Thursday 28 January 2010

How it is

I am about to be hated but I am about to save my life.

I'd rather be alive and hated than dead and patronised.

You would not believe the shit I am having to go through at the moment so that Moll the bag lady can
maintain her reputation.

Please have patience. I will be back.

Wednesday 13 January 2010

Postcards from Rusty. No. 23

Rusty writes from Panic, Michegan. Frankly I do not believe that the image on the card is where he says it is.

He tells me that nurse Caz has left him for a snake oil salesman from Tupelo. He is returning to England.

Correct toothpaste procedure during courting.

She said, laughing, let's brush our teeth together and by the time I got to the bathroom candles were lit and the light sparkled in the many mirrors.

she watched with burgeoning affection as I squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube while I thought to myself; 'how much time will pass before I am admonished for squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and nagged into squeezing from the end.

give me a cuddle, she said some time later, not a hard one but a long squeeze. so I squeezed her round the waist and told her that she would always be my toothpaste tube and that I would squeeze her for ever. All the while thinking to myself 'how long will this last.

And sure enough one day she pulls away and says: 'Dont squeeze me like that, if you squeeze me in the middle I'll be obliged to nag...

If only you were a foot fetishist, then you'd squeeze me right.

So I never squeezed her in the middle again and over the years the 'waist' which I had squeezed Into her dissapeared and she became tube shaped from all of my foot squeezing.

The only physical contact we have now is her monthly pedicure.

I noticed the other day that she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and has always done so.

I daren't point this out to her.

Natural history.

Some time ago while watching a TV programme about the Humbolt current Nurse Caz pressed the pause button and said:

Jannie, I never had a teddy bear as a child. I had a sea lion.

I didn't have a teddy bear either. Or a sea lion... I had a rock, a black rock.

I found it in the shed by the kitchen door when I had first started to walk. I took it into the house and very quickly formed an attachment to that black rock but my mother took it from me and threw it on the fire.

I cried for a while at the loss of my only friend but soon returned to the shed near the kitchen door and found myself another 'friend' with which to play. my mother equally as speedily threw that friend on the fire.

This process continued for some weeks until I was fast enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother started putting the black rocks into a basket beside the fire place. She called me 'Mummies clever little helper' although I could not see how it could be construed as clever to burn all of my friends.

Since then I have found it impossible to form lasting relationships.

but i am known for my splendid coal fires.

Tuesday 12 January 2010

Window shopping and lardy cake.

Women can be cruel.

This morning I informed Moll that I would be spending a couple of happy hours window shopping followed by a light lunch with my 'yummy mummy' pals.

'They only want you there to spend all your money on lunch, otherwise they wouldn't be interested in you'. she said cruelly.

How wrong you are Moll.

Oh! for lunch I shall be having an egg white omelette and a glass of water followed by a lardy cake.

Sunday 10 January 2010

Molls 60's acid flashback.


I quite like avocado suites says moll they dont bother me at all, imagine it combined with purple it would be lovely.

The end of the lighthouse keeper.

I am reminded of lighthouse keepers.
And the sad fact that suicide is rife within the profession.

But there are no lighthouse keepers any longer I hear you say.

That is the problem. when automation was introduced the resident keepers were laid off and obliged to return to their wives and families.

Constant nagging and demands for DIYing come as a shock after years of solitude on a storm lashed rock.

They yearn for the constant nagging of the waves and and the demands of filling the oil lamps.

And then there are the rumours of fully manned lighthouses punctuating the seas and oceans of the afterlife.
And that Charons on board hospitality is provided by Grace Darling.
'Untie me from the mast, shipmates'. the redundant lighthouse keeper cries. 'I can hear the foghorn siren call and I must to her, to the lonely sea and the sky. All I need is my tall tower and my star to steer ships by'.

Orthodoxing Day.

Moll is no fool.
Her christmas day occurs in early January.

'Why so late?' I ask her.

'To take advantage of readily available natural resources'. She replies... 'A good selection of free christmas trees litter the streets (some of them part decorated), the recycling bins are full of wrapping paper, the charity shops full of cheap gift ideas.In the supermarkets mince pies and Christmas puddings are at a knock down price to make room for easter eggs (great stocking fillers in themselves) and there are no mile long queues at the checkout.

Another plus is the fact that the transport system works sufficiently well which means that there is no need for guests to stay overnight; they can leave shortly after the After Eights and well before my boredom threshold.'

'Not very orthodox!' I tell her.

