Almost

– Well, here we are. The final minutes of 2013. The New Year practically upon us. A new beginning awaits... I said –
– Yes, I got all that. A new whatever.
– You don't seem very enthusiastic.
– I've been here before. New Years. They come every year.
– True. There is a certain inevitability about them. They don't exactly catch you by surprise. But, at the same time, there is something special about New Year's Eve. Bidding farewell to the achievements and disappointments of the last twelve months, and welcoming a new chapter in your life, brimming with untapped potential. It should instil a certain sense of hope and anticipation.
– I suppose so. It's difficult to know how best to prepare.
– So what are you planning to do with the evening?
– I've been boiling the turkey carcass.
– Is that something traditional?
– No, not particularly. It's not something I specifically do on New Year's Eve. It just happened I was looking at the leftover turkey earlier and thinking it was about time I did something with it.
– With a view to – ?
– Well, I'm not quite sure. I always assumed it was to generate a supply of exquisite turkey stock to enliven my cooking for the rest of the year. Typically, however, it gets deposited in the freezer and forgotten about. But I still feel a certain compulsion to go through the motions.
– It's good to continue these quaint customs. I always feel that something precious is lost when they are allowed to lapse.
– I'm not so sure I would describe the turkey stock as precious. It's just – well, broth-like.
– Of course. But surely this is a perfect example of what I was describing earlier. By re-enacting these ancient traditions you are making a direct connection with your historical and cultural roots. And, at the same time, the broth you are creating is not merely a dilute soup, but, more importantly, a symbol of your deep-seated spiritual preparations for the coming year.
– Yes. That had occurred to me.
– I'm glad to hear that. Happy New Year.

Waist

Whenever you open the fridge, you see the remnants of Christmas. Mainly turkey, of which still quite a lot has survived. Perhaps I bought one slightly larger than I really needed, but it somehow didn't seem right to buy a small, puny one: it might have ended up being all bone, or beak. And likewise Christmas pudding. Again, it seemed more economical to get a reasonably substantial one, and, besides, it would have come in useful had a dozen guests unexpectedly dropped in for dinner. (A long shot I know, but not impossible. Merely, almost certainly impossible.) But none of it will go to waste: I will, in time, work my way through it all. It just might take a while.

I find you have to pace yourself, especially with the pudding: a portion every day is a bit much for the palate; and the waistline. I am not used to so rich a diet. In comparison, the turkey requires less effort, and can readily be enlivened by various accompaniments and/or sauces. Admittedly, I have yet to explore the full range of the culinary possibilities and have been content to alternate between turkey sandwiches with stuffing and turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. I am building up to the day when I attempt turkey sandwiches with both stuffing and cranberry sauce: it will be the highlight of the week.

Reflection

– There is always something of a lull at this point of the festivities.
– How do you mean, a lull?
– Well, you know, a lull. A slight hiatus in the emotional roller-coaster of Yuletide celebrations, as we slowly recover from the excesses of Christmas Day and look forward to the excesses of New Year's Eve.
– Of course. I guess it's quite a good idea having a lull: things would get rather wearing otherwise. Constant feasting and partying takes it out of you. However much you practise. Anyway, I quite like this time of year: you feel you are in between things, as if the old year has already ended and the new one not yet begun. A sort of hinterland. Do I mean hinterland?
– I've no idea.
– Especially being off work, as fortunately I am. You have all these days stretching emptily before you, with no need to rush out of the house in the morning, no need even to traipse around the shops, as, conveniently, the fridge is still packed with all the food you didn't get around to eating over Christmas.
– There's always the January sales to lure you out.
– I manage to resist them. The thought of being trampled by hoards of carnivorous bargain-hunters is not very appealing. I would rather have a few hours of quiet refection than a half-price sweater in a colour that makes me feel queasy. It takes time, you know, to take stock of the passing of the year and to make resolutions for the future.
– So have you made any resolutions?
– Not yet. I don't like rushing in to major commitments.

Chimney

– It's late.
– Yes. Christmas Day is almost upon us. I'm worn out – trying to get the last of the chores out of the way, so that tomorrow I merely have to prepare a mountain of vegetables and cook the turkey.
– You probably don't need so many vegetables. Not a mountain's worth.
– True. Maybe half a dozen sprouts will be enough. You can have too many sprouts sometimes. They are best used sparingly.
– I noticed you put out some whisky and Christmas cake for Santa's nocturnal visit.
– Yes.
– They are no longer there.
– I know. I thought – I thought it was better this way.
– Better what way?
– Better if I had them.
– Better than leaving Santa a gift?
– I was thinking of him: he must get so much stuff as he visits every house. Mince pies, sherry, carrots –
– I think you will find the carrot is actually for the reindeer.
– I left the carrot.
– I wonder why.
– It can't be good for him: a diet of alcohol and high fat, sugary food.
– I admit it leaves a lot to be desired. But who are we to deny an elderly gentleman this minor indulgence? After all, it is only one night a year. He probably eats nothing but lentils the rest of the time.
– I could leave a sprout or two, if that would help.
– If you're sure you can spare them.

The grass below – above the vaulted sky

Roast

– How can it all be done?
– I don't know. It just is.
– All of it?
– I think so. Maybe I will think of something by tomorrow morning, and nip out quickly. Sparkling water maybe: it's always useful to have some on hand. But it's hardly essential. How about yourself?
– Well, I take a rather more traditional approach to my gift and food shopping, and purposefully leave it all to Christmas Eve.
– Is there a good reason for that?
– Clearly, you can take full advantage of the January sales, which will probably start tomorrow. Also, you can avoid the frantic queues in the supermarket, as everyone else has been rushing around for the past few days, leaving the aisles free for me.
– And possibly free of food.
– There is a chance of that. But, realistically, there will be something left on the shelves. Maybe not anything you would normally consider festive enough for your Christmas lunch, but sometimes it is more rewarding to challenge convention. And, say, have fish fingers.
– I'm sure they would go very well with roast potatoes.
– Indeed.
– And cranberry sauce.
– You would be surprised. Anyway, what else is there to do on Christmas Eve?
– I'm behind with my housework.
– Who isn't? That is the point of housework: its sole purpose is to make you feel inadequate. Just ignore it, and enjoy some more Christmas shopping.
– I don't need anything. Apart from sparkling water. And fish fingers.

Wrap

It is already a couple of days since my birthday (in case you are interested, and would like to make a note for next year). It is not the ideal time to have a birthday, being lost to some extent in the frenzied run-up to Christmas. You try to stop and reflect on the significance of the event, but your concentration is sidetracked by remembering that you are short of tin foil, or have forgotten to buy a present for the cat, or you don't know how you will fit the turkey in the fridge when it's already full of jars of cranberry sauce. And then, before you know it, the birthday has come and gone, with little to show for it but a mountain of shredded wrapping paper littering the living room floor, and the mild nausea that comes from eating too much birthday cake in one sitting. And just as you come to terms with the stresses and excesses of the birthday celebration, you remember there is only a week to go before it all kicks off, on an even grander scale, for Christmas.

Helium

– You know this impending birthday?
– Which?
– Yours. Your birthday. Impending.
– Yes. Of course.
– It seems to be impending quite imminently.
– I suppose it is getting closer.
– It's just that you seem to be quite relaxed about it.
– Well, perhaps I take a somewhat stoical view. It is one of those things you can do little about. It will happen, I am sure, regardless of anything I do. Another year older.
– Indeed. But think of all you've achieved this last year.
– I'm afraid not a great deal comes to mind. It doesn't seem to have been the most action-packed of years.
– Surely something of note must have happened?
– Let me think about it.
– At least you can have a raucous celebration on the day itself.
– I don't know. I'm not really into raucousness. Perhaps a quieter, calmer celebration will be more appropriate: to reflect on the slow and steady trickle of time.
– What about balloons? They are always fun. Especially on a birthday.
– You think I should get balloons?
– Everybody likes balloons.

