1947

Rob (Grandad), Nan (Granny), Harry, Ronnie, Mary, Frank, Alan (my father), Anne.





Alan, Harry, Anne, Nan, Robert, Mary, Ronnie, Frank.


Last weekend was spent in Keswick, at my uncle & aunt's Diamond Wedding. There was a terrific turn-out, with over 40 relatives of various sorts turning up from Britain, Spain and France. One of the happiest things of the weekend for me was the passing around of these photos, showing my father's family in 1947.

They' re all getting old, now. We were worried that Harry wasn't going to make the weekend, and Ronnie's pretty tired, as well. As Frank is living in Spain, it's not sure that the siblings will ever all be together again. I hope so, though.


:0/

Coming of Age

The United States of America inaugurated its new President today, and by making a member of a minority its most powerful man, showed itself a mature country. The United Kingdom did the same with Disraeli in 1874, and I suppose the USSR also chose Stalin in the 1920's; but he could have been said to have selected himself by other means.

More importantly, today is my daughter's 21st birthday.
Happy Birthday, Rio.
This is the real coming of age.

May you have a long, happy, productive and prosperous life.

:o)

Beard

I've not shaved since the beginning of December, when a brief dose of a bad cold sapped my willpower and coordination. Moonface doesn't like it when I don't shave, since I both look and feel rough. No snogging!

But now, after six or seven weeks, the beard is looking quite a respectable length, dense around the chin and curly under the ears, and it feels much softer. I've never grown one for this time before, and now that I know I can - what's the point? I look different, but the shaved head, glasses and beard make a very mature combination, and I don't feel mature yet. And as the beard around my chin and moustache is pure white, it makes me look older. So it's got to come off, sometime soon. Funnily enough, Moonface doesn't mind my appearance now; at least my face is kissable again.

I have a photo of my bearded self, so sometime soon I will shave again ....


:0/

Against Coupling

by Fleur Adcock.

Against Coupling

I write in praise of the solitary act:
of not feeling a trespassing tongue
forced into one's mouth, one's breath
smothered, nipples crushed against the
rib-cage, and that metallic tingling
in the chin set off by a certain odd nerve:

unpleasure. Just to avoid those eyes would help-
such eyes as a young girl draws life from,
listening to the vegetal
rustle within her, as his gaze
stirs polypal fronds in the obscure
sea-bed of her body, and her own eyes blur.

There is much to be said for abandoning
this no longer novel exercise -
for not 'participating in
a total experience' - when
one feels like the lady in Leeds who
had seen The Sound Of Music eighty-six times;

or more, perhaps, like the school drama mistress
producing A Midsummer Night's Dream
for the seventh year running, with
yet another cast from 5B.
Pyramus and Thisbe are dead, but
the hole in the wall can still be troublesome.

I advise you, then, to embrace it without
encumbrance. No need to set the scene,
dress up (or undress), make speeches.
Five minutes of solitude are
enough- in the bath, or to fill
that gap between the Sunday papers and lunch.

Sweet

:o)

The Glass Boat

Apart from when we are on holiday, Moonface and I rarely eat out in the evenings. It's not that we don't enjoy it, nor that we are too mean; we just don't. Perhaps it's the time that it takes, or the knowledge that we have had too many ordinary meals, or that we both enjoy cooking and eating at home together, especially when Tommo & Rio are with us.

So our meal for all four of us on the Glass Boat this week was somewhat special, as well as being superb. Moonface has wanted to eat there for some time, as it has both a great reputation and a romantic situation by the Bristol Bridge. We wanted to go out en famille to celebrate Rio's 21st before she returned to University, and we took advantage of an offer to do so. We walked down there, of course, a fast thirty-minute stride through the returning commuters and early evening.

The resto is, as its name suggests, an old barge with the upper decks covered with a glass and timber superstructure to form an elegant and light space with room enough for a score of well-separated tables. The loos, kitchen and another dining room are below decks. We arrived at our usual dinner time, about 6:30, when there was only one other table occupied, but by time we left there were only about half empty; not bad for a Thursday in January .