'Au contraire sweetheart'. she says. 'It has long been the norm within the Greek Orthodox Church. which is one of the reasons why I was drawn to that strand of christianity'.

'What other reasons were there, Moll'? I ask.

She says nothing. Then a coy smile lights up her face and she glances sideways at the photograph of Archbishop Makarios attached to the fridge by a bagel shaped magnet...

Saturday 9 January 2010

Hogmanic tumbleweed.

Something to ponder over a well sucked humbug:

The start of the new year heralds the arrival of of the mysterious urban tumbleweeds that plague our streets for a week or two. The local authorities will do their best to clear the damn things away, but not before they distribute their seeds in the minds of small children and romantic adults, ready to germinate at the beginning of December.





Perfection and striped shirts.

Tristan called today in a state of great excitement.

'I have the answer to the perfect poem'. He tells me. I have hemingwayed one of my best ones until there is nothing there and all that is left for the performer is a series of body movements... It is sublime.

No Tristan, I replied... It is mime.


Thursday 7 January 2010

A train intrudes... But slowly.

Sadly (but inevitable sometimes) the realities of life have taken up much of my time lately; illness, death, lack of work and domestic worries have all contributed to a rather depressing time.

But hey ho, upwards and onwards. it is time to bring out the dunkirk spirit, dust off the old stiff upper lip and head towards the light at the end of the tunnel...

Probably an oncoming train though...

fortunately this is England and any oncoming train will be glued to the track by snow and oncoming nowhere, in any way other than abstract wishful thinking, for the forseeable future.

A good time to play 'chicken' then!

snow in Portobello.


Saturday 2 January 2010

Blocked.

I know I am following a road well travelled but it is painfull none the less.

Blocked. Unable to write, focusing on the block which compounds the problem.

I hope the new year brings inspiration... Anything will do.

Thursday 24 December 2009

The torture of a tortoise.

Met up with friends (I shall call them Mr and Mrs X for their own protection) at the village green yesterday and I naturally asked after the health of Linford.

Linford is a tortoise.

I was told that Linford is not allowed to hibernate, much to his chagrin.

Mrs x tells me that it is important that the little fellow stays awake for his first winter otherwise he might develop some problems. I would imagine that keeping a tortoise awake against his wishes is going to cause some pretty serious psychological problems let alone the foul temper.

Mrs x went on to explain that she gives it hot baths regularly as well as allowing the children to prod it, sing to it, dress it up and decorate it.

I took a look at Linford; he did not look happy.

just very, very sleepy.

But, on the bright side he is one of the very few tortoises to have seen a christmas tree or felt the splot of a snowball on his shell.

Wednesday 23 December 2009

Cabin fever, murder and flight.

The 'flu has passed leaving me weak and listless. The only good to come from it has been the extraordinary hallucinations that have visited me in my sleepless nights.

Being housebound with only the bag lady for company has led to the inevitable; we are at each others throats. Neither of us will dare drop our guard lest the other attacks with a broken bottle or carving knife.
I hear her late at night sharpening things. There is a book on poisons open on her bedside table. Open at the chapter on nicotine poisoning.


She is Googling 'hit men'.

I believe there is some kind of symbolism in her choice of flatware that she bring my lunch on.

I for my part am hoarding apple pips having read that they are (in large doses) deadly. How I am going to get her to consume 8 Kilos of the things is something i have yet to work out.

I must escape... I thought of going to France but the Eurostar trains have all broken down, B A is on strike, the airports are all closed due to asuggestion of snow and traffic is at a standstill on the roads.


I must find refuge!

Saturday 12 December 2009

Cauliflower, corporal punishment and coke.

I felt a little better today so offered to cook for Moll.

There was a cauliflower in the coldbox so I decided to make cauliflower cheese. I thought it a good one; made with a good bechemel sauce, bacon and 3 kinds of cheese. Then sprinkled with breadcrumbs and parmesan and baked in the oven.

Moll (who's tastebuds have deserted her) thought it bland and inedible.

To me it called up my schooldays and was redolent of headmasters (Eric Forrester) study as he brought out his cane for the first and only time in our relationship.

'I am going to have to give you six'. He said. 'It will I am sure give you no joy and hopefully an amount of pain. On the other hand I shall derive a great deal of pleasure from it'.

My crime? My crime was to have written CUNT in weedkiller on his lawn a few days earlier. Is it my fault that I am dyslexic and was only attempting to demonstrate my knowledge of early British kings.