Badge

–You've on the mend, then, after your recent unpleasant affliction?
– It seems I am over the worst of it. I dragged  myself back to work yesterday. I don't think I've ever had so long off work due to illness.
– That is an exemplary achievement. They ought to give you a badge, or a certificate, or something.
– I'm afraid there is little chance of that. Anyway, I do not do these things for public recognition.
– I suppose your infirmity was just another symptom of time's relentless progress.
– How do you mean?
– Well, none of us is getting any younger.
– That's true.
– And shingles is typically an illness of the elderly and infirm.
– I'm not so sure about typically...
– The point is, you're unfortunately past your prime. Indeed, you have another significant birthday next week.
– I'm not sure it's such a significant one. More routine, I would say.
– I think at your age, they are all significant.
– Right...
– But don't worry: these things are to be embraced.
– They are?
– Given you have no chance of keeping it secret from your colleagues, you might as well embrace it.

Hope

It is hard to believe that any other world leader of the present age could receive such universally heartfelt tributes on the scale of those that commemorated the passing of Nelson Mandela yesterday evening. Watching the televised obituaries, it is depressing to be reminded of the history of apartheid, of the injustices that a political ideology can impose on a whole population, denying fundamental human rights and treating people as an underclass in their own country. But there is also a message of hope: hope that an unwavering belief in justice and the value of human dignity can be strong enough to bring down an oppressive regime. Mandela's story illuminates both sides of human nature: from the depths of cruelty to the heights of compassion. Perhaps the message we should cling on to is that we are not helpless in the face of injustice, however weak we may feel ourselves to be individually; but collectively we have the strength to change society for the better.

Pox

– You don't seem to be rushing back to work.
– No. I would like to – nothing would please me more – but I must bow down to medical opinion.
– Which is telling you to put your feet up and watch daytime TV?
– Not in so many words. But in essence, yes.
– All because you've decided to contract rickets?
– It's shingles. It's different. Hence my elegantly straight legs.
– Sorry. I think I was actually confusing it with scurvy. I was about to offer you an orange.
– Right... It was a surprise to hear the diagnosis – it hadn't occurred to me. I had thought it was some non-specific virus causing the feverishness. Though I suppose the red spots were a clue.
– Spots are always a giveaway.
– It's a little unsettling to think how it comes about: that you've had the chickenpox virus lying dormant inside you since childhood, biding its time, and then, for no very good reason, it decides to reawaken, and – attack.
– That is a bit creepy. It will give me nightmares.

Sauce

– So you never made it into work?
– I'm afraid not. I didn't feel quite right: still a bit woozy at times. It comes and goes.
– That's the thing with illness: can be hard to predict. Not much fun being under the weather with Christmas fast approaching.
– Quite. I suppose there's a few weeks to go...
– Three. But they will fly past quickly. Gone before you know it. And there'll you'll be on Christmas Eve, still looking for presents, and wrapping paper, and a turkey, and a gravy boat –
– Thank you. I get the message. Hopefully things will be sorted out long before that. And anyway, I'm not sure about the gravy boat.
– You have enough already?
– I haven't any. Precisely because I don't see much point in them.
– How can you not see the point of them? How else can you serve the gravy?
– I cope. Somehow I cope.
– You're clearly still not well. This is delirium talking.
– Is it?
– When you get better, you will understand.
– Understand? What?
– Gravy boats. You will understand gravy boats.

Ruin.

Fever

– Feeling any better?
– Don't know. Maybe. For now. But who knows?
– These things can take a lot out of you. Rest, and recuperation, and plenty of hot sweet tea, are what's required.
– It seems such a waste. I've spent half the day in bed, when there are so many things to be done.
– There's not much you can do about it. Viruses can be pretty overwhelming. You have to let nature take its course. All those little antibodies. And white blood cells. Besieging the virus particles. And tearing them limb from limb.
– Yes... Aren't viruses much smaller than white blood cells? Is there much for a white blood cell to get hold of?
– Perhaps they just swallow them whole. It's best not to worry too much about the technicalities, but just let your body sort things out. You're lucky, in a way.
– Lucky?
– To have been afflicted over the weekend. Hopefully it'll all be over by Monday morning. There's nothing worse than having to miss work due to illness.
– Yes... Is there really nothing worse?
– Think of the meetings you might miss. The emails going unanswered. Getting behind in your – filing.
– Still, if I'm not feeling a hundred per cent...
– Besides, there's nothing better than coughing and sneezing all over your work colleagues.

Coronation

I was fitted for a new crown yesterday. That comes across as rather grandiose: as if merely going about my day-to-day business wearing a crown wasn't enough for me that I actually need to have one made to measure, rather than just pick one up off the peg, at the crown shop. Unfortunately, the reality was, as always, rather more mundane. And not because I was after a run-of-the-mill crown, the sort you would wear every day to the office rather than reserve for special occasions, one that you hope doesn't attract too much attention, but blends inconspicuously into the background; on the contrary, I was not getting the kind you wear at all, but one of those that is used to repair a fractured tooth. And things do not get much more mundane than repairing fractured teeth.

You would have thought it was a straightforward enough business: a few deft measurements by the dentist, a nugget of gold hammered into shape on his fiery anvil, a spot of glue, and there you have it. But no, it seems a somewhat more involved process, requiring filling my mouth with quick-setting putty, possibly in order to get a realistic cast of my teeth; which seemed over the top, as I'm sure my teeth look pretty much like teeth generally do. And then he had the audacity to charge me a huge sum of money for the privilege. You could have got a real crown for the price.

Treacle

I did some baking last weekend. It's worth mentioning, as it is quite a rare occurrence. There was the lemon drizzle cake a couple of months ago; but unfortunately that was something best forgotten. What can go wrong with a lemon drizzle cake? You would be surprised. Everything went wrong with that cake, short of  a guest appearance by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And that was only avoided because of a prior engagement.

But, to my eternal credit, I put the experience behind me and moved on. To be specific, moved on to trying my hand at parkin. I have just noticed that the spell checker has objected to the word parkin, suggesting that it doesn't exist in respectable, God-fearing dictionaries, that it is nothing but a misspelling of something as mundane as parking; which is a ridiculous suggestion as it clearly does not fit the meaning of the sentence at all. To tell the truth, I had a similar reaction when I took some of it into work, to share among my colleagues. Surprisingly, several of them had never heard of it, even those who claimed to be Northerners, such that I had to describe the recipe in intimate detail. But they tried it, just the same.

Gallifrey

It has been, for no obvious reason, a day of incongruous anniversaries. It is the centenary of the birth of Benjamin Britten. It is fifty years since the assassination of John F. Kennedy. It is fifty years (tomorrow, I think) since the first episode of Doctor Who.

I do not always find time to celebrate these things, but I have tried to make some effort over Britten, being one of my favourite composers. I went to see Peter Grimes at the Lowry a few weeks ago, a stirring performance involving lots of nets, or actually just the one large net, which I suppose was a powerful metaphor of the ties that bind the fishing community together while excluding Grimes the outsider. And I've got a backlog of celebratory programmes to watch on the television recording device thing. The recording device thing is also groaning under the weight of celebratory Doctor Who programmes, as there has been a deluge of them broadcast over the last few days. But they provide a fascinating reprisal of fifty years of popular culture, which would in a way be a potted history of my own life, had I not spent quite so much of it hiding behind the sofa.

Laser

It was Cat's substitute birthday yesterday. Nobody knows how old she is, and she refuses to tell. Radiocarbon dating may be the answer. At any rate, it is two years since she arrived here. So she is at least two, and more likely somewhere between three and four. It must be difficult to go through life with such large error bars on your age. It would be like me telling people I was somewhere between 40 and 60, but I couldn't say precisely. It's hard to believe they would be very sympathetic.

Anyway, as a present, I bought her a laser. It's probably a somewhat dangerous gift to place in the hands of a fairly irresponsible cat with little practical knowledge of experimental physics. So, to be on the safe side, I have taken charge of it. She seems happy enough chasing the beam of red light around the room, not being particularly perturbed by being unable to catch it. But she still keeps on trying; which I think says something about her character.

Python

I have been trying to get to grips with a Raspberry Pi donated by my son, who happened to find he was in possession of two, and did not think to start his own linux cluster. His loss is my gain.

