Pumpkin

It's that time of year again. Not my favourite, perhaps. I'm fond of autumn in general, though sometimes you feel they ought to make more of an effort to tidy the leaves away, but Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night always leave me with mixed emotions. Perhaps it's something to do with been dragged by my children out of doors on cold wet evenings and being made to do things I would rather avoid. For example, ferrying them around the neighbours' houses, begging for sweets. Or watching the local scouts' somewhat haphazard firework display. These things don't happen quite so often now that the children are grown up, but they have marked me deeply over the years, and some wounds take time to heal.

In particular I have bitter memories of pumpkins. They look pretty enough in their own way: cheerily stout, and bright orange; though as they get larger they tend to become more disturbing, even before they have had a creepy face carved into them. But it's the scooping out of the pumpkin which saps my soul: they contain such a quantity of unpleasant orange slime, with a characteristically unedifying aroma, which works itself up your sleeve as you try to scrape it all out. And it's not as if you can do anything with the slime once you have extracted it. Yes, I know there is such a thing as pumpkin pie; and pumpkin soup; and doubtless pumpkin rissoles and crumble and trifle and so on; but over the years I've tried all of these, and have suffered as a consequence. They are not meant to be eaten. So I have stopped buying them now. And if not quite deliriously happy, I'm getting close.

Clock

Summertime ends tonight. Always a sombre occasion, bidding farewell to another season, particularly one associated with sunshine and holidays and long balmy evenings. Especially when the weather was fairly ropey for most of the summer: you don't quite feel you had your money's worth. Already the temperature is dropping stone-like, and nights drawing in alarmingly early. And it will only get worse: tomorrow everything will happen an hour earlier: it will be getting dark before you have quite finished afternoon tea.

It is always confusing, this clock-changing palaver. It is somehow counter-intuitive: you have to stop and think quite hard about what is going to happen. What are you meant to do with your clocks? All of them? And which bit of the day, if any, gets lighter? And what about the cat – does she have any concept of British Summer Time, or will she expect to be fed an hour earlier? Or later? Perhaps it's just me: maybe other people can cope with these mental gymnastics. And am I meant to go to bed an hour later tonight? Or sleep in an hour longer tomorrow morning? They never tell you these things.

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day.

Oatcake

I know these things seem trivial, merely the drab minutiae of one of the more colourless and humdrum existences you are likely to have the misfortune to bump into, but they can have a surprising significance for me. There are hidden depths of meaning and deafening resonances in the most ordinary of events. Goodness knows how I will ever cope with the truly momentous when I spend so much time trying to fathom the mundane.

I bought some oatcakes today. Not the small, crisp, Highland variety; but the large, floppy, Staffordshire version. You know the type. Or if you don't, use your imagination. I don't buy them very often: I can't quite remember when I last did. But there was a time when I used to buy them frequently. In large quantities. And take them down to the bed & breakfast where I was staying during the week while working in the Deep South (or actually South East). It was fortunate I was never stopped by the police on one of these journeys: it would have been difficult to provide a convincing explanation of why I was smuggling large quantities of Staffordshire oatcakes across the country. The truth was, as always, fairly dull: the landlady of the bed & breakfast was a native of Staffordshire, who could fondly remember oatcakes being sold from street corners in traditional oatcake outlets which have now all but vanished, and who was downcast that it was not possible to find this delicacy in darkest Essex. (Although I did spot them in the local Sainsburys occasionally; probably a wayward delivery.) But I have to say that during those bitter years I ate more oatcakes than was good for me; and therefore the unhappy association between my dismal commuting life and the innocent oatcake is deeply ingrained by now. So having bought them, I probably won't enjoy them.

Quartet

- Sometimes, I'm sure you will agree, you just have to be grateful for Schubert.
- Of course. Yes... Sorry? I don't quite follow you.
- Schubert – the composer, you know? Sometimes you just have to be grateful.
- Yes. That's what I thought you said. Any reason in particular?
- No... Just when you are feeling worn out, and a bit down in the dumps – tonight, for instance – listening to him can have a remarkable effect.
- Making you feel better?
- Yes. What else did you expect?
- Nothing. Just wanted to be sure. And any piece in particular?
- Tonight it was Death and the Maiden: the string quartet: in D minor: Deutsch 810.
- Right. Not the most cheerful of titles. Not one you would necessarily think of turning to if you were glum.
- And yet – title not withstanding – it is such an optimistic work: full of invention, slipping and sliding between the melancholic and the dramatic and the joyful.
- A bit unfocussed, then?
- But that's the charm of Schubert.
- Of course. I suppose it's testament to the redemptive power of great music.
- Exactly.