I feel sorry for the kids these days who have to explain FCUK to their dyslexic teachers. But at least the teachers are not allowed corporal punisnhment and they must look after their pupils as they are probably their coke dealers as well.

Is it not ironic that it is now our educators who have the learning difficulties. They have problems understanding that there is no point in an education any longer.

Best to keep drones in the dark.







Irony in a pig factory.

Fluente Maiales writes from Mexico: His career as the worlds only professional Mexican waver is in tatters. The fear of swine flu among event organizers means that all of his gigs for the christmas period have been cancelled.

Ironically he has been forced back to working in the American pork products factory on the outskirts of his village.

'So'. said the overseer when he went back to work in the pig fat rendering vats. 'I see you are no longer waving Fluente but merely drowning'!

Nurse dreams in a potting shed.

When the pig flu struck Moll thought it best that she nurse me at her place... I arrived at her little home with my overnight bag and my hopes raised. She said she had built the place herself and I was curious to see her home. Needless to say I was not dissappointed with her 'Pretty Palace' as she called it.

Her cooking was somewhat agricultural and her nursing skills tantamount to mental cruelty but fortunately such was the virulence of the 'flu I soon fell through a hole in reality and entered a new world of delirium where everyone perspired noisily and conversation consisted of grunts and snorts.

At the height of my fever Nurse Caz visited me in my sick bed.

She hasn't lost her looks.

I feel that the worst is over and I shall soon be in full command of my faculties

Wednesday 2 December 2009

Motoring with Tiger Woods.

I have just spent a few days in Florida, trying to get a bit of heat into my aching bones.

while there I had a beer or two with an old friend Tiger. In fact we had too many beers and I told tiger there was no way he was driving.


'That's cool.' He said. 'I've got a driver.'


He climed into the passenger seat, started the car and while steering with his left hand pressed the accellerator pedal with a golf club.


The result was inevitable.

Greed


Tuesday 1 December 2009

A foot fetish explained.

I, like a lot of people come from a broken home

But ours didn't break when the old man left

It broke much much later than that.

When the old man left things were hard

Mum worked in bars and pubs, did cleaning; anything she could find to keep us.

We lived in a one bedroom flat

Mum slept on the sofa in the living room

My sister and I slept in the same bed in the tiny bedroom

Head to toe.

I spent twelve years in that bed with my sister

Head to toe

I came to know her feet intimately

I knew every inch, every pore, every crease, every nail, every callous.

I learned to tell the seasons by the colour of her toes

I learned to tell her moods by the colour of her polish

I loved her feet

They were the first thing I saw in the morning

The last thing I saw at night.

We did everything in that bed together

Head to toe

Homework, super Nintendo, reading, hobbies, laughing, crying

I taught her to whistle

She taught me to knit.

I gave her hand knitted socks each Christmas

She whistled in admiration.

She taught me chiropody

I taught her reflexology

I gave her pedicures for her birthday

She cured my acne

I loved her feet.

Then one day, mum was out and that awful thing happened

The police called

There had been an accident, a girl , thought to be my sister had been knocked down by a truck

Would I go, in my mothers absence

To identify the body.

At the hospital the body was still in a bed covered by a sheet.

The doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the dead girls head.

I exhaled with relief and said: No this is not my sister

My sisters head is at the other end of her body.

She never did come home though. Not after that.

But I found comfort in her shoes.

Monday 30 November 2009

Rusty, tumbleweed and Envy.


Another postcard from Rusty. It was mailed from Envy, Texas but I imagine he has moved on from there. He writes:
Tumbleweed; that symbol of the Hollywood Western did not in fact arrive in North America until the 1870's. It arrived from Russia mixed in with flax seeds.
Did the Russians do it on purpose? http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/921218/

Studio talk

Jolyon my studio assistant was in a garrulous mood last night and we sat up late talking. 'Have you ever been in love'. I asked him.

He said: Many years ago, when I was in my youth, I lived with an older woman; she was very beautiful and in demand. but I too was beautiful and in demand back then so everything seemed harmonious.

Until I said one night in bed: 'I love you.'

Don't say that she said. It is just a licence for me to abuse you.

why is that? I asked. Although I already knew the answer.

'Because'. She said. 'The first person ever to tell me he loved me then went on to abuse me and I now associate love with abuse and abuse with love... I would rather associate with shallow people who have no real feelings for me because they are safe and I am not obliged to form a real relationship with them.

'But you will get old'. I told her. 'And be alone and unwanted.

'So what'. She said. 'I will just commit suicide!'