There is something rewarding about getting back to basics with a lightweight, readily programmable computer rather than the over-engineered, application-heavy, wading-through-mud-with-leaky-wellingtons product that the modern Windows PC has become. Clearly, the Pi has the slight disadvantage that you have to take a few minutes attaching it to a television screen and keyboard and ethernet connection so that your living room becomes a spider's web of criss-crossed cables, which somehow takes the spontaneity out of things, and risks throttling any visitors who inadvertently stray into the room, but at least it comes with a giant red raspberry on its desktop. And I am sure, if you made the effort, you could write programs to run on a PC, but they would look small and shabby compared to the glossy titles you are used to. Whereas on the Pi, the home-made look and feel of your code is perfectly acceptable, because it is, after all, home made.

Many years ago, before the IBM PC became a feature of every household, I owned an Atari ST and wrote simple programs on it. These typically featured lines bouncing around inside a box, which doesn't sound particularly entertaining, but became rewarding when you had actually put together the code yourself. There was also a game where you flew a spaceship around blowing up asteroids, which demonstrated what could be achieved with a little more effort.

Athene

It was sad to hear of the death of Sir John Tavener yesterday: a composer who unapologetically poured out his Christian beliefs into his music, creating a unique sound world which mixed the mediaeval with the modern, combining the consoling melodies of Orthodox plainsong with an often disconcerting dissonance. The music draws you out of the stresses of contemporary life (in my case, I was listening while driving to work this morning, which is never the most uplifting of experiences) and leads you somewhere literally other worldly. It is not surprising that he should have proven to be so popular, touching a chord with people who otherwise cannot connect with classical music. A unique vision.

Dove

– And was the concert a great success?
– It's hard to tell. From where I was standing, it was difficult to hear much.
– I thought you were in the middle of the choir?
– Yes, indeed. You do tend to hear quite a lot of the choir, at least the people standing immediately next to you. But the rest of it – the orchestra, and the children's choir, and the soloists – disappear somewhat. Probably something to do with the acoustics, I suppose.
– But you could gauge the audience's reaction. Presumably you could see the audience?
– They do tend to stare you out, yes. I guess they looked fairly appreciative. Mostly.
– Wild applause?
– They never quite lose their dignity. But they seemed happy enough. And it was nice to see the composer there. You don't usually get that many composers turning up for performances.
– I suppose they tend to be busy people.
– I believe it was the first time this piece had been performed by amateur forces. Not to mention this far north. So not just amateurs, but northern amateurs.
– Altogether a unique experience. I hope he appreciated it.
– I think so. It's a shame it's all over: all that work, months of rehearsal, all over in a single evening.
– Such is art. Ephemeral.

Almost

After two months of frantic rehearsal, tomorrow evening sees our first concert of the season. It comes around sooner than you expect. To be honest, you feel a few more hours of practice would prove useful: would iron out some minor irregularities, such as singing the wrong words to the wrong notes, and coming in at the wrong time, and possibly even turning up at the wrong venue. The orchestra somehow seems to be able to waltz through substantial works with relatively limited rehearsal, whereas we in the choir require months of crawling through the score note by note, deconvoluting complex cross rhythms and making wild guesses at strangely shifting harmonies. But we get there eventually. More or less. I suppose that is the charm of live performance: you never can predict how it will turn out. And it never sounds exactly the same twice.

Oddly, my cooking is somehow similar: a recipe never seems to come out the same twice. I would never cope cooking in a restaurant, where, presumably, customers would expect the dish they ordered last week to taste the same if ordered today. But perhaps that soupçon of unpredictability adds to the occasion.

Souls

It is November already, when a moment ago it was summer. Or maybe a little longer than a moment. But not much. And before you know it –

So it goes. The rain is still coming down, seemingly not dampening the spirits of hardy folk exploding fireworks outside. Night comes early now, the drawing in of the year.

At work, they are growing moustaches. Not all of them, but a few. Perhaps I should have joined in. But I found it a mildly traumatic experience when I tried a couple of years ago: I spent the month worrying about how it looked, and how to get people to sponsor me. And, to tell the truth, there was not much to show for it, either in terms of whiskers or money, by the end of the month. And I find it is difficult when other people are so keen: the clamour and raucousness wears me down. You would have thought growing a moustache was a quiet, solitary experience. But no.

Alpaca

– It's difficult to know what to make of the weather at the moment.
– How do you mean?
– There seems to be more of it than is strictly necessary. It's either too hot, or too wet, or too thundery; and all within the space of a few hours.
– Well, variety is the spice of life, they say. You should be grateful: it would get very dull otherwise. As it is, every trip outdoors is like a version of Russian roulette. Only without the bullet. I hope.
– That's the point. You never know how to plan your day. Or what to wear. Or even what to have for tea.
– I didn't realise you lived your life so attuned to the passing seasons. Granted you only eat salad when it's a heatwave. But your wardrobe seemed to be pretty unchanging – stagnant, you might say – regardless of the temperature.
– Things do vary. In subtle ways.
– Anyway, I managed to get out on the bike yesterday without getting drenched. A gentle cycle through some leafy country lanes. Warmed by the late afternoon sunshine. There seemed to be a lot of exotic wildlife about.
– How exotic?
– Llamas. Alpacas. That sort of thing.
– Not really indigenous to these parts.
– I know. But they seem increasingly common. Usually in enclosed fields, rather than trotting unfettered along the road.
– Like pets.
– A lot like pets. But there is always the risk that one day they will escape into the wild. And breed.
– Like parrots. And wallabies. And alligators.
– Not so sure about the alligators. Have you see alligators?
– I don't want to see them. That's the point.

Georgic

– I was thinking, the Royal Baby must be a week old by now.
– Eight days old, I think you'll find.
– There you are. Over a week old. Already.
– Indeed. Time flies.
– We've not seen all that much of him.
– You were expecting a personal invitation?
– No, not at all. Although it would have been nice. I meant, we've not seen much of him in the media lately.
– He obviously values his privacy.
– I suspect it's more his parents. After all, he probably doesn't yet know what the media is. Are. Whatever.
– Children grow up so quickly nowadays. He's probably already on Twitter.
– Goodness. I wouldn't have thought he'd have that much to communicate. I know he mixes in royal circles, but even so.
– Celebrity is but a passing whim. Although you would hazard a guess that he will remain famous for quite a while yet.
– It makes you think, though: the fact that we know the line of kings for the next hundred years or so. Sort of puts things in perspective.
– Yes. If only we knew the succession of Prime Ministers as far in advance. It would put an end to futile political wrangling.
– There would be a certain inevitability to parliamentary elections.
– It would be for the best. Less disappointment all round.

Grebe

It has been a rainy day. Not one of those with unbroken glowering clouds and constant precipitation from dawn to dusk, but the sort where you have sunny blue skies and fluffy white cumulus to lure you outside, only for a thunderstorm to appear out of nowhere and drench you before you can find the slightest scrap of cover. I had got as far as packing the bicycle in the back of the car, and driving north to what should have been sunnier climes, when the skies started to turn bleak. So I went for a short walk around the ominously named Black Lake, with an umbrella for company, in the hope that things would brighten up.

The lake is not as dismal as it sounds, although, to be fair, it is somewhat downbeat as lakes go. Not much happens there, apart from the odd water bird bobbing placidly about. And a sign about water voles, which I didn't get to see, so I have to take it on trust that there were actually there. But as I strolled, the occasional raindrop turned into a sudden thundery downpour. I took shelter under my umbrella, and, in an effort to avoid any stray drops, under a tree; although admittedly I started to wonder about the advisability of standing under a tree in a thunderstorm. But then, were I to wander around in the open, would the lightning bolts decide that my umbrella was highest point to aim for? Sometimes you just cannot win.

As it was, I survived unscathed. There was something quite moving about standing in the pouring rain, watching the ducks getting wet on the lake. We don't seem to do much standing about in the rain nowadays, waiting for it to stop: either we don't venture out to begin with, or we just continue our journey regardless. We don't have the time to watch and wait. I remember as a child this seemed much more common: you would hang around in shop doorways, or even in the doorway of someone's house, to watch the rain coming down. In those days you didn't have a car parked around the corner to jump into. And bus-stops didn't have shelters. But you had the time to watch the rain coming down.

