Goodbye Continong

Whatever happens to Britain, it’ll take ages – perhaps for ever – to suggest
we’re not a bunch of oafs. Since oafishness prevails, here’s another tranche*.

*French for slice.

Damn Brexit, curse Brexit,
And all the votes that spawned it,
To seek a past that never was,
And bring us this Hell's armpit.

Not Europe, they whimpered,
They'll do us down, unhindered.
They envy us our history,
And all the duds we've knighted.

Those rightists, those Tories,
Those half-told fairy stories
Who gave a crown to butch BJ
To choke half Kent with lorries.

It’s fear that’s behind it,
It’s foreign and they mind it
Un-English is what scares their pants
Although M. Thatcher signed it.

No grand thoughts, no culture,
Just relish for a rupture
A love of futile loneliness
And pickings for a vulture.

Oh England, you shame me
I don’t care if you blame me,
I care for European peace
And, yes, I am the same me

To the tune of A-tisket, a-tasket.
For a sprechstimme version click HERE

Tecno-note. For several years, thanks to MikeM, I've used dead simple Picosong
to post audio files to my blog. But Picosong has closed down. No worries,
Soundcloud is even simpler

Blessed surcease

It's Friday, VR's art group day. This afternoon I'll drive her 11 miles to the village hall in ultra-middle-class Ewyas Harold, two hours later I'll pick her up. Since I'll have the car out of the garage we'll pay a morning visit to Tesco for any necessary weekend shopping. A Friday like hundreds of others since we moved to Hereford over twenty years ago.

I get up slowly to ensure I don't enrage my lower back. I'd like to pretend I may get up without reflecting on my age but my back prevents this. Yup, I'm old! Even though going downstairs slightly eases unwelcome messages from the Malign Kingdom of the Lower Lumbar Delta. God rot them all down there.

One cannot consciously forget one's age but one may - temporarily - replace that awareness. How? By doing something new, never attempted before. There's a general election in the offing and I could vote Tory. Risky! Very risky! My left hand would reach stranglingly for my throat as my right hand wielded the pencil.

I could Google the rules of lacrosse. Read a whodunnit by P. D. James. Count backwards from a thousand. Try to play Wiegenlied on the keyboard with my toes. A multitude of novel experiences.

In the kitchen is a fruitcake, cooked yesterday and scattered with almond flakes. It's VR's cake day at the art group. I could bake a cake, that would be new. I imagine the procedure. Obtain a mixing bowl, yeah I know where that is. Then... what? Crack an egg. Then....? Beyond is only a void.

But never mind. For the first time ever I've imagined baking a cake. Forgetting my age. And the MKLLD messages have become fainter.

Simple really.

Gripped

Monday's singing lesson was hard. And mildly unbelievable. The last seven notes of Gaelic Blessing ("Deep peace of Christ to you") are all the same pitch – B. How hard is it to sing the same note seven times? Fact is, the notes have different lengths yet must hang together as a musical phrase.

Also, in singing any note you are not only influenced by what went before, you’re anticipating what's to come. A "time travelling" state of mind I’m still coming to terms with.

"I've worked you really hard today," said V.

Quite true, I thought.

"You've done really well."

It hadn't seemed like it.

"It's amazing how far you've come."

Have I? But then I'm nearing four years of solo tuition, that should be the case.

The room was silent from our labours. V sat at the piano (“It needs retuning,” she fretted.) and, because of intermittent back pain, I sat on an upright wooden chair. The much-scrutinised score, source of all rewards and difficulties, stood near-vertical on the music stand.

V said, "The better you get, the more picky I have to be."

I thought. "The better I get the more pickiness I must be prepared to take."

Not a brilliant aphorism but it would pass.

V said, "Don't work on Gaelic Blessing at home. We're going to forget it for a while."

That was a blow. There were answers I’d envisaged trying, but V's the boss. She’s the one who has brought me this far. As I drove home the embedded words of Gaelic Blessing rose unbidden in my mind/throat and I mumbled them before I realised and stopped. Same again, today, as I waited at the hairdresser’s.

I don’t actually possess music, it possesses me.

