physiotherapy.

What can we do? Nothing. Just visit as often as we can and hope for the best resolution. I don't know whether that's a heart attack in her sleep or a full recovery. Whichever she wants, I guess.

Nanny's hospital ward is full of similar old ladies, sitting resignedly and uncomprehendingly by their beds, slack-jawed and vacant. It's sad. And now we will remember them like this rather than as their vibrant youths or healthy middle-ages. It was the same for Moonface's father, whom I now remember as a yellow hollowed cadaver lying in his hospital bed after his mercifully brief final illness, rather that the grumpy old man that we knew for so many years.

Give me the gift of a swift, painless and clean death, please. And not for a while yet. And grant Midge what she wants.

Taste

Last weekend was spent in France, visiting a friend. Perhaps, more accurately, I should say that I was almost losing a friend. That wasn't unexpected; I was hesitant about making the visit, so I repeatedly asked beforehand whether I was welcome, half expecting and a quarter hoping that the invitation would be withdrawn. When my friend and I first met some years ago, there was a definite chemistry and affection between us which sustained our communications without an actual meeting for two years. There was chemistry this weekend as well, but this time it caused explosions in the confined space of her flat.

So there was an emotional turmoil that I haven't experienced for years, leaving me confused and rather miserable upon my return journey.

Nevertheless, whenever we were outside of my friend's flat and in the open air, we had a wonderful time with blue skies and warm sun all weekend. And they fed me. I regard myself as an acceptable cook (a good one, for a male Briton?) for ordinary day-to-day domesticity and I enjoy cooking for fun and relaxation as well as making the necessary daily evening meal, but the men who cooked for me this weekend were terrific. Bacon-wrapped sausage, ratatouille, roast veal and perfect steak were all deliciously memorable. Perhaps I'm just not used to their volumes of fresh herbs with the cooking, but I think that it was this that made the difference. Plus putting in time and effort, I suppose.

I mentioned steak. Now, normally I'm not a fan of barbecues, because in my experience within Britain this tends to be a recipe for food that is delivered tasteless, burnt on the outside and cold and raw in the middle. The only really good barbecues I've had have been in Australia and Africa, all using much bigger fires and grills that the one which M used this weekend. But somehow, using equipment that I have seen used to destroy food, M cooked an inch and a half thick steak to perfection. I was impressed. And he thought about the herbs used with the salads so that they matched the main ingredients and peeled the mushrooms for the salad, something which I have never done.

What else, food-wise, do I remember from the weekend? A chocolate tart, made in ten minutes, with that pastry which I can never get right. And a guinea-fowl with morel sauce, one of the best dishes I have eaten in a restaurant for ages. The guinea-fowl was cooked to the point of perfection, the sauce both sweet and savoury with an almost sea-like freshness, slightly sexual.

I owe friend and M a good weekend in Bristol. It may be a while before we are recovered enough. We shall see, but I want it to happen.

Surprisingly, I found that upon my return to the UK, I had actually lost weight: about a kilo and a half. It must have been the stress.


:o(

Bloody French

I was born in a grimy industrial Northern town, with few redeeming features that were not destroyed by planners in the 1960's. There were almost no buildings of style or interest except the local parish church, and the skyline to the North was dominated by the flare-stacks and chimneys of the massive chemical works. When the wind was in the wrong direction, we could scent the acrid brown of nitrogen dioxide which we could see floating towards the town, turning to nitric acid in our lungs.

And yet the industrial background was something to be proud of. Stockton-on-Tees was home to the very first passenger railway in the world, which ran in 1825. The revolution in powered transport for ordinary people started there. The first house in which I lived had a railway embankment at the bottom of the garden, so that I could watch the steam trains slowly shunting by from our back room. The embankment was an extension of my garden for playing in, with overgrown bushes and tall grass to hide in and young trees to climb. So I have always had a fondness for railways, and a preference for rail travel over all other methods. I have watched the slow decline of Britain's railways with despair; our ticket prices high with an arcane charging structure, the carriages often rickety or filthy, and running slower than they did thirty years ago. The slavery to making money at the expense of beauty and effectiveness meant that stations such as Paddington were cluttered with kiosks and booths selling stuff to the travellers waiting for the trains that always arrived late.