Marguerite

July is slipping by. The schools are breaking up, holidays are approaching. The garden is looking exhausted after the relentless heat. Royal babies are suddenly popping up all over the place. A typical summer.

The heat has relented recently, to a modest degree, with a few cooler days and a few thunderstorms, helping the lawn to recover some of its greenness. But then it just gets hot again, and humid. Almost tropical. It doesn't seem right, somehow. Not how a summer is meant to be.

I've been trying to keep up with the Proms, but it's proving difficult. There are too many of them, and not enough hours in the day. I am beginning to accumulate recordings that will need to be watched some time soon. But then you don't necessarily want to spend these warm evenings watching television when you could be outside in the garden, admiring the flowers, being bitten by things.

I have started opening the windows in the living-room in the evenings, to encourage the circulation of cooling breezes. Cat, however, sees it as an invitation to sit on the sill with her head poking outside, watching the world, or what she can see of it, go by. It seems to cheer her up no end.

Something still alive in the garden.

Spice

I wasn't feeling so good first thing this morning – a bit of a dodgy stomach, maybe even a touch of gastritis. That sounds quite impressive, exotic in its own way, rather than coming down with a more commonplace bout of run-of-the-mill  indigestion. A better class of ailment. Perhaps it was the result of last night's takeaway. With my son visiting, I thought I would treat him to a curry from a highly reputable Indian restaurant. And it was indeed very appetising. And with no apparent adverse effects on my son. But it may be that, with my advancing years, I have unfortunately become more sensitive to the potent spices of the East. I am all right now, you'll be glad to hear, although I have been feeling listless today and have not had much of an appetite, which is unusual for me. A few morsels of bread and hot tea is basically all I've had to eat, as well as a few other bits and pieces out of the fridge, including the remnants of the curry. I will fade away if I'm not careful.

As part of my convalescence I got round to watching belatedly a recording of this year's First Night of the Proms, which featured a stirring performance of Vaughan Williams's A Sea Symphony. I remember singing it with the choir last year. From the back of the choir it is not always easy to see or hear everything that is going on, especially as the soloists tend to be miles away in front of the orchestra; so it is good to have the opportunity to watch a performance from the right direction. It is such an overwhelming piece: so much of it, and seemingly so wildly unstructured: all over the place, in a nice way. And difficult to sing: a lot of notes, which don't always appear where you expect them; and the tempo changing constantly, so no two bars are taken at the same pace. Some members of the choir on the TV looked quite calm, as if it was effortless; whereas I seem to remember it took considerable mental agility to keep up with the conductor, not to mention physical effort to make oneself heard. And I do like to put some emotion into my performance. Though I'm not sure the audience would agree: they might have preferred less.

Lethargy

– It doesn't seem to be getting any cooler.
– That'll be because of the heat wave.
– I know. But you would have thought it might have waned by now. It's been – who knows, weeks. And fairly relentless. I am beginning to wilt.
– Really?
– I don't mean literally. Not like, say, a tulip. But metaphorically.
– Like a daffodil.
– Yes. Well, actually no. Not like any flower. Metaphorically. My general enthusiasm and energy levels, for example, are wilting.
– Making you feel lethargic and disinclined to bouts of strenuous activity.
– Exactly.
– Not to mention becoming increasingly antisocial, self-absorbed and generally quite ratty to anyone unfortunate enough to cross your path.
– Well, I'm not sure I would go so far...
– You don't?
– But you think –?
– I couldn't possibly say. But if you really want to know –

Apprentice

I seem to have watched more of the current series of The Apprentice than in past years. I was going to say I have watched more of it than is good for me, which is probably also true. I tell myself that it is nothing more than shallow and exploitative reality TV. But then, on the plus side, it has taught me most of what I know about business. Other than what I see on Dragons Den. Perhaps my university career would have been more successful had every academic subject been taught via the effective educational medium of reality TV.

It makes you wonder about apprenticeships in general, and how they don't seem as common as they were in the novels of Dickens, in which expectationless young orphans would be drafted for seven or fourteen or twenty-one years to learn the trade of a blacksmith or quantity surveyor or whatever. In my own profession, if it can be dignified by such a grandiose term, it takes at least a lifetime, if not two, to learn the basics, let alone to approach any serious level of proficiency. Hence we are a disappearing breed. I might actually be the last one.

Tomato

– You sometimes find yourself worrying, don't you, or maybe it's just me, about reaching some kind of a – tipping point.
– How do you mean?
– You know: things are seemingly going along all right, nothing out of the ordinary, but then –
– It tips.
– Exactly.
– Into what?
– Not into anything, in particular. It just tips in a general sense.
– In a good sense?
– Sometimes. Sometimes not.
– I would like to agree, but I'm not a hundred percent sure what we're talking about.
– That instant when –
– Yes. I got that bit. But in reference to what?
– Well, at the moment, there are several things. Life is like that.
– Name one.
– There's salad, for instance.
– Did you say salad?
– Yes.
– I thought this was going to be a serious conversation.
– It is serious. Maybe not the most serious in the overall scheme of things, but in its own way.
– Go on.
– Don't you ever feel that, eating salad day in and and day out, as I've started to do this summer, there will come a time when you can't stomach another leaf?
– Yes. Now let's talk about something else.
– You're not offering much sympathy.
– So this is your tipping point?
– I'm not there yet, but it could be just on the horizon.
– Let me know when it happens. I'd like to be around to see it.

Thermodynamics

It's difficult to know what to do about the heat. I guess I shouldn't complain, as we don't get that many sweltering spells in an average summer. But when you've had a few sleepless nights over the last week, you feel you have a right to complain, and even receive some form of financial recompense. I am not sure, however, who to complain to in order to get my compensation. Perhaps one day someone will cold call me just as I am about to eat my dinner, or mow the lawn, or rescue the cat from a sticky situation, and offer me the help of their dedicated team of advisers to negotiate a suitable sum of compensation from whomever is responsible to pay out for these things. The government, perhaps. Or the banks: they always seem to be dishing out compensation for something or other. It is very generous of them.

In the meantime, I am running out of ideas about what to do about sleep. I try opening windows: it doesn't seem to have much effect. My elementary knowledge of physics tells me that there should be a temperature gradient between the super-heated air within the bedroom and the relatively chilly ether of the great outdoors. And yet the heat refuses to rush headlong down the slope, but just hangs around as if it had something important to attend to, and going outside would be just too much of an inconvenience. This has started to undermine my confidence in classical physics. Despite all the hypothesising, you can't argue with the evidence.

Slam

– There you go. What did I tell you?
– What did you tell me?
– Andy Murray. Winning Wimbledon.
– Yes. Of course. A wonderful achievement... What did you tell me about it?
– Didn't I say he would win?
– When was this?
– Oh, ages ago. Didn't I?
– I'm not sure...
– Straight sets. 6-4; 7-5; 6-4.
– Did you give that much detail? I think I would have remembered. It doesn't ring any bells.
– I don't understand how you can have forgotten.
– Did you write it down anywhere?
– Write what down?
– Your prediction. If you had written it down, and dated it, in the presence of witnesses, it would have helped.
– Would it?
– And placed it somewhere safe. A bank vault, say.
– You're not very trusting. Perhaps I just have a talent for these things.
– Predicting major sporting events?
– Yes. The only downside is I only manage to get it right once every 77 years.

Shade

It's turned warm again. Not usually surprising for July, other than the weather has been variable this summer, with grey wet autumnal days interrupting the sunny spells. But the last few days have erupted into sweltering heat again. The worry is that the weather has peaked too early: I don't go on holiday for another 6 weeks, by which time who knows what will have happened weather-wise. Clearly there is no point starting to pack yet. Not for another 5 weeks and 6 days anyway.