Democracy revisited

NEW READERS START HERE Britain voted to leave the European Union (Brexit) to regain the country's/parliament’s sovereignty from interfering foreigners. But at what cost? Negotiating trade deals with the EU have failed, a no-deal Brexit looms. No-deal is predicted to be disastrous for our economy. Johnson, our new PM, favours no-deal. To prevent the mainly anti-no-deal parliament from hindering him Johnson has, in effect, closed down parliament for a short, crucial period. So much for sovereignty.

Yesterday daughter Professional Bleeder left Hereford by bus, returning to her home in Luton. Sent us this email

At Gloucester a woman accosted the driver. She was booked to travel on this coach, but not until it arrived in Cheltenham. This morning she had "found herself in Gloucester" and wondered if she could get on now.
 
The driver saw no problem but wouldn’t let her sit in a reserved seat, even though she had a seat reservation. Not too strange; this is National Express.

From the back comes a voice. "Has she paid to go from Gloucester to Cheltenham?"

My mind, but luckily not my mouth, responds with, "How is that your business?"

The driver appears nonplussed, but says that she hasn't. Outrage breaks out; this is "not fair"

The driver points out the woman will miss the coach in Cheltenham if she does not get on it now, thus losing her money. Chuntering ensues
. 
The driver now addresses all passengers. Those wearing headphones are asked to remove them, children are asked to pay attention. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. "I want everybody to decide. Should this woman pay the fare from Gloucester to Cheltenham? Raise your hand for yes"

We thought Johnson had murdered democracy.

We voted no.

RIP

Oblivion
 - via four limericks

Old age guides the poor and the rich.
To a justified grave, out of which,
We cry, “Far too soon,
You promised the moon.”
And “Ain't that a sonuva bitch?”

You can't fight the onset of age,
Armed only with protests of rage.
Your fingers will shake
Your dandruff will flake
When you see what’s on the next page.

A page that will turn out to be,
No more than a banality,
Dull, obtuse and crass,
Like your face, my ass,
It’s nothing, it’s eternity.

But, honest, it’s not all bad news,
You won’t just be singing the blues,
When hair turns to bald,
And sex life has stalled,
Just don’t care: what better excuse?

Anyone seen Winston Smith?

Eighty-four, is it significant? Well yes. Orwell saw to that. When it rolled round most people said things weren't as bad as he predicted. But what's a decade here or there? Is Big Brother more or less evident now? Might he already be present? I leave it to you for answers.

Eighty-four is easily divisible. But does that make forty-two more important? For me times were happier. After many stupid, almost accidental, detours and one big geographical transplantation I was on the verge of my first editorship. Ahead lay a magazine with all its pages blank; it would be up to me to fill them. Wasn't that mildly horrific? Might I run out of ideas? The answer was no. This was what I was born to do.

And half of forty-two is 21. Three sevens, said to be highly significant, some kind of transition from childishness to adulthood. Chance would be a fine thing! I lay on a hospital bed, steadily reading my way through the sparse library, unimpressed by Malaya's mountains which surrounded me. The night before I'd played bingo for the first and last time; won a can of fifty cigarettes (Hospital attitudes have changed since then.) which I gave away since I didn't smoke. Why was I in hospital? Because the space between the fourth and fifth toe on my right foot was sore.

Time like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away,
They fly forgotten as the breeze,
Dies at the op'ning day.

Hid by early-morning mist, but only four hundred yards away, is the gorgeous River Wye. Might I ever have foreseen such propinquity?

The Little Book of Ian (condensed)

The object in Ian's hand is related to
peafowls and is intended as a
Christmas tree decoration. Neither
fact is important, only that he
disapproves of the spheroid as his
face characteristically shows

Ian, our 34-year-old grandson, has a passion for cooking plus a talent for quips and opinions, quirks of behaviour and left-field observations. So much so that “grandson” hardly describes the relationship. His Mum (PB - Professional Bleeder) is presently staying and the conversation regularly turns to what we call The Little Book of Ian. What follows are some extracts.

This post far exceeds my self-imposed limit of 300 words. I considered splitting it into three sections but resisted. What follows is a more complete portrait.

● VR marinaded dried fruit in rum to create a delicious dessert, but failed to christen it. Ian calls it: rumtana.

● Meat sold in supermarkets comes on a polystyrene tray and lies on an absorbent sheet. Ian: meat nappy (US: diaper).

● If someone even mentions celery Ian has to leave the room.

