While We’re on the Subject

I saw this on Twitter. Four years old at least. Close to the bone. Horribly accurate. I may have to pin this post.

As Plato put it

As Plato put it: Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, and life to everything. It is the essence of order, and leads to all that is good, just and beautiful, of which it is the invisible, but nevertheless dazzling, passionate, and eternal form.

Whatever the outcome of today’s general election, the lyrics of this fugue will still be true. Unfortunately.

 

Diaries, 28th April 2024, Winter in April, I ❤️ the Barbican, Art Matters

I see it’s sunny in Belfast but a wintry 4c. In London it’s warmer, but rained all night and still hasn’t stopped. Climate crisis, what climate crisis? This one. We were warm in February, warm earlier this month. Now I’m back in winter pyjamas, wearing jumpers (sweaters if you are across the pond and thinking I mean something I call a pinafore) which usually only appear in the depths of winter, reluctantly turning the heating on, and making hot soups.

I’m glad I made it to the Barbican yesterday to see the 2 Tone exhibition in the music library. I looked in vain for the first edition of The Face which had a photo of Jerry Dammers on the front cover. I used to have a copy until someone stole it from a flat I shared. I’d bought it on my birthday back in 1980. I still have the next 23 issues.

I love the Barbican. I don’t know why but it makes me happy just being there. It’s so complete, such a maze. I find corners I didn’t know existed just by taking a different route through the walkways. I’d love to win the lottery and live there. Next visit I mean to go to Unravel, The Power and Politics of Textiles in Art. It looks fabulous. Like 2 Tone there’s a lot of politics involved. The arts so often expresses things we find difficult to get across in everyday speech, maybe that’s why the current government is so keen to denigrate it and underfund it. If art does anything, it challenges us. That can include representations of flowers and animals. What do we value, what do we understand, what do we see? How do these things make us feel? Our responses to art are a window onto our feelings and sensibilities.

Diaries, 25th April 2024, Shirtsleeves, Arctic April, Flipping Flags, Happy Birthday Shakespeare

It’s Celia’s birthday tomorrow, mine next week. We were both spring babies. Right now though it feels more like February. There is a biting wind, and although some days the skies are blue, it’d be a foolish person who left home without coat and gloves. Hard to believe that just under two weeks ago I enjoyed a walk in the Hampshire countryside with my cousin Russell and we spent the entire day in shirt sleeves. Pictures below, though of where we were, not the shirtsleeves. Look at that wild garlic! I’m very glad my new heater was installed during the mild weather, pleased I know how it works, less glad I am having to use it. I’m wearing a thick sweater and the windows are closed.

Biting winds did not discourage members of the far right from assembling in Westminster two days ago. St George’s Day. St George is the patron saint of England. He always worries me a bit as he’s best known for killing a dragon, a mythical beast, and I don’t know how he made the leap from that deed to sainthood. So I was working with a group of Americans, and about to finish when I saw a line of police vehicles and a bunch of St George’s flags. It didn’t look good. I don’t like nationalism in any form in any country. I was once asked by a Frenchman if I was ‘anglaise, pur sang’. I didn’t know what to say. Or rather I did, that’s there’s no such thing, and even if there were I’d rather be a European mongrel as I am, but not quite how to say it politely. I’d ban all flags. St George’s flag may be mine by virtue of my birthplace, but if so it’s been stolen from me by a bunch of people with whom I feel no kin. And that’s the case for so many people in so many countries. Flags are hijacked by nationalists, the rest of us are told we are unpatriotic. If it’s patriotic to assault a horse with an umbrella, to intimidate people on Whitehall, think Tommy Robinson, aka Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (Tommy Robinson is his pseudonym, presumably he thinks it sounds more common man) – to wrap yourself in a white flag with a Red Cross on it and shout “England ’til I die”, cost goodness knows how much in security – there were vans of police all along Whitehall and down each side street – be taken away in handcuffs for your behaviour, count me out. I’d rather have a flag of a ginger cat. Actually, I’ll be quite happy with just the cat. Just as well.

Diaries, 21st April 2024, Resolution

I could have written a post this afternoon. I didn’t. An idea seems to have crept upon me that writing is an extra, something to do when only when chores are complete. Quite why or how this has happened I do not know. I think I need to make a resolution for this week to write. That may be posts here, letters (not emails), maybe a short story or the beginnings of one in a notebook. A poem. Something, anyway.