I am never very good at managing my summer wardrobe. It looks pretty much like my winter wardrobe. I know it is the same physical wardrobe, one of those built-in affairs which you could not easily change for something else without a lot of re-decorating, but I was meaning the clothes inside: what I wear doesn't vary all that much during the course of the year. I do generally wear less when it gets hot, but it needs to get very hot for me to do something as radical as wear shorts, for instance. And summer is generally long gone before I get around to finding my sun-glasses. I have been thinking of a hat recently: perhaps it would provide some beneficial shade in the heat of the day. And I could use it to keep the snow off in winter. But you have to traipse around shops to buy a hat; and I'm never really sure it's worth the effort.

Lost in the woods. It was days before I was found.

Nest

– Cat seems to have taken a shine to boxes all of a sudden.
– How do you mean?
– Cardboard boxes. She likes to sit inside them. When they fit, obviously. We're talking shoebox size here, not anything too small.
– Like egg boxes.
– Egg boxes are far too small. And would be uncomfortably shaped, even if they were bigger.
– You must buy a lot of shoes.
– No, hardly ever. I just happen to have received a few parcels recently in similar-sized boxes. When I leave them on the floor, Cat sits in them.
– Perhaps try not leaving them on the floor.
– I know. But I feel her life must be fairly empty and uneventful at the best of times, so I don't want to deprive her of one of her few innocent pleasures.
– But you then have a living-room floor littered with shoebox-sized boxes.
– Yes. I know.
– Isn't her cat bed the same sort of size? And soft and cosy to boot?
– She seems to have lost interest in her cat bed. I don't know why.
– Perhaps it's a subtle signal to you that it could do with a wash.
– Do you think so? I mean, not that you agree it needs washing, but that you think Cat would feel aggrieved enough to drop a hint in this way.
– You should never underestimate the way cats think. They may appear flighty, fickle, unable to concentrate fully on a matter of importance for any length of time, yet underneath it all they can be quite single-minded when they want to be.
– But what should I do about the cardboard boxes?
– Try reasoning with her. Slowly remove one box a day and see if she notices. I'm sure cats can't count. At least, not very well.

Median

– July already. The months slip by so quickly. Halfway through the year already.
– Such is life.
– Sorry?
– I was just trying to find something consoling to say.
– And?
– And that was it. A little word of consolation. In the face of the unswerving inevitability of time's onward march.
– It was not so consoling.
– Sorry. What did you expect?
– I don't know. Perhaps something more uplifting.
– Such as that you should cast aside futile thoughts of how you've wasted the best years of your life, and instead focus with renewed enthusiasm on making the most of each precious day? To live deep and suck out all the marrow of life?
– I guess so. That sounds a bit more positive.
– I wish I could help. I'm not so good at the motivational stuff.

Thorn

It is the middle of the hay fever season; at least in terms of grass pollen, or whatever it is I'm allergic to. It always seems to coincide with Wimbledon, raising the possibility that what I'm actually allergic to is televised lawn tennis. As I get older, I wonder whether the ailment will eventually disappear; for example, if my immune system should cotton on to the fact that it sees pretty much the same grassy antigens year after year and, really, they are nothing much to worry about: not a malevolent threat to my general well-being; and certainly less of an encumbrance than the runny nose and itchy eyes. You would have thought that millions of years of evolution would have managed by now to cure me of hay fever; and possibly even made me an inch or two taller; or given me some sort of super power such as X-ray vision, or the ability to reverse into parking spaces. But no. Perhaps I didn't help myself today by taking the bicycle out for a spin in the countryside: you must inhale a vast amount of pollen when cycling; a bit like a blue whale filter-feeding. Though they usually don't manage too well on the bicycle.

There are a couple of roses, a deep crimson in colour, in a vase on my kitchen window sill. (Actually, it's a glass tumbler, as I'm short of vases. But you would never know.) Sadly, not the precious gift of a mysterious stranger, but a few cuttings from a rambling rose in my back garden. It doesn't usually produce many flowers (I have the same problem with my strawberry plants) but this year it seems to have perked up a bit. And I never know whether to leave the blossoms on the plant, to brighten up a dull bit of garden, or to bring them indoors, and brighten up a dull bit of house.

Succulent

– The cat looks a little bedraggled.
– Yes. She insisted on staying out all day. It rained.
– You would have thought she would have taken shelter somewhere. Under a bush. Or a car. A stationary car, I mean.
– Or even in the conservatory, seeing the cat flap was open. But she doesn't seem to like sitting in the conservatory when no-one is around to let her in the house.
– Perhaps it's the rarefied atmosphere of the conservatory: the exotic plants filling the air with their pungent scent.
–  There are only a few cacti. I'm not even sure they are actually alive. Although one has little pink flowers at the moment. Unless someone has just stuck them on. I don't notice much of a pungent scent though.
– That's the thing with cacti. They don't really do much. Not the most lively of plants.
– But that's what endears them to me. I can't be doing with plants that are sprouting all over the place whenever you turn your back. That need watering constantly or else they shrivel up. At least cacti are sturdy, no-nonsense plants: they don't take offence if you ignore them for a few months. They are not, as far as I can tell, prone to greenfly or slug attack. They even have a protective layer of spikes to fend off annoying visitors who want to make off with a furtive cutting. What more could you ask for in a plant?
– They don't work so well in button-holes or bouquets. They don't conjure up much in the way of romance. Think of ladies' names: Violet, Rose, Lily, Iris are all quite charming; Euphorbia or Echinopsis don't have quite the same allure. A little off-putting, if anything.

Fret

One benefit of learning to play an instrument in your youth (and I am sure there are many, only I didn't want to turn this into something of a didactic essay, crammed with facts and statistics and line drawings to illustrate points not readily conveyed by words alone) is that, many years later, you can fondly revisit the pieces you struggled to learn as a child and find that you can actually play them now, and in fact they sound almost tasteful when executed with a reasonable degree of fluency, in contrast to the painfully halting performances of those early lessons. And you wonder why it only took 35 years to get to this level of proficiency.

I dug out the guitar this evening, and one of my earliest books of guitar music, which I must have bought as a young teenager. (Which may come as a surprise to people who know me, who suspect I somehow skipped my teenage years and went straight to middle age. But then when they see that the music consists of nineteenth century classical guitar classics, they may realise that their first impressions of me were probably correct.) And you remember what it was like to learn the pieces the first time, the ones you liked and the ones you hated; the occasional school concert; comments scribbled across the pages.

Midsummer

– Well. So that's that. The longest day, been and gone. The evenings will start to draw in.
– It was quite pleasant, though. Last Friday, wasn't it? Bright and sunny.
– It doesn't make me feel any happier. It is still a watershed.
– Yes. Although I'm never quite sure what a watershed is. I was driving down the motorway all evening.
– Not the most exciting way to spend the summer solstice.
– I don't know. You get to see a lot of sky, driving along. And I'm not really in to wandering around Stonehenge waving a sprig of mistletoe.
– Sorry?
– I'm assuming that's the kind of thing the ancient druids would have done to celebrate the solstice. But I don't know for certain. Maybe they didn't. Maybe they went for a drive down the motorway. I don't know.
– But don't you feel the significance of the day? This pivotal moment in the course of the year – the tipping-point between summer and winter, between light and darkness.
– A watershed.
– Exactly.
– Whatever that is.
– Well, yes. It is simply a watershed. As in – does it really matter?
– I suppose not. But I would recommend driving down the motorway. You see so much. Admittedly mainly other cars. But also some glimpses of countryside over the embankment.
– It sounds thrilling.
– It was. In a low-key sort of way.

Climate

– Not sure how much more I can take of this sweltering heat.
– It's not that hot. A pleasant summer's day. I'm sure it could get hotter if it tried.
– Perhaps I am more of a winter sort of person. Warm coats, hot drinks, log fires, that sort of thing. Rather than sweltering heat and barbecues and crippling hay fever.
– I don't remember you being so keen on winter when it was actually winter. I thought you were bemoaning the lack of sunshine. And anyway, this warm spell is unlikely to last. They say it will get colder by the weekend. And wetter.
– Cold and wet? Good grief. Whatever happened to summer?

Tiny rail tracks, or huge bicycle?