Moose

October seems to be moving along at quite a brisk pace; which is always worrying, as, before you know it, the months fly by, Christmas arrives, the summer holidays, another Christmas, and so on until the arrival of a long and happy retirement. I'm exaggerating, perhaps, but you get the idea: But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot drawing near; that sort of thing. It is nice to be able to slow everything down now and again: have a chance for a bit of quiet reflection; re-charge the old batteries. Which is probably my excuse for taking things easy at the weekend and minimising the time and effort I spend on irrelevant tasks such as grocery shopping and housework, and devoting myself instead to the appreciation of Nature and the Arts; and, particularly, Food.

Encouraged by some warm autumn sunshine, I dragged my daughter out to Lyme Park yesterday, to look around the hall. I suppose it is a fine hall, in its own way; nice paintings on the wall, wooden panelling here and there, decorative ceilings, the occasional moose head, all the usual things one might expect to find; though looking around these grand houses I can never help reflecting on my own humble dwelling, and how it would fit quite snugly in the servants' quarters or a corridor or possibly even a broom closet. But this is mere envy; I should be grateful that others have the good fortune to live in such opulence and finery; and have bestowed on me the opportunity to view it for a small fee.

I am sure it must get a little tedious living in such a place. Hundreds of visitors wandering about from room to room just when you want to put your slippers on and watch the television. All the dusting. Deer, not put off by the moose's head on the wall, pressing their wet noses up against the windows and steaming them up with their breath. A massive library full of books which you're not allowed to touch in case they fall to pieces.  The library, incidentally, seems to be my daughter's favourite place, if only because you are encouraged to choose some of the more modern volumes and sit on a nice sofa and read. Though she always picks a Harry Potter and then doesn't budge for hours.

Whale

No real reason for writing, other than to acknowledge today's Google doodle, celebrating the 161st anniversary of the publication of Moby Dick:

With thanks to Mr. Google. Who I hope doesn't mind me using his nice picture.

I have to admit that 161 is a somewhat arbitrary anniversary. Almost as if they were looking for an excuse to use this picture. They could easily have left it till the 162nd anniversary, and, to tell the truth, nobody would have minded.

But it is one of my favourite novels, which I have read umpteen times since I was a teenager, so is worth celebrating whenever you have a chance. And the film, too: the John Houston version, with Gregory Peck as Ahab: wonderfully atmospheric, even if the whale looks a bit rubbery. But it's the audacity of the book, the wildness, the strangeness, that makes it stand out; so that it's not simply a story about some folk trying to catch a whale, but – goodness knows, I've never quite worked out what it's about.

Flap

There seems to be too much weather around at the moment. Sometimes you could just do with less: have it spread more evenly throughout the year; smooth out the peaks and troughs. Maybe it is to be expected: a few rainstorms; a few gusts of wind; it is autumn, after all. When the sun is out, it all looks rather picturesque, with antique gold leaves littering the pavements. Though when the clouds roll over, everything turns duller and damper; and drippier.

I'm not sure what Cat makes of it, if anything. She wasn't around this time last year, but living a life of luxury (if constrained in terms of space) at the animal sanctuary. (It would be interesting, by the way, to know how cats describe to each other their confined living quarters: not enough room to swing a mouse, perhaps.) You would have thought the recent colder and wetter weather would discourage her from going out, but she doesn't seem to mind getting moistened occasionally; and, to tell the truth, she never bothered to go out much in the height of summer either, but preferred to flop on the conservatory floor looking too exhausted to make the effort. Perhaps she is just too domesticated to pay much attention to the call of the wild beckoning her to go roaming around the neighbouring back gardens, but happier to stay put, hogging the sofa, so as to be ready for action whenever there is a chance of food. And there are times, like this evening, when she comes racing back into the house, followed by an alarming flapping of the cat flap, and accompanied by a lot of hissing; suggesting something unpleasant was chasing her. Bravely I stuck my head out of the back door to frighten away whatever was there, assuming it was just another cat. But you never know: it could have been something bigger and fiercer; the sort of thing that might send me, let alone Cat, scurrying back into the house. As it was, there was nothing to be seen in the garden; though I decided not to look too hard.