I resolve.

Diaries, 9th April 2024, Food, Books, Podcasts, Multiculturalism

It’s been quite some time since I last put up a post, so I think this is probably going to be something of a mishmash. Spoiler alert, I do not have a plan.

I was given a large turnip and decided to use it to make a risotto. Then I was given some leeks, so the plan changed to a turnip and leek risotto. I looked online ad saw several recipes, but the one which appealed most had fresh parsley added at the end. Bingo! Still, I wasn’t very sure it would be a success. Beans on toast if it turned out to be inedible. But it was delicious, very creamy, and due to the leeks and particularly the parsley, very green. The same person who gave me the turnip also gave me some parsnips. I’m not fond of parsnips, but I thought I’d use them to make soup. Defrosting the freezer compartment, I found some forgotten yellow split peas. They went into the pan too, plus an onion, some garlic, a potato, a carrot. Maybe some celery, I forget. It was lovely. I finished it a couple of days later and thought it would make a very nice chilled soup in summer. Next week I am going to be pretty busy, so if I make double quantities of meals this week and can squeeze them into the limited space in the freezer I shall be ahead of the game.

Diaries, 10th March 2024, Rich in Cats

The streets around where I live are full of cats. Is there a verb for that? A feline version of peopled; catted perhaps. If so, the immediate neighbourhood is catted by many cats. Obviously MasterB, then Romeo and Hartley, but also Pico, Dennis, Smudge, George, Jimi, Dom, Frankie, Louis, Harry, Johnny and Dolly (their owners are C&W fans), Ted and Nina, a completely white cat who has a black cat friend who wears a fancy collar, the nameless supercool tabby who I suspect might be a Bengal. Etta and Lois have moved with their owners to Peckham Rye. Tessa says there were five cats in our garden this morning when she went to feed Romeo and Hartley. Yes, we are rich in cats.

Yesterday evening Hartley was unimpressed by the casual sauntering and sniffing of the suspected Bengal. He started to stalk him. The Bengal looked over his shoulder, and you could almost see him roll his eyes. “Really?”, was written all over his whiskers, as was, “I don’t think so.” He didn’t hiss, make any apparent dominant moves. It was more a total indifference to Hartley which stopped the big lad in his tracks. That cat has style. He literally also has balls. Hartley looked rather deflated. Romeo might have had words, but he was too busy making himself comfortable Robin’s car, a BMW, to care. I say Robin’s car, but Romeo has decided it’s his. I don’t know how long it took or Robin to persuade him out of it. Like the Cheshire Cat, I’d left the scene long before that moment.

So you might be thinking MasterB is as sequestered as a nun with all these cats about. But no, he’s demanding to go out every evening, and instead of taking evasive action from the invasion in our garden and heading across the street, he’s spending most of the time on our patch. I am hoping/wondering if it’s because I have started burying little clumps of his used and compostable cat litter about the place. I read somewhere that that is what to do if you move house.

Octavia’s cat Mami, the feline Jean Shrimpton, is the boss cat of her street. Once upon a time I wondered if she and MasterB might get on, but the last thing he needs is a dominatrix. Louis is a shy boy, maybe the two of them could team up. I have soft spot for Dennis as he is the only cat who finds MasterB intimidating. Though I think MasterB was trying to make friends with him. Pico is dazzled by Romeo and wants to be with him, but hasn’t got the hang of Romeo’s afternoon siesta routine. If it’s dry this usually takes place on Robin’s car which is a soft top. Hartley likes it there too, so the car roof is always liberally covered in cat fur. So Romeo tries to nap, and Pico joins him. He lies down for a minute, then proffers a paw, asking Romeo to play. Romeo turns his head away and closes his eyes. Pico tries to emulate him, but he’s still very young and he has bags of energy, so after fidgeting for a few minutes, he leaves Romeo in peace for other amusements.

Before Cat made my home his, I was largely oblivious to the feline politics. Now I find them fascinating. Who needs to go on safari when these scenes play out daily outside my windows?