Fudge

June is moving along quite briskly. Too briskly, perhaps. It is nearly the longest day of the year, which is always something of a mixed blessing: it is good to see the arrival of summer, but you tend to feel a twinge of regret that we will soon be hurtling out of control towards winter, and months of perpetual darkness and numbing cold and Christmas shopping. And I haven't even been on my summer holiday yet.

The twinges of regret are particularly acute when the weather is a bit iffy: the long summer evenings are not so much fun when there is torrential rain bucketing down upon you. I managed to mow the lawn this weekend, in between showers. This was the first time for the new lawn. It must have come as something of a shock. It had been lying there quietly for the last few weeks, minding its own business, becoming accustomed to its new home, when suddenly it gets attacked by a strimmer, and is – literally – mown down in its prime. I know I would feel aggrieved by this act of vandalism, rather like when you were dragged screaming to the barbers as a small child. Fortunately, I can now go along to the barbers with barely a whimper.

Talking of acts of vandalism, I made some fudge this weekend, as something to do. It's not bad. Fudge-flavoured. A bit on the squishy side. I suppose one gets better at it the more one practices, although it may take a while for me to consume this first batch. Perhaps I could give it away to friends. Or passing strangers, for that matter.

Surveillance

I was watching this evening a programme about cats. With the aid of GPS tracking systems and tiny cameras fitted in their collars, the ramblings of a community of 50 cats around their home territory were revealed in intimate detail. I was thinking it might be informative to attach something of the sort to my own cat. It may help to make some sense of the mysterious secret life she leads. To be honest, most of her day is not at all mysterious or secret, as I can see her spending hour after hour asleep on the sofa, or on the bed, or on her cat chair (being an elevated fluffy circular platform barely large enough to accommodate her when she is curled up; and yet she never – well, rarely – falls off).

But there are times when she disappears through the cat flap – just this minute, for example – and lopes off to patrol the garden, and presumably the neighbours' gardens. You can see her sometimes sitting on top of the shed; watching. It can be quite unnerving, in a way. You feel under observation. Clearly, you may be disappointed to learn from news reports in recent days that all your emails and tweets and social mediating may be open to scrutiny by national intelligence agencies. But all of this shades into insignificance when you are faced with a cat staring at you all day.

Faery

I stumbled upon a ruined chapel in the woods, the other evening. It was rather like walking into the middle of La Belle Dame sans Merci: as much of an elfin grot as you're likely to come across these days. There was not much of it left: a few carved stones stacked sombrely one upon another, tracing out the shape of the chapel and the beginning of a spiral staircase; a few red tiles carpeting the floor. It must have been impressive when it was built, which it appears was not so very long ago – the late 19th century, rather than the Middle Ages. But you can still use your imagination, and conjure up a few pale warriors wandering among the yew trees, up to no good.

I knew the chapel was somewhere around there, but had not visited it for many years, so was not sure what I would find, or whether I would find it at all before dusk fell and I was compelled to leave hurriedly. It was no worse than I remembered. Presumably  it is to its advantage that it is hidden in a secluded corner of the woods, especially as it stands in the middle of the busy town of Wilmslow, which is not really the sort of place where you expect to find elfin grots. But it shows how even our modern featureless suburbs can still be home to interesting historical relics, which have the ability to transport us to to ages long gone.

And no birds sing.

Meadow

The lawn is still green, you'll be glad to hear. This is the lawn I created by the sweat of my brow and the blisters of my hands a couple of weeks ago, transforming the desolate landscape of my front garden into a lush and verdant meadow. If a cow was to be spotted grazing contentedly, it would not look out of place. It would find it difficult to move around much, to tell the truth: a couple of steps forwards and a couple backwards; maybe actually turn around, if it put its mind to it. And there probably wouldn't be much lawn left, after a few grazes. Probably not the ideal place to rear a cow, to be honest, what with the passing traffic, and the bins being collected on Wednesdays, and the lack of any cattle grids in the immediate vicinity. But it's a charming thought, nevertheless.

The lawn is frankly too small for any practical use. It is barbecue weather at the moment, with sunny skies overhead and burgers and briquettes filling the supermarket shelves. In truth, a barbecue would just about fit on the lawn, particularly one of those disposable ones, the ones the size of a biscuit tin, but filled with inflammable material, not biscuits; but if you wanted a couple of chairs to sit down on, and a few lawn games, even something relatively modest such as quoits, it would get a little cramped. And if you insisted on keeping the cow, it would be chaos.

Blog

– Talking of anniversaries –
– Again? Surely we've had enough –
– But this is a good one. Honestly.
– Well?
– It is a year – mark this carefully – to the day – to the very day – since this blog was first started.
– Is it?
– Yes.
– A year?
– To the day.
– ... Are you sure?
– Positive.
– Well, that's something, isn't it? Who'd have thought it.
– It just goes to show.
– Indeed... What, exactly?
– Well, it shows what can be achieved if one puts ones mind to something.
– Of course.
– In spite of all the odds. And all that.
– Yes. What odds, would you say?
– There are always odds with these things. It would be quite unusual if there weren't any odds.
– Right... But now what?
– How do you mean?
– Well, what happens next? With the blog.
– I guess I hadn't really thought about it. Perhaps it should carry on.
– As before?
– Unless you have any better ideas?
– No. Not really.
– Do you think we should celebrate?
– Celebrate? The anniversary?
– Yes.
– I suppose so. Right now?
– Or whenever convenient.
– Let me check my diary.

Coronation

– Talking of anniversaries –
– Were we? When exactly?
– Well, not today, but recently. I think. Or perhaps I dreamt it. Anyway, talking of anniversaries, it is 60 years today since the coronation of Queen Elizabeth.
– As opposed to the Diamond Jubilee we celebrated last year.
– Indeed. I always found this confusing as a child, wondering why it took so long to organise the coronation.
– And why did it?
– I've no idea. I never found out.
– Presumably there was a lot to arrange.
– You would have thought so. Invitations to send out, cathedrals to be booked, seating plans, carriages, catering...
– Even so...
– And doubtless they wanted to wait till there was a good chance of fine weather. Think of all the street parties.
– I don't think I've ever been to a street party.
– You don't get that many nowadays. But I suppose it's not very often you have the excuse of a coronation or jubilee.
– Perhaps we ought to find something else to celebrate. Any ideas? It ought to be something that comes around fairly often. Maybe not winning the World Cup, for example.

Summit

There seem to a lot of anniversaries going around at the moment. I'm sure it's not usually like this. I know Google manage to find something to commemorate with a doodle every other day, but then they do plump for somewhat obscure things like the 173rd anniversary of the invention of the potato peeler. But in the last day or two there have been some interesting ones, such as the 60th anniversary of the conquest of Everest, and the centenary of the first performance of The Rite of Spring.

I'm not sure these events are necessarily related. Presumably not, as it's unlikely that Edmund Hillary or even Tenzing Norgay were so inspired by Stravinsky's iconoclastic ballet score that they timed the final stage of their ascent to coincide. You would have thought the prevailing weather conditions would have been more relevant. But who knows. There may be exciting new opportunities to be developed here: a novel art form, a fusion of classical ballet and extreme mountaineering. Let me work on it.

Duck. Pond. Could have been made for each other.

Path

I have been reading The Path to Rome, Hilaire Belloc's timeless account of his epic walk from Toul in France to Rome. A journey of about 700 miles or so, depending how straight a line you keep, which he seemed to manage quite well, traversing whatever mountains and valleys and rivers got in the way. I have read it several times since my youth: one of those books you want to keep revisiting, a mixture of  evocative travel writing and rambling anecdote, punctuated by sketches of the sights he saw along the way.

His journey comes to mind at times when I am wandering over the more modest hills hereabouts, as I have been doing recently with the advent of milder spring weather. Strolling gently along the rock-strewn paths of the Gritstone Trail, for several hours at a time sometimes, makes me think of the weeks he spent tramping across the Alps, sleeping under the stars, bargaining for food at passing inns to make the most of his diminishing funds, walking through the night to avoid the sultry heat of Italy, communicating with the natives as best he could in his own hybrid French-Latin. It seems to belong to a forgotten age, a simple act of pilgrimage to the heart of Europe, a reaffirmation of his cultural roots.