Camera

What with the charms of wall-to-wall social networking, music downloads, text messaging, and a television channel showing nothing but Australian reality shows featuring a typical day in the life of customs officials, it is sometimes difficult to get my daughter out of the house and into the great outdoors. Which is a shame, seeing that gentle exercise is generally considered a good thing, and autumn is as good a time as any to brave the elements and admire the bronzed foliage before it plummets to earth. But thanks to the somewhat underhand ploy of luring her with my camera, we managed to get as far as Alderley Edge, and wandered around the woods for a while, and admired the views. And took a lot of photographs; mainly of trees. But that is the beauty of photography: you can capture objects (trees, in this case) in all their glory and to your heart's content. Particularly when, like my daughter, you are of a mildly artistic inclination, and enjoy taking a vast number of snaps of anything and everything. But mostly trees.

I still remember my early forays in film photography: how on a day out I would take only a handful of pictures, and patiently wait weeks or months before I got round to having them developed. By which time I would have forgotten what the lighting conditions were like, and what aperture and shutter speed I had used, or why I had wanted to take a picture of whatever it was I had taken a picture of. There is still part of me that thinks analogue rather than digital: I am not used to shooting a whole roll – I mean, memory card – of images in one go. It still seems so wasteful – of pixels. Clearly my daughter shows no such inhibitions. At least where trees are concerned.

Ink

I was reading an excellent article in the Sunday paper the other day (not necessarily on Sunday, as it takes me a good few days to get through it, and I find myself still finishing the crossword on Saturday morning, even though it is meant to be the quick crossword; so I don't even begin the cryptic: life is just too short) on the subject of handwriting. In particular, how it is a uniquely rich and expressive form of communication, and yet is in danger of disappearing under the digital deluge. And how we should make more of an effort to apply our handwriting whenever we can, and not to let it slip away.

All of which I sympathise with; but then I look sadly at the shabby scrawl that my handwriting has now become, as it deteriorates year by year. But perhaps that itself is the result of being out of practice: it seems that I only pick up a pen to scribble notes at work or lists of things to do at home; always scribbling in a hurry, rather than taking the time to try and make it look more presentable, a truer reflection of who I am and what I want to say. And then things looks so much neater when typed on a computer screen: I take pleasure in formatting text smartly on the screen, choosing my favourite fonts, repeatedly editting till I am happy with the flow and rhythm of the words. To write things out once seems a terrible restriction; and to cross things out and write them again seems unbearably messy.

But I keep trying. The right implement helps: I am not all that keen on ballpoints, but rely when at work on pencils (because they are soft and grey and readily erased) or some ultra fine liquid ink rollerball thing (because it is ultra fine, and inky), and have even dug out my old fountain pen at home. And that is itself telling: the fountain pen that I received for 10 years service at a previous employer; which I fill from an actual bottle of ink, a rare item in the modern world. And is it a coincidence that the colour I have chosen for the headings in this blog is a shade of inky blue-black?

Directory

I returned home this evening to find that the latest edition of the Manchester South telephone directory had been pushed through my letterbox.

I know: that makes no sense whatsoever. It is not physically possible to push a telephone directory through a letterbox, at least not without reducing most of the door to splinters in the process. Telephone directories are left on the doorstep, where they will cheerfully absorb a large quantity of water if it is raining. Or they are deposited in the porch, if you are fortunate enough to own a porch, and have remembered to leave it unlocked at the time of year when directories are being delivered. Or behind the dustbin, or underneath the garden gnome, or anywhere, really. Mine went through the letterbox.

Telephone directories are not what they once were.  They used to be hefty deadweights of flimsy grey paper, printed in a painfully tiny font, and peppered with uninspiring adverts which only managed to catch your eye because the rest of the page was so unremittingly dull. Circus strongmen would demonstrate their prowess by tearing them in half (in between inflating hot water bottles). They could be used to press wild flowers, build tunnels for model train sets, and wedge doors open in a stiff wind.