'No you won't' I said. 'you will continue to behave as if you were a young woman and you will continue to ignore the people who really love you because they will not lie to you. And the eurotrash company you crave, because you buy into that shit, the eurotrash company will move on to the next generation and the people who really love you will have given up in exasperation.

And of course your father will be dead by then and by then it will be too late.



'Too late for what?' she asked.

'Too late to tell you I love you.'

Friday 27 November 2009

Lost coat update

That bloody coat has got lost again.

One expects to lose kittens or small children. One expects to lose wives, girlfriends, patience, ones temper, ones bearings.

But how can a coat lose itself with such regularity. I can only assume that it is careless.

This is the last time that I saw the thing was when it was being manhandled by a karate expert from Calgary.

It was being given the chop!

Thursday 26 November 2009

Romance

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The first time I saw her

I thought

She has been unlucky

She was the most beautiful girl in the clinic

The second time I saw her

I thought

She had been careless

The beautiful girl in the clinic

The third time I saw her

I thought

She was promiscuous or worse

That girl in the clap clinic. 

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The fourth time I saw her

I thought

Stupid me, she is a doctor.

I approached her then and said

Doctor

You are the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic.

She replied:

I'm not a doctor

I'm unlucky

I'm careless

I'm promiscuous

or worse.

But I feel that is about to change.

We left the clinic hand in hand

Separated by the thickness of a surgical glove.


Later, much later as we lay

Her head on my chest her hair in my face

the scent of hibiscrub filling the white room.

I said I love you


And she said don't love me

I am unlucky

I an careless

I am promiscuous

or worse


And nothing has changed.

BEAT

Tristan will be performing at Marquis Andreas Grant's BEAT at Peter Parkers Rock n Roll club. 4 Denmark Street, Soho. Tuesday 1st December. 7.00 - 11.00pm.

I shall be there of course. If only to heckle! http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=197528849848&ref=nf

Penpal

Years ago I had a penpal. His name was Bill and he lived in America.
We wrote to each other once a week. We did this for years.

Bill told me that soon there would be no need of letters (he was what you would call a bit of a geek), that we would communicate electronically through the ether. And would be able to have real time conversations.

I said: Bill. you are full of shit. That will never happen in my lifetime.

We stopped writing soon after that.

I wonder what became of Bill?

facebook

She thought he thought she was unfaithful, Watched her like a hawk

She complained as she poked her Facebook lover

Who poked her back

Unknowingly

from across the room

As he poked his facebook mistress

A fairly typical dream scene


Wednesday 25 November 2009

Auto maintenance and feng-shui

Moll asked me to accompany her to her weekly Auto maintenance class. I will not be doing that again. Arriving home I remembered that I had been sent a link some time ago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpTpJc0RGPo Thanks Heads!

What do you think Moll? I asked.

It's African isn't it. Nice. she replied. As she sorted through old Christmas decoration catalogues.

She then found a Feng-Shui plan for her appartment. At present I am sitting in the marriage area. Intelligence is in the lavatory... Can't say that I believe too much of this hokum.

Friday 20 November 2009

Domestic scene.

He said: I am fully aware of my shortcomings. I know I have no ambition, no money, no hope of money. I know I'm unattractive to you, that I'm no good in bed (not that you will let me into your bed) and I do not dress stylishly enough for you. I know that my friends are not people that you would choose as friends. My taste is not up to much and I eat crap food.I drink too much when stressed and do not deal with things the way you would. My friends tell me to move on. Find another woman. One that doesn't treat me like shit. but I say I love this woman and they say 'I give up'. I say 'we are both getting older, have idiosyncracies that no-one else would tolerate for more than three months. We are ideally suited.'

She said: Look son. You are 54 years old. You are going to have to leave home one day.

Friday 13 November 2009

Rain, pornography, coincidence.and Dungeness.

The rain is relentless.

I decline Moll's offer of her pink umbrella and suffere the consequences as I attempt to travel across London by means of public transport; the tube system is truly awful and explains the miserable demeanour of it's occupants.

On the street I no longer get any satisfaction from splashing through the puddles although my preference for Converse in all weather probably has something to do with that. Moll is on at me constantly to get some work boots with steel toecaps...

Surely the toecaps will rust in this climate.

Moll is posing for another artist. Typical; she knows I am blocked, unable to write, yet she dresses in loose clothes (so as not to leave elastic marks) and heads off for Mayfair in order to inspire another.

I walk her to the underground station and on the way she finds a couple of discarded photographs lying damply in the street. Is this where you found the pornography the other day? I ask.