You wonder what the journey would be like if you could re-trace his steps today – presumably a passport would prove handy, as would a detailed map of where to find suitable cash machines en route. And possibly a GPS device of some sort to be on the safe side. Not to mention one of those courier services whereby you can get your luggage delivered ahead of your arrival at the next overnight stop. But you easily forget that, making the journey at the start of the twentieth century, he was deliberately trying to avoid the trappings of modernity that he saw around him, but instead connect to a simpler life, at one with the landscape and faith of his youth.

Moss

The hard work is done. Now it is a matter of waiting. And seeing what happens.

Hopefully, nothing will happen quickly. I am going for the slow, steady response. The green shoots of recovery. Literally. I planted a new lawn today: the lawn at the front of my house. Which is hardly a lawn, to tell the truth, but rather a strip of grass adding a little bit of colour to an otherwise drab frontage. The colour is predominantly green, though over the years it has been less the vivid green of thick, luxuriant grass but more the somewhat mossy green of thick, spongy moss.

I am not sure where it came from. Perhaps the seeds (or spores? does moss have spores?) were wafted passively here on a passing breeze. Or perhaps they were sown surreptitiously in the middle of a moonless night by a malevolent neighbour. These things happen. Either way, the moss seems to have thrived in a worryingly enthusiastic way, to the extent that the indigenous grass blades have hardly had a look in. Having watched helplessly for several seasons now the relentless annexation of the lawn, and having tried unsuccessfully to rake out the offending intruder with a rake, I thought enough was enough: it was time to grasp the metaphorical nettle. So I dug up the lawn, returning it to its primordial uninhabited state, and painstakingly laid some virgin turf. I was assured, by several websites that professed to know about these things, that this would yield an instant new lawn, as opposed to the old fashioned approach of sowing seed, which was a bit more hit and miss, and susceptible to crows, or other winged creatures, stealing the seeds, and would anyway take months to produce anything worth getting the mower out for.

So, it is done: now it is a matter of waiting. And seeing whether it shrivels up into heartless dust, or whether it survives, flourishes, colonises a New World. One small step.

Ring

– Do you realise it was the anniversary of Richard Wagner's birth yesterday? Two hundred years.
– I suppose that's quite a significant birthday. A lot of candles on the cake. Were he to be having a cake.
– I'm afraid cake would not really be appropriate. I don't even know if he was particularly fond of it. One of those topics on which I suspect history is stubbornly silent.
– Why do you mention it? The anniversary; not the cake.
– I just happened to notice it. A significant figure in the development of nineteenth century music. Controversial in many ways – politically, especially. And probably not the jolliest of people. I suppose he typifies the dilemma of how do you separate the character of the artist from the art they produce?
– And how do you?
– I don't know. It's a dilemma. I know when I was a teenager I was quite fond of his overtures.
– I suppose there's not much singing in the overtures.
– Indeed. That was what probably attracted me to them. I've never managed to sit through the entirety of any of his music dramas.
– Life is short. Art is long. Never more so than in this case.

Euro

There has been a lot of discussion in the news recently on the subject of Europe. Especially regarding Britain's future role. Or lack of it. I say discussion, but  it is often more of a rant, which sadly seems to be the norm for much political debate nowadays. Amid the heated rhetoric directed at single currencies and immigration policies and North Atlantic fishing quotas (the latter having not really figured prominently in recent months but is doubtless due for a resurgence of interest, along with misshapen bananas), politicians and public alike seem too easily to forget the benefits of being part of the broader European community. This is highlighted by the Eurovision Song Contest, which graced our television screens and radio antennae a couple of days ago. It is a welcome annual event, although there are those who suggest it may be even more welcome were it to come round, like the Olympics or the World Cup, every four years. The extra wait would whet the appetite and make everyone far more appreciative of the delicacies presented to us in the name of music.

I, for one, actually quite like Eurovision. I suppose I have many fond memories of eagerly watching it as a small child, which my jaded grown-up cynicism cannot quite dispel. While it is fashionable, at least in this country, to deride the contest, with its mixture of glitzy pop songs and heart-rending power ballads, and occasional weirdly outlandish performers, not to mention even a few brave souls having the temerity to sing in their native tongue rather than English, it usefully serves to emphasise the cultural diversity within Europe. Despite being a relatively compact continent, with countless opportunities over the last few millennia for our myriad cultures to be integrated and homogenised, we Europeans are a strikingly disparate collection of nations. Eurovision helps to highlight these differences, and makes us realise that there are still people out there with tastes that are a world away from our own bland Anglo-American popular culture. And perhaps sometimes this glimpse of diversity makes us feel uncomfortable, as if we assumed that everybody must think the same way we do, and we are somehow surprised to find that they don't. And to top it all, as the final death knell to the supremacy of the old Empire, we are no longer able to make a decent attempt at winning Eurovision. It's almost like a Greek myth: despite our Herculean efforts, we are fated to end up perpetually at the bottom of the rankings.   

Watch

I've finally got a new wristwatch. The previous one started to disintegrate. Not the casing, which was, I think, stainless steel – presumably the best sort of steel for this type of application, especially as I get a creepy sensation in the presence of rust, and wouldn't really want to have a lump of corroding metal strapped to my arm all day. Not the casing, as I was saying, but the strap, which was a rather attractive fabric-leather hybrid and looked quite smart but had a tendency to fray too readily. Probably needed a hem of some sort, but I don't claim to be an expert in these things. To cut a long story short, after years of frustration and replacement straps (unfortunately you could only replace it with exactly the same sort of strap, which I count something of a design flaw) I gave up on it. This part of the story is not really that interesting. Neither is the next part, of spending weeks looking for a watch that I actually liked, deciding to order one online (a dangerous thing to do, I know, but it seems to be catching on), receiving a wrong (but closely related) model, sending it back, deciding I didn't really much like the one I was originally going to get anyway and so having to start all over again with looking for another one that I actually liked. And so on.

It only goes to prove a couple of irrefutable points. Firstly, that we were far better off in antiquity with physical shops that you could actually walk into. You may have had less choice, but it somehow didn't seem to matter. There may have only been three styles on display, but they all looked fine. Now we can browse thousands of models online, all of which look ridiculous. Secondly, that despite generally having little interest in what might be called fashion, or style, or even how I look, I did find myself to be unusually fussy in choosing a watch. I think it is something to do with the watch face. It somehow seems as personal as a human face, rather than being an anonymous consumer product like a washing machine or sandwich toaster or whatever. I am not sure what this means. Thirdly, I somehow managed to cope for several weeks without a watch on my wrist. Observing the position of the sun was an enormous help, at least in distinguishing night from day.

Envy

– It's still raining.
– Yes. It's been going on for a while now. I had thought about doing some planting in the garden this evening. But it looked a bit too wet to venture out. The plants will have to wait.
– It's not what you expect from May. Should be warm. And balmy.
– I know. We had some hail yesterday. Quite a lot: the ground was covered in a carpet of hailstones. The weather is certainly unseasonal.
– Even the cat seems confused by it all. Not sure whether to stay in or go out.
– To be honest, the cat is pretty indecisive at the best of times. I don't think she really appreciates the passing of the seasons. She probably doesn't remember much from one year to the next. In cat years, last summer must seem a long time ago.
– She remembers some things. Like where she lives. And when mealtimes are. And that the fridge contains stuff to eat.
– When you put it that way, she does seem fairly bright. Perhaps I don't push her enough.
– Where do you want to push her?
– I mean intellectually. To try and develop her full potential. Expand her horizons.
– It could be dangerous.
– How do you mean?
– She may start to feel frustrated at the emptiness of her life. And resent you for the opportunities you enjoy.
– To tell the truth, she does look a bit peeved sometimes. Usually at the contents of her food bowl. Especially when she sees what I'm having for dinner.
– There you go. It's starting already.