● On visits to our home to cook (superbly) for us Ian passes his leisure time frowning at his smartphone and sipping from a pint glass of tap water. Gets through several in a day.

● Ian Rule: One may not have gravy with a white sauce (savoury) pie.

● Ian Rule: A pie must have bottom and top crust. No bottom crust and it’s not a pie.

● PB once cooked a Quorn pie for vegan Daniel (Ysabelle’s partner). Ian called it The Pie of Lies.

● Shopping bags may not be hung on the hook of a supermarket trolley: they bang against Ian’s knees. Ian is 6ft 5 in. tall.

● When others of our family are touring the city on foot and feel they must visit the lav. Ian disapproves.

● Ian Rule: Ian disapproves of those who prefer an inevitably mediocre meal at one of the chain restaurants rather than risk a possible bad meal at an indie restaurant. Ian sub-rule: One must explore.

● On returning home after a day out (even as early as 4.30 pm) Ian changes into his PJs which are black.

● All Ian’s clothes are black.

● Ian is very, very quiet about the house.

● Ian dislikes dogs but loves cats.

● Ian insists on lumpwood charcoal when doing a barbecue.

● Ian hates puns. In particular a clock face which incorporates a moustache with the slogan: “I moustache you the time.”

● Ian suffers (unfashionably) from chilblains.

● Ian likes mangas.

● Before going to the corner shop for a single chilli Ian showers or has a bath; sometimes also shaves his head.

● Ian hates Beko, the freezer manufacturer. Hopes “they will die”.

● Our washing machine plays a tune when done; Ian denounces this as “too jolly”. Ian’s washing machine is designated Piddy (because of its “piddying” noise).
 
● Ian’s arrivals home are unobtrusive and idiosyncratic. On opening the door (or making a phone call) he says “Herro.” in a vaguely stereotypical Chinese accent. His Mum is required to respond: “Is it me you’re looking for?”

● When music festivals were comparatively unpopular with youth Ian supported them. Now their popularity is enormous, he doesn’t. Believes many attend such events for reasons other than musical.

● When asked a question he cannot answer Ian says, “Ermm... peas.” This is according to Ysabelle, his cousin. No one else has confirmed this.

● Ian can cut vegetables into tiny cubes “like a machine”.

● Ian insists fish and chips aren’t a takeaway.

● Our other daughter, OS, who also cooks for us, likes our kitchen. Ian responds: “I like the budget”.

● Ian is pro-offal.

● Ian can’t bear the (admittedly uncongenial) texture of newly acquired wooden spoons. Feels they should be “broken in” first (ie, by somebody else).

● In winter Ian skis with a group of young men assembled online from all over the country. He cooks for them and they pay part of his ski-ing expenses. Or, it is believed, used to.

● Ian is very attentive to VR.

● Ian attends the Borderline Film Festival with us. He prefers “difficult” movies, especially from Japan.

● Ian always enables sub-titles when watching TV. Yet he is not deaf.

● Ian’s Mum’s boiler started roaring; she reported to Ian the plumber had visited. Ian commented: “Did he use a chair and a whip?”

● Ian has electrical skills but is eccentrically lousy at washing up. Like me, however, he dislikes dish-washers.

● Ian hates hamburgers made with brioche. (“Brioche is a cake”.)

● Ian never wastes leftovers.

● Ian rarely shows enthusiasm but becomes ecstatic when given a free-hand by us to choose purchases at the butcher.

● Ian cannot sing.

● Occasionally his Mum’s friends ask if Ian will cook them something. Ian does so with the proviso that they don’t pay. Although not visibly sociable Ian is almost universally beloved by his Mum’s friends.

● Ian hates the Apple ethos.

● When I received an attempted email blackmail, Ian was a great help.

● Ian never takes local buses, prefers to walk.

● Ian occasionally disapproves of my menu choices in “caffs”. Sternly discouraged my desire to find out whether four eggs was the limit when ordering egg-and-chips.

● Ian answers the phone sepulchrally, as if suffering from a rare disease.

● Ian is horribly sun-sensitive. Uses a very powerful lotion which he refers to as “Burkah in a bottle”.

● Ian took to opera comparatively late in life. Was ravished by Madame Butterfly.

● I offered to buy Ian a kitchen knife. This took ages. He dislikes the “jutting-out bits” on the handles of many knives.