We ate superbly. I knew that I couldn't cook as well, nor present it as delicately as the chefs had put in upon our plates. The wine was expensive (for us) but good. In particular, I appreciated the half-bottle of Macon Villages which Rio and I shared because it was available in a half-bottle size so we didn't drink too much, and it was just right for our starters, Furthermore, it's unusual to have good French wine in Britain, or at least on our table. The Aussie Foundstone Shiraz was as spicy and plummy as we expected, so it went well with our rich main courses of duck (the other three) and venison pudding (myself).

Since this isn't a review, I won't go on. The calves' liver starter which Tommo ate has inspired me to try cooking with liver again, the scallops I had reminded me to eat more seafood, and the mains were filling as well as tasty. Rio and I made a mistake over puds, however. We assumed that a shared taster dish would be small. It wasn't; instead it was three full-size puddings squeezed onto a plate together with some ice cream. We had problems squeezing it all inside ourselves, together with the taster glasses of riesling or Pedro Ximinez sherry served with them. Thank goodness for the walk home.

My only complaint was the rather slow service. I wasn't expecting to take over two hours for three courses, but it was very relaxing. And as I said, superb food and atmosphere.

:0)
:0)

Leaks

Until last week, we'd had nearly a month of fine dry weather, cold and clear, a good winter.

Then we had rain and strong southerly winds, and our bedroom bay has decided to leak badly around the south-facing window. It's a few years since we had the windows serviced, and I guess that it's the changes made then that have resulted in these leaks, which have suddenly gotten much worse. When the wind is wrong, the rain is driven into the frame and trickles inside our wall, soaking the carpet and boards. I can't see where the leak originates, and can't seal it from the inside, so we'll have to endure the problem until spring makes outside access easier. It's a pain.

:o(

Gaza

The Six-Day War in 1967 was the first conflict that I remember reading about in the news. It seemed a clear-cut war to me, at that time. The goodies were Israeli, fighting the massed armies of the Arab world who were the baddies. It seemed only fair that in retaliation for threatening Israel, the Arab states should lose Sinai, Gaza and the Golan Heights. Except, of course, that Israel had gotten their retaliation in first.

The politics chimed with my own, as well. The Jews had been massacred by Fascism, which made them automatically left-wing and socialist and therefore correct. And Israel was the home of the Kibbutzim, proto-socialist collective farms and the model for all hippy communes (except that Kibbutzes worked, and involved hard labour) .

Now, the world seems to have changed. The Israelis are the oppressors, the fascists, using superior arms and their support from Republican Americans to invade, starve, and abuse the Palestinians. The invasion of Gaza seems vile. It's a densely populated strip of land, into which all the dispossessed of Palestine have been massed after the illegal seizure of the inhabitants' land and villages. For the sake of a few rockets, fired by the loony wing of a democratically elected council, the Israelis have invaded and murdered hundreds if not thousands.

And the latest atrocity, as reported by the Red Cross, seems to have echoes of earlier conflicts. Civilians were herded into a school which was later shelled. In WW2 it was churches that were turned into mass slaughterhouses by the Nazis, but the principle is the same. It's going to end badly.

:o(

Christmas Present

While I was pottering around today, Moonface hung my Christmas present from her on the back room wall.

It's the original of Bob Antell's picture of a little girl on the beach, a small pastel. Yes, it's representational, possibly sentimental, but I like the picture from the first time that I saw the prints. The girl is so self-possessed, so unaware, so natural and active that it's hard not to feel as she must have done at the time. Bob has captured her movement beautifully, the shadow, the blurred indistinct sea, the scuffs of sand at her feet.

And it's so British, to be playing alone on the sands not in a swimsuit or nude, but in a summer dress and woolly jumper. It's obviously not a warm day, but she's out there playing in solitude, oblivious to the world outside her body and mind.

Thank you, Moonface.
Thank you, Bob.

:o)

Heavy, Man

Instead of taking the van up to Bracknell to join the Singletrack people for a mass cycle ride, I joined Duncs and Matt for a couple of hours around Blackdown in the Mendips. Oh bugger. I was so much slower that them up the hills, and since the Mendips are just that, the poor sods had to wait for me at the top of every climb. Now, this might have been because I had my rear tyre squishy and underinflated, and the suspension set too soft, but it might also have been because my legs are not as strong and as exercised as they should be. So I ran some sections where the hills were steep, keeping up with Duncs & Matt as they spun their cranks in granny gear, but in others I had to copy them but found that I was just slower. No matter. They had plenty of opportunity to rest, and in spite of my inability to go fast, I didn't seem to get very out of breath.