Diaries, 5th March 2024, Red Kites, Muddy Boots and Two Good Pubs

On Sunday a post foot surgery goal was achieved. Celia and I went for a walk in the Chilterns under blue skies. It wasn’t a particularly long walk, but we took our time and savoured each moment. I used to walk with the Ramblers which I loved. But there was little opportunity to stop and gaze as we did on Sunday as Red Kites flew above us. They didn’t seem to be hunting as they surfed the thermals, wheeling and banking with extraordinary grace. I’ve never seen Red Kites before. This was special. We saw them first as we walked up a hill where sheep grazed. A ram stared at us, he was very bold but did not approach. Maybe if we had been between him and some lambs it would have been a different story. Halfway up the hill Celia said she was going to turn to look at the view. At first we puzzled about some strange square patches in a field on a hill across the valley. Then we saw the birds.

But I’m jumping ahead of myself. We took the Metropolitan line to the walk’s start then climbed a hill to cross a common. My morning coffee was increasingly making me need a toilet. The dog walkers were out in force. There were clumps of trees but no public toilets. On the far side of the common there was a cricket ground and pavilion. I wondered if there might be toilets there. Celia thought not, this not being the cricket season. But a door stood open, so I thought someone might let us in. It turned out to be a delightful café, a community venture, dog friendly, clean, welcoming and with very good loos. I bought a slice of cake to celebrate. I should have taken a picture. Crossing the road, we entered the Chorleywood House Estate.

You are here

The house and summerhouse

It has rained a great deal in recent weeks. The legs of dogs we met were mud up to the oxters. Soon our boots were similarly coated. We walked through woodland and into fields. No cows in this one, but someone was speaking up for them.

Woodland

Go vegan

Near Sarratt Mill, some dogs were rinsing their trousers. I enjoyed the explanation of a cock horse on the information board. Finally the nursery rhyme made sense.

Trouser rinsing

Sarratt Mill Information Baord

Then up this hill where we saw the first red kites, before we arrived at the church where primroses, the first I’ve seen this year, grew by the wall.

Impressive cloud

Gentle Hill

The Church

We enjoyed our respective packed lunches on a sunny bench, looking across to a row of attractive terrace houses built in 1821. The post box must have been added later. It’s from the reign of Queen Victoria, and she didn’t come to the throne until 1837.

Terrace Houses

Primroses

Postbox

The church was open so we looked inside. The pulpit was what caught my attention most. It is thought to be Jacobean and from when James I of England, aka James VI of Scotland, decreed all churches should have pulpits. Hence the thistle. There was also a wall painting dating from around 1370 and other interesting features.

Diaries, 25th February 2024, Stand up for the Arts, and other necessities of life

For a day that started with sunshine, it’s been very cold, and now I see slashes of rain win the windows. Fortunately I brought my washing in an hour ago, washing dried by the strong winds. There’s has to be silver lining when it’s 9C but feels like 3C. Hard to think a week ago I had the heating turned off. What hell it must be to be homeless in this weather.

Anyway. It’s not the first rain we’ve had over the last few days. Wednesday and Thursday saw biblical rain. Then on Friday morning the sun came out and it was gorgeous. Ditto yesterday until sunset when the temperatures plummeted.

I met up with Fiona and Robbie on Wednesday to see Standing at the Sky’s Edge, a piece of musical theatre suggested by Fiona. Good call. The played back recordings of Margaret Thatcher’s voice were, as Fiona said, a bit triggering. Near where I live were two iconic council estates, the Heygate and the Ayelsbury. The Heygate has gone and so have bits of the Aylesbury. Both estates, built in the currently unfashionable brutalist style, were vilified in the press, much to the distress of residents and local people, and the Heygate was sold by the council to developers at a huge loss, and few of those who lived there now have an address nearby. It generated a great deal of bad feeling. Some of the themes in the musical echoed these experiences. The main difference being that the estate that inspired the musical, Park Hill, still stands and is Grade II listed. Meanwhile remaining Aylesbury residents are fighting for their homes.

After the musical we repaired to a nearby pub. Robbie is a Spurs fan. The pub was called The White Hart, so it seemed meant. I’d never been inside it before. It was good. Nice atmosphere, a good mix of people, friendly bar staff and good loos. I hope to return.