And then, three years ago, I took a job with a French company with offices based just by the Gare de Lyon. And I was shocked. The trains, heading for the Mediterranean and points south, were clean, modern and fast. The station looked as if it were built for the public, not the shop-keepers. The next year, in Spring 2005 Moonface and I took a holiday in the south of France, near Nice, and experienced mountain railways that could never have been built here. The tracks clung to the side of gorges, and spiralled upwards inside solid rock, doubling back upon themselves to climb high over Alpine passes. We were impressed and awed at what could be done. Even these branch lines had new, clean, spacious trains. It made me so jealous and angry that Britain's engineering heritage has been pissed away training accountants and lawyers to be better paid and more respected that men and women who can build.

This last weekend I travelled to Nancy in the east of France to see a friend. (More of that some other time) For the return trip I took the direct TGV Est line, newly opened this June. It made me spit with anger. We travelled two hundred miles in ninety minutes, in quiet comfort, in reserved seats with plenty of luggage space at a price far below that of a similar trip in the UK. The same distance from London would take three time as long and cost three times as much.
Oh, and the train ran exactly to its timetable, arriving spot-on at noon.

Bloody French.


:0(

Brother Herbert

One of our new relatives is a lovely old man: Brother Herbert.
He is positive and enthusiastic about everything he sees, speaking clearly and positively and kindly about every subject we discussed. Over the course of a weekend, we found out a little of his life.
He was born a German Jew in Dresden, shortly after the first world war.
In 1938 he escaped from Germany and came to live in Britain, studying architecture in Bristol, then converting to Catholicism in a church not far from where Moonface and I live. He has worked to make life better for drug addicts and alcoholics, and now lives as one of only three Cistercian monks in a monastery and retreat near Bedford. He does like his Guinness.


:o)

Rick and Briony

Rick and Briony married on the 7th of the 7th of 2007. Between them, they have seven children. After many weeks of rain, the Saturday was fine, sunny and clear, so we took the wedding photographs outside and later, we strolled around the park in which the reception was held.

I like being connected to people, so it felt marvellous to instantly become an uncle to four more children (or almost) and to acquire a new set of relatives.

There they are, Ru, Jake W, Toby, Sam and Jake E in the back row; Martha, Rick, Briony and George at the front. We all wish them well.



:o)

Lord Leighton

Wet Sundays are an invitation to urban walks and art galleries rather than getting out in the muddy countryside. After having railed against the near-pornography of the Musee d'Orsay a month or so ago, I saw the opposite apply in an exhibition of Lord Leighton's drawings at the City Museum.

In all the fifty or so small sketches and drawings shown, his draughtsmanship was superb; but where were the nudes? Leighton's drawings of faces and clothing are detailed enough to be photographs, and his mastery of facial expression is wonderful, but he didn't seem interested in female bodies, typically giving them a blur below the waistline. I guess the same went for male nudes, but he did seem to prefer drawing male faces and bodies to women's.

After the antiseptic drawings, Moonface & I wandered upstairs to the Victorian collection for a change. It's been much too long since we looked at the standing collections, and they have changed significantly. There is a Leighton, of course: a version of the Mermaid & the Fisherman. Again, Leighton seems more interested in the male body rather than the female, but we all have our preferences. He's very good on her hair, though.

There were a couple of fun Beryl Cooks, which she donated to the city a few years ago when she lived here. I do like her fat, jolly women.

Climbing trees

Before going for the traditional curry and booze evening on my brother's restrained stag night, his son took us for a couple of hours climbing trees and swinging from ropes in a forest. The Tarzan-style afternoon out was stupidly fun, with rope-walks, zip-wire descents and awkward traverses high up in the trees. In some way it was a shame that we had to use so much safety equipment: I'd forgotten how much fun I have, climbing trees. In spite of the pouring rain and general filthy mud on the ground, we all had a great time.

Climbing trees was one of my favourite activities when I was very young. I can still remember hiding in the bushes on the railway embankment behind our house when I was five or so, then climbing the ash tree at the bottom of our garden at the next house, and the tree-house between the holly and beech in my friends' garden. It's difficult to walk past a perfect climbing tree without wanting to at least climb up to the first set of branches and either sit and survey the world, or swing below them. It's one thing missing from our garden in Bristol - but there's just not enough room.


:0)

How come?

How come both of my brothers have married (or are about to marry) women who are much younger than them, whereas my father & I have wives about the same age as ourselves?

Both Rick & Gwyn's spouses are in their thirties, while the men are approaching fifty at speed.


:o)