Somewhere near here. She says, passing me an old poloroid of two sisters standing fully and impeccably dressed on a beach.
I glance at the photograph then look again in shock. Moll notices my hand trembling. What is it? she asks.
I am too distressed to tell her that it is a photograph of Tilly and Buddy, daughters of a woman named Agat who had been my muse many years ago . I had once possesed an almost identical photo (probably taken the same day) of the girls.
Agat had traced me and sent the photograph with a note that read:
'The girls at Dungeness.'

Wednesday 11 November 2009

Nudity, Princess Diana and bait.

What has Tristan done now.

A month ago he told me he was helping a group of friends make a film.

He did not tell me it was like that.

the film won the jury prize in the competition and now Tristan's arse is the talk of the town.


I said: For heavens sake Tristan, fishing in the Serpentine is illegal.

He said no-one bitched at Marlon for Last tango in Paris.

But Tristan. I replied. Marlon was not fishing in the Serpentine.

For christ sake Tristan you were within sight of the princess Diana ditch. Have you no respect.

Only for my bait dealer. He said.

And if I shiver give me a blanket.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_1RqyNdzbE&feature=related

David Bowie, Iggy Pop, MC5, Mick Ronson & Jan Nieupjur.

Back in the sixties. Or was it the seventies? David came round to try the mesquite that Rusty had sent from New Mexico. Woody was there, and Mick too.

I sensed the tension that already existed between the Spiders; they may have been ready for life on Mars but they were not ready for fame on earth. We thought it a good idea to write a song together, the mesquite helped we guessed, Mick was already paranoid about being let down and dying in penury, Woody wouldn't stop playing with his sideboards.

David wrote some words, passed them to me. I ripped them up in disgust, handed them back.

Angie shot me a cautionary glance.

David gave me that toothy grin and said: There's something here Jan. He laid out the torn shreds of paper randomly on the coffee table and picked up his guitar...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXq5VvYAI1Q&feature=related

All I could say was..... David. Put on those red shoes and let's dance.

Iggy came round and said: Hey man there is panic in Detroit. David picked up a notepad and said: Do you spell Detroit with a capital D?

Iggy. I said. I'm bored.


I said: Iggy. I'm the chairman of the bored...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGDb8X8limY


Iggy said he missed the MC5.

I don't.

Tuesday 10 November 2009

60's revisited, mushrooms and wraiths.

My studio assistant Jolyon greets me on my return to London. He is looking somewhat the worse for wear.

What HAVE you been up to dear boy? I ask.

Oh! He replies. This and that, but mainly that... That which results from spending the week foraging for mushrooms.

And what is that? I ask.

Listen. He says: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgEk4A-t1k8

Saturday 7 November 2009

A careless man.

We met in an abandoned cottage in North Wales many years ago.

I had been walking through Snowdonia for lack of something better to do. One evening I found myself some distance from the nearest hostelry and rather than tempt a broken ankle in the dark decided to make what I could of a derelict farmhouse.

On closer inspection i saw that it was not as abandoned as I had thought and the glow from an open fire lit one of the windows.

I knocked and entered to find a man seated before a hearth lit by nothing other than the glow from the fire.

Good evening I said. May I please join you, I am miles from my destination and it is an unhospitable night. I gave my name and offered my hand in greeting. He did nothing with either; just sat there in silence.

'Careless' he almost shouted some minutes later. I begged his pardon.

Careless he repeated. Then went on: Careless is my name... He turned and looked at me then and gave me an almost toothless grin. He said:

"It was over thirty years ago when I got that name. I've forgotten my given name and my mother died two years ago without reminding me. But thirty years ago not far from this place my brothers talked me into trying some magic mushrooms they'd been picking on the hillside. We lit a fire out there and sat around waiting for something to happen and before long something happened and I began to take more than a passing interest in the flames and hot coals of the fire.

I leant in to get a closer look and as I leant in my teeth fell out into the fire, and being plastic they burst into flames before I could retrieve them.

Careless bugger said Ifan.

Careless bugger laughed Daffyd.

Careless bugger roared I.

That's why I'm called careless." 

He never spoke another word that night. But sat looking mournfully into the fire.



English hunting scenes. No.2











Ballooning, starlet, crop circles and prunes.

One summer, back in the sixties I had been invited to a weekend house party at the country estate of my old friend and drinking companion Bertie.

I have over the years attended many of his parties and knew that I should expect the unexpected. To that end I packed my last remaining army issue (other ranks) condom.