And on the flat or downhill, I had'em. Whether it was confidence in myself or confidence in the bike, I was able to overtake on the descent, jumping and sliding just faster than them. And I really liked doing so. Overtaking scarily is FUN. My glasses steamed up and froze over, but what the hell? I need to get fitter so that I can climb as fast as them, now. I guess losing some weight might help, too. Trying to lift my current 82kg of blubber up the slopes isn't as easy as the 72kg or so which I weighed five years ago. I need to lose it.

The conditions were icy. It was -4c when we left Bristol, and it must have been -7c on the hills. The grass was white with rime, the ground was frozen solid. We had a great time, cold or not.

:o)

And, because I hadn't headed to Bracknell for the day, I had time this afternoon to fix the breakfast room light fitting which had detached itself from the ceiling. Another little job done around the house.

:o)

A Christmas Carol

The Tobacco Factory is a sparse, Spartan of a theatre. Around the central open stage the seating is an eclectic mix of benches, old school plastic seats and anything else which can be dragooned into service. It's situated in the "up-and-coming fashionable by default because the houses are still almost affordable by a young professional couple" area of Southville and is converted, as the name suggests, from a Wills cigarette and tobacco works & warehouse. The theatre itself is up two flights of echoing stairs, and is not in the least prepossessing. There are odd narrow cast-iron columns supporting the roof and upper storeys which are liable to get in the way of the audiences' view.

However, in the eight or ten years tha it's been going, we've not been to bad production there. The Shakespeare plays which they put on there, are reputed to be about the best in the country, and I wouldn't dispute that from the evidence which Moonface and I have seen.

Last Friday we all four went to the current production, "A Christmas Carol", adapted from the story by Dickens. Yes, it was excellent. I can't fault the acting or the production, allowing for the preferred simplistic sets which they choose - mainly an old-fashioned bed and a series of boxes plus a lectern-desk and sets of ledgers. There were some neat touches to place the action in the here if not the now: mentions of Bristol locations and history, plus references to the current financial crisis. With little in the way of scenery to distract from the storyline, the moral message came through clearly, enjoy the now, show kindness, put people before profit. It was a very redemptive play, and we left feeling sobered by the realisation of the poverty in which ordinary people like us used to live, but buoyed up by Scrooge's change of heart. After that, who can say, "Bah Humbug!"?


:o)

Unfit

This weekend I've been out twice on mountain bikes, for my first off-road rides for several months. They weren't long rides, perhaps an hour and a half each, but I feel absolutely exhausted now. It's mainly in my shoulders and forearms, where heaving upon the bars and counterbalancing over bumps has taken a toll. I realised that I was losing strength, but this fatigue was scary. I was more tired after the first of these two rides than I was after the 40-odd road miles which I covered on Christmas day, cycling to the farm (and back on Boxing Day).

So I now know that it's time to get fitter, lose some of the mince pies stored around my middle, and get my upper body back into shape.

The two bikes I used were an interesting contrast, or at least they were to me, the cycle nerd. Yesterday, Saturday, I took out the singlespeed with its ancient suspension forks and low bottom bracket. The fat tires slowed me on the road, and somehow I felt that the whole experience wasn't precise, I was relying upon instinct for steering rather than being able to rely upon the forks to follow the intended path. The headset is sloppy and wobbles, which doesn't improve steering.

Today, after a couple of hours' successfully fettling the gears (which I should have done months ago), I took out the Niota for the very first time. It still needs tweaking, as the shock settings are much too soft, but it rides nicely and seems to be faster than the singlespeed Edge One. Riding the Niota took it out of my legs, as I found myself sitting down into the saddle and spinning my feet around, rather than standing upon the pedals and relying upon brute strength and determination to get up hills. I don't know which bike I prefer, as yet. It'll be horses for courses, I imagine. I've preferred the singlespeed for a number of years now when going out on my own, as it's somehow a purer exercise; but when in company I need a geared bike so that I can keep up with the pack or at least make a reasonable effort at doing so.