While having a haircut on Thursday I got stuck into The Overstory by Richard Powers. I’m ashamed to say I have never read anything by him before. If this novel is typical of his writing, I shall certainly be borrowing more books by him from the library. It’s a book to savour. I’m still on the first section Roots, and when I read about Trump’s rambling, terrifying speech in South Carolina and the rapturous response it got it made me think of these words on pp 105-6:

“…it’s Dougie’s growing conviction that the greatest flaw of the (human) species is its overwhelming tendency to mistake agreement for truth. Single biggest influence on what a body will or won’t believe is what nearby bodies broadcast over the public band.Get three people in the room and they’ll decide that the law of gravity is evil and should be rescinded because one of their uncles got shit-faced and fell off the roof.”

Diaries, 14th February 2024, Significant Dates, Books and Outings

Maybe there hasn’t been so much hype this year, or maybe I just haven’t been paying attention, but until I saw a girl walking down the road with a rose in her hand, then a man (if only I had had a camera in my hand) cycling along holding a bouquet, the lead up to Valentine’s Day had passed me by. Yes, I did see chocolates in the shape of hearts in the shops even before New Year, but nothing over the last few days. Perhaps it’s because it coincides with the first day of Lent this year, and there seems to have been a lot about pancakes, though little about giving things up, and then it’s also Chinese New Year. Children can join a workshop at a local library to make paper dragons. That’s rather nice.

Diaries, 29th January 2024, Out and About

I had my longest walk today since I had my surgery four months ago. It was a walk with a purpose. Over the last few months I’ve been collecting a bag of things to go to the textile recycling, plus a pair of shoes and some electrical bits and pieces I didn’t give to Ahmad at All about Phones to take care of. It’s only about two miles away, so not much further than Pipoca and I walked there and back twice recently. But unlike Pipoca, this time I wouldn’t be having a good lunch and sitting at a table for a while. I had a back up plan. If need be I could come home by bus.

On Saturday I joined neighbours for the monthly chinwag in the square’s garden. We stood around for about an hour and half. Then Celia and I went to Pipoca for lunch and to get some refills of this and that. In the evening there was another gathering of neighbours at Wendy’s house for a house cooling. Wendy died a year ago, and her house now cleared, is sold subject to contract. We stood in the small kitchen with our drinks and nibbles. It was bittersweet. But all that standing and no ill effects made name feel quietly confident I could get to the recycling centre and back today.

I took the route through Burgess Park. If you have seen the Lloyds Bank advert with a herd of black horses running through a green space you’ll have seen Burgess Park. Admittedly it doesn’t usually look that romantic. There were no horses today. I went after lunch, around two o’clock, so no school children either. Some people exercising, some dog walkers, a few amblers. The crows were busy on one stretch of grass then a few yards on it as the starlings who were in residence. My attention was caught by a dog standing very still. A lurcher, she was wearing a harness, but at first I couldn’t see her owner and I wondered if she might be lost. Then I realised she was focused on a squirrel several yards away. Slowly slowly she advanced, raising a paw and holding it in the air then gently placing it on the ground. Her tail was up, her neck extended. The squirrel seemed oblivious and was nibbling something it had unearthed. Her owner, presumably inured to his dog’s behaviour, stood some way off, looking up from his ‘phone from time to time to check on her. I stopped to watch. Then two walkers, their attention caught by my attention, stopped too. David Attenborough eat your heart out. It was as gripping as any natural history programme. As the dog drew nearer she seemed to relax, she was only a yard or so away when the squirrel realised it was in danger. It stopped eating and raced for the tree. The dog sprang after it. Too late. I was glad. Much as I enjoyed the drama, I didn’t really want to see a squirrel being killed.

Diaries, 25th January 2024, Spring, More Shetland, RIP Westie Boy

Today feels like spring. Obviously it’s not actually spring as we’re still in January, which is almost the definition of midwinter. But after the cold cold weather of last week, the ice has melted, the flowers are pushing their way through the earth. There’s a mildness, a lightness that at the very least presages spring even if next month sees us plunged into below zero temperatures once more. That’s below zero centigrade, not Fahrenheit. I can convert two temperatures with confidence from centigrade to Fahrenheit, and neither is freezing point. One is 16C which equals 61F. The other is 28C which equals 82F. You can probably work out how I remember them both. When I was a child, I think talking temperatures in Fahrenheit was the norm. Certainly if you were ill and a thermometer was popped under your tongue it was read in Fahrenheit. I’m still not sure what normal is in centigrade, so perhaps it’s a good thing I haven’t felt the need to take my temperature for a while.