One of my fellow guests was a Hollywood starlet of a certain age, known for her sense of fun and willingness to entertain the boys; I shall out of respect for her family refer to her only as 'M'.

Bertie was terribly excited about his new passion ballooning and his recently purchased ex MOD observation balloon. It was helium filled and therefore required no great expertise.

I suggested, with a wink, to 'M' that she might enjoy a ride in the contraption as well as the sumptuous views of the English countryside it would afford. She quickly agreed with an equally ostentatious leer.

With Bertie acting as winch man 'M' and I climbed into the basket and were sent skyward.

It was a windy day and rather than rise directly upwards we rose at an angle of 45 degrees and eventually found ourselves some half mile from the launch site and 300 feet above a wheat field. I put it to 'M' that we might, having wrung every ounce of pleasure from the views of very small things, enjoy a little pleasure of our own making. she agreed with relish and I pulled from my back pocket my last remaining army issue (other ranks) condom. Her coquettish giggle turned to a cry of dismay as a sudden burst of wind plucked the condom from my grasp and sent it tumbling to the wheat field below.

I was not going to be deprived of my sport by this eventuality so threw a rope from the basket and abseiled down in pursuit of the condom. Once on the ground in the middle of the wheat I started searching for the thing, trampling down the crops as I went. I decided that an increasing circular search was the best plan and occasionally directed by 'M' from above I spent a good hour tramping about.

Alas I never did find that condom and eventually accepted defeat. Climbing back up the rope was a damn sight harder than the downward journey and before I had reached the basket Bertie decided that we must have had enough and started winching us in, in the process dragging me through a number of mature oaks and the centuries old Scots pine. I landed some moments before 'M' and was able to scuttle into the house to change from my shredded clothes and also avoid the icy looks from my erstwhile companion.

Dinner that night had something of the 'cold collation' about it as far as myself and 'M' were concerned.

Bertie entered the breakfast room in a state of excitement the following morning. I say everyone. He exclaimed. It seems we have been visited by aliens while we slept. The estate manager has discovered the most extraordinary phenomena in a field of wheat not far from the house and insisted that I take the balloon up to see it from a better altitude. He went on to say that he had taken a camera and photographed the thing. He then rushed off to his dark room.

Half an hour later he returned waving a soggy print. Here., take a look at this you chaps!
Is it not extraordinary. Definitely the work of aliens and probably some sort of signal to be read from high above...I must call the MOD immediately he said and alert them to this danger.

I lowered my eyes, inwardly groaned and took great interest in my prunes.

Thursday 5 November 2009

Fly agaric, woodland nymph and Never go back.

On a glorious autumn afternoon Moll and I took a walk in the woods. She gave an excited cry on discovering some fly agaric in the leafmould.
Are they edible she asked.

I tried one.

What happened after that is at best a hazy dream to me now.
Later, being just a few miles from a house I once occupied long, long ago, I persuaded Moll to drive over there for a spot of remeniscing.

I knew it was a bad idea when I couldn't even recognise the entrance to the lane. The farm buildings had all gone but for one oast house which had been converted into a home. A gigantic leylandii hedge dominated the house.

The cattle grid had gone.
we left.

Tuesday 3 November 2009

English hunting scenes. No.1

Moll with the first shot puppy of the season. Not much meat on it she said. But tasty!

Rusticated thoughts of Rusty and arson.

The drive from London was the usual snarley nightmare. Moll is a surprisingly confident driver and my navigation skills only let me down on reaching Tunbridge Wells; surely the worst signposted town in England.

The house is tucked away in a valley a mile from the road surrounded by rolling grassland and woods. Pheasants litter the garden and sheep dot the horizon. There are deer hereabouts but I have yet to catch sight of one. As I write this a posse of beef on the hoof ambles accross my line of sight and I think of Rusty.

Then Moll wanders into the room and my thoughts quickly turn to other things.
The Bang and Olufson sound system is a bit tricky but other than that this is a perfect retreat from London's excesses. The log fire brings back memories of childhood arson attempts.
I am trying not to get my fingers burnt.

Wild boar and wild night.

I normally manage to avoid photographers but got caught on saturday night when concentrating on keeping Moll upright.

Monday 2 November 2009

Thoughts of Cliff Richard, et in Arcadia ego.


Moll the bag lady and I are off to the country for a week. After the exertions of the weekends parties it will be a welcome respite.


I am going armed with a new notebook and plenty of sharp pencils; the muse promises much and I find this time of year fecund, autumn woodland smells: leaf-mould and fungi, envigorate.