What remains to be tweaked upon this new (secondhand) bike, the Niota? Change the tyres, adjust the saddle, put more air into the shocks. Let's see how it rides after that, then decide if more is needed. [/nerd mode] I might even try some night riding again....

:0)

Automatic Dylan Thomas ?

The BBC Wales Automatic Dylan Thomas Poem Generator!

Automatic Dylan Thomas,

The dewgrazed moonless rabbitcatcher
Burning by the seaship,
With the rarely lightgrey salmon

Seesawing while the musical publican
On the bible-black birds loudly
Goes to hang against the blinded night.

or

"I dreamt finally
By the fishwives of the fishwife
Dreaming harshly on the webfoot cobblestreets
On thoughts of tides
Where lovers lie loudly
And all the rodgered farmhands sing and kiss."

:o)

Stainless

(Balloon Dog, anodized stainless steel. Jeff Koons)

In the absence of a New Year newspaper, I re-read last Saturday's in more detail, and was struck by the story surrounding the Jeff Koons exhibition in the Chateau de Versailles.

Koons' sculpture is kitsch, but so gloriously so that it's hard to take offence at his work. However an art critic who also claims to be a direct descendant of Louis XIV, calling himself Prince Charles-Emmanuel de Bourbon-Parme, has decided that holding this exhibition of Koons' sculpture in his supposed ancestor's palace is demeaning, and so he is giving legal battle against this "mercenary" and "pornographic" offence against the also supposedly great name of his forefather.


(Louis XIV, bust, stainless steel, Jeff Koons)

Apparently his greatest objection is to a bust of his royal forebearer sculpted from that "proletariat material", stainless steel. He's right, stainless is a proletariat metal, one that I regard as one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century. Consider: before 1915, only gold held its lustre for any length of time. No-one poor could hold anything in their possession which was shiny and larger than jewellry. Silver tarnishes, and must have done so quickly in the sulphur-rich smoky indoors environment where open fires were the norm. Silver spoons were the prerogative of the rich, and had to be cared for and polished to prevent them from blackening both during and after use. And both silver and gold are soft metals which hold their shape badly and so are unsuitable for any engineering purposes; indeed they have few uses apart from as displays of wealth. [Yes, I know, they're important for electronics, but that wasn't the case before 1940]

Then, in the smoky centre of Sheffield, during the first world war, stainless steel, inox, rostfrei, was developed. That alloy of cheap iron with vanadium, chromium and sometimes manganese has given the world a new material for everyone's everyday use. It's made surgery safer, it's made cooking easier, it provides brightness and functionality into so much of our lives. And yet, because of its ubiquity, it's not appreciated as the great invention it truly is.

What else is as tough, as beautiful, as useful, as stainless steel?

Those master cutlers and metallurgists of Sheffield are among the most unappreciated men of the last hundred years, and that's a shame upon us all.

:o)


(Pink Panther, Jeff Koons.
I'm not sure about this, though. Perhaps it's too kitsch for even me)


:0)

New Year

Thank you, Duncan & Maria, for a great party.

Sometimes it all hangs together wonderfully, with exactly the right mixture of people you know and people you'd like to know better; no-one too drunk, no-one being obnoxious, with the music at just the right volume for talking in one room and dancing in another. So after arriving from C's at 10:30, we settled in until 3am, ending a bit squiffy and very jolly after dancing and eating and drinking slightly to excess. Moonface and I kissed on the dancefloor (she must have been drinking!) and embarrassed the poor adolescents next to us. We heard enough gossip and good stories to entertain, and in return we told some of our own.

Walking home with Dan & Geraldine, the streets were eerily empty. Where were the cars, the taxis, the other late-night revellers? I don't think that we saw a soul in twenty minutes. That did make for a pleasant stagger, and the chance to talk some more. This morning, I didn't feel too great so I cut short my New Year walk with Moonface and C. I blamed the pain in my knee; thinking about it, that in turn can probably be blamed upon the dancing and jumping. However, the chance to slump and snooze in the afternoon is too desirable to turn down.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

:o)