But – sadly – no longer. The modern telephone directory is sleek, compact, svelte. It fits through a letter box. It practically fits into your jacket pocket. It would not be a particularly onerous task to memorise the contents from cover to cover, and hence dispense with the hard copy altogether. I presume this is a consequence of the preponderance of the internet, and multiple telecommunications companies, and the coalition government, and the like. But while you applaud the preservation of a few forests-worth of trees, you can't help feeling that a part of our national heritage is slipping away. By this time next year it will be reduced to something you can slip into your wallet.

Rhubarb

There was a welcome splash of sunshine today, reminding you of what autumn can be like when the rain clouds keep away. I was inspired to get the bike out and tackle the Middlewood Way, which was pleasant enough; though, being a defunct railway line, there isn't always much of a view over the cuttings, save for occasional glimpses of fields, and the odd cow. (I mean an infrequent cow; not one that is particularly unusual in its appearance; although there may have been a few of those around too: when cycling I tend to be quite focused on the potholes in front of me; and may occasionally miss a passing cow, however odd it may be.)  It was another of those cycle routes which are helpfully straight and flat, which is a great advantage at my age. There were several cyclists with expensive-looking mountain bikes, and expensive-looking cycling gear. In contrast, I deliberately cultivate a less formal style, and ride a somewhat unglamorous bicycle, trying to be coolly understated; as if I could make the effort if I really wanted to, but I somehow find it more chic not to bother. Though whether anybody else accurately picks up on this is hard to tell.

I bought some rhubarb today. I presume it must be in season. I never really know when fruit and vegetables are in season, other than there tend to be more things in the supermarket in summer than in winter. Except when they get flown in from the other side of the world, in which case they are there all year round. Clearly no-one bothers to fly rhubarb in from the other side of the world. Maybe it doesn't travel well; or it doesn't thrive in sultry foreign climes; or they can't find any overseas farmers who are inclined to cultivate it, thinking no-one in their right mind would want to eat such an oddity. I bought it on a whim, as it seems years since I last bought and cooked any (clearly not helped if I don't know when it is in season). I didn't get as far as preparing a crumble, which would have necessitated a greater degree of strategic planning than I felt capable of, though I did remember to buy some custard.

Missile

Talking of the number 50 (as we were the other day), there seem to be lots of anniversaries being celebrated at the moment. It is 50 years since the Beatles' first hit record. It is 50 years since the first James Bond film. It is 50 years since the Cuban missile crisis. And it is probably 50 years since many other things as well. 

I am at that awkward age where I have technically lived through these momentous events but have no memory of them. It was to be several years before I realised who James Bond or the Beatles actually were. And probably another couple of decades before I quite fathomed the Cuban missile crisis. But it is still interesting to have lived through these great moments in history, even if they passed me by, and to think of the impact they might have had on family and friends. But then people at the time would hardly have believed that we would still be listening to the Beatles or making James Bond films 50 years on. It rather makes you wonder what crumbs of contemporary culture will still be going strong in another half century. What will the world of 2062 be like? Jet cars? Transporter beams? The Archers still on Radio 4?

As an antidote to such turbulent thoughts, it seems appropriate to post a calmingly monochromatic picture:

Pebbles. Rocks. Stones. Who knows...

Cannon

- Well. Here we are. The fifty-first post.

- Sorry?

- Post number fifty-one.

- Yes, I heard you the first time. I meant: haven't we been here before?

- How do you mean?

- Didn't you start the last post this way?

- Yes; now that you mention it.

- And?

- And?

- And you're going to do it again?

- Well, I thought it worked quite satisfactorily last time. So, it is maybe worth revisiting a winning formula.

- You don't think it might seem a bit – samey?

- No. Not at all. It is a winning formula. And I could always introduce a little variety.

- Such as?

- I could introduce – something – a little more varied.

- Good. You've clearly thought about this.

- Yes. I don't jump in without considerable preparation. I don't just make it up as I go along.

- Of course. 

- Is there anything you would like to see?

- In the post?

- Yes: in the post.

- Well, I'm flattered you should ask.

- I believe in giving my readers what they want.

- That's very commendable. You think you have some readers, then?

- Well, it's hard to say. Some people seem to look at the blog. Though for all I know they may actually be automated spambots.

- Still, it is exciting to have readers. Even if they are not human.