Windows

Having admitted recently that I know almost next to nothing about Association Football, I find myself writing about it for a second time in a matter of days. Apologies to anyone reading this who isn't interested in football. And also to anyone who knows anything about it. And to anyone who recorded the FA Cup Final yesterday and wanted to watch it in the near future without hearing the result first. I know I do this quite often myself. But not usually with the FA Cup Final. If only because it's difficult to avoid seeing the result splashed across the newspapers or trumpeted from the radio (though perhaps not literally: the BBC rarely announce the sports results with a fanfare. But it's an idea worthy of serious consideration). Especially when the final ends in such a dramatic fashion, with Wigan Athletic snatching a last-minute winner against the might of Manchester City.

Occasionally, there are moments in life when the underdog comes good. Perhaps not very often, but occasionally. It gives us all a bit of hope that, when faced with overwhelming opposition, sometimes the overwhelming opposition can have an off day, and we can do some fancy dribbling around them without their noticing, and, if we are very lucky, head the ball into the top corner of the net from a well-executed corner. Not very often. But occasionally.

 

Windows. Quite a lot of windows.

United

I don't write much about football. Despite it taking up a large proportion of my television-watching leisure hours, I suspect my knowledge of the beautiful game is a rather too patchy compared to dyed-in-the-wool fans: the sort who actually go to football matches, who manage to watch dozens of live games every day on satellite, who succeed in topping fantasy football leagues because they can predict exactly which players are about to hit top form or succumb to season-devastating sprains and strains. Compared to men and women of such genius (and I have known several as friends over the years), I must admit I am merely a novice, and a pretty witless one at that. And I also get put off by the comments I occasionally read on football websites: it seems that ardent football fans are sometimes not the most broad-minded or generous-hearted of people. They can be a little one-sided in their allegiances. Whereas I find myself empathising with both sides of the argument. Which doesn't always go down well.

I only mention this because it seems appropriate to say a few words in tribute to Sir Alex Ferguson, who announced his resignation yesterday after 26 years in charge of Manchester United. The greatest football manager this country has known, they say, and who am I (especially with my aforesaid pathetic knowledge of the game) to argue. I grew up in Old Trafford – the district, not the actual football ground. I am sure someone would have noticed had I been trying to live there for years, camping out on the pitch, or having a shower in the away team changing room. With nothing to eat but pies. It would never have worked.

Mayday

– The garden is looking – reasonable.
– Thank you. Reasonable in a positive sense?
– Yes. I think so.
– I spent all day yesterday getting it sorted.
– All day?
– Well, a good few hours. Two hours, at least.
– You've planted – many things.
– I thought a splash of colour would liven everything up.
– Yes. You would have thought so. You've created some distinctive colour combinations.
– I like to be bold.
– Indeed. Bold. In places, almost startling.
– I think you need to make an immediate impression on the viewer.
– You have certainly succeeded. This will live long in the memory. So this is how you spent your May Bank Holiday?
– Yes. It was nice to make the most of the sunshine and potter about the garden. I am not sure how long the fine weather will last.
– I hear rain is on the way.
– That'll be good: it would be a shame for all these flowers I planted to shrivel up before they get a foothold.
– Yes. That would be a great waste.

Chalk

There is a lot of snooker on the television at the moment. It always seems to be the same around this time of year, the May Bank Holiday. It can't just be a coincidence. The final itself takes two days: best of 35 frames, or however many it is. That's a lot of snooker. In my youth I used to watch more of it, whereas now it is difficult to find the time. Especially when the sun is shining and the garden could do with some emergency weeding and I fancy going for a stroll somewhere picturesque to make the most of the balmy spring evening and dinner needs to be cooked and eaten at some point. When there is so much to do, it seems a shame to spend two solid days indoors watching the final. They should work out how to get it over and done with just a little bit quicker. My first introduction to snooker was as a child watching Pot Black (probably in black and white), where they managed to condense each match into a single frame. A little too brisk, perhaps: maybe I would allow them the best out of three to allow some margin for error.

The other problem I have nowadays is not recognising any of the players. When I was younger, the tournaments were dominated by a host of colourful characters: today I hardly know anyone. And the players used to be – not to put too fine a point on it – rather more mature than they are now. In a world where most sports are dominated by precocious teenagers, there was something reassuring in watching middle-aged men compete at the top of their profession. As a child, it gave me hope that, in forty years' time or so, I could be making my fortune on the green baize. As it turned out, I never got round to playing much snooker at all, presumably believing there was no particular harm in postponing it for a decade or so. If I were to have a big enough house, I would be tempted to get a snooker table; though I suppose I should acknowledge that the opportunity for international fame has slipped me by.

Parrot

– The weather has turned up. Nice bit of spring sunshine. Pleasantly warm. In places.
– They say it isn't going to last.
– But what do they know?
– I would hope that, as meteorologists, they know something about the weather.
– Perhaps. I'm not so sure. Anyway, I stopped by the park on the way home. Thought I would make the most of the pleasant evening sunshine.
– While it lasts.
– Whatever. As I was saying, I went for a stroll through the park. Flowers; trees; they were all there.
– I'm glad to hear it.
– But then I saw a strange thing. Up in the trees. Flying around. It was a magpie. But completely green.
– I don't think they come in green. Are you sure it was a magpie?
– Well, it was magpie-sized, more or less. And roughly magpie-shaped. Though the wings were not quite right. And the tail a bit on the long side. And the beak, a little – parrot-shaped.
– Perhaps it was a parakeet.
– This was just down the road, you know. You don't tend to get that many exotic jungle creatures roaming wild in the local woodland.
– But you do get parakeets. They are becoming more common over here. Who knows where they have come from? But they seem to thrive in our mild climate.
– You seem very calm about this. Our green and pleasant land being invaded by wild animals. You used to run the risk of being snapped at by an irate goose, but now it seems you can expect to be devoured by lions and tigers and bears.
– I'm not sure there are many lions and tigers and bears running loose here. I guess there's the odd panther sighting, mind you.

Dull

– Well, that's April coming to an end already. I had hardly noticed it was here, to tell the truth. You know, it sometimes feels as if the months are slipping by more quickly than they used to.
– I'm sure they're not. What you're describing is probably just a minor discrepancy in your sense of the passing of time. Probably due to nothing more than your advancing age.
– Thank you. That's a relief. Or perhaps it was because I have been in a particularly cheerful and optimistic mood, and the days have flown by in a joyous blur.
– Have you been particularly cheerful?
– No. Not really. But it sounded better than that I was getting old.
– I didn't say you were getting old.
– It sounded like it to me.
– Maybe I did, then. I can't remember, to be honest.
– Perhaps old age is creeping up on all of us.
– Hardly. I am sure I have my best years ahead of me.
– You mean life will get better than it's been up to this point?
– It would be nice to think so.
– Whereas all I have to look forward to are the days speeding past at an ever-increasing rate?
– I suppose life isn't always fair.
– What if I could slow down the passage of time? I mean, just make it seem slower. To get the most out of each day.
– You could try doing something tedious: that's usually an effective way of dragging out the day. Read a dull book. Try filing the pile of old letters and bills collecting next to the printer. Clean out the interior of the car.
– It seems to be working. I'm feeling the day stretching out interminably as you speak.
– As long as you feel better as a result.
– I'm not so sure I do.

Fortune

I am feeling fragile today: admittedly, not so uncommon a problem for me nowadays, but probably brought on by recent emotional and physical stress, coupled with lack of sleep and a somewhat irregular and insubstantial diet over the last few days. As if to underline the depths of my pitiful condition, I was thinking of washing the car this afternoon. But then decided it would keep another week without risk of too much public outrage, and had a cup of tea instead.

All this has clearly been brought about by taking part in a concert with the choir yesterday evening. Although it is generally a rewarding and enjoyable experience, it is inevitably demanding to stand before an eager audience of countless dozens of people and perform a challenging piece: in this case, the sometimes delicate and exquisite but mainly loud and boisterous Carmina Burana. It was not a work I knew at all, apart from one or two particularly famous sections, but it does grow on you over time; although having rehearsed it for the last four months, I was on the verge of tipping over the edge and starting to get sick of it, particularly the bits I could never get right. I am sure it will still be buzzing around my head for weeks to come. Once you overdose on these things, it takes a while to wean yourself off.

The central theme of the work is the mediaeval image of the wheel of fortune. It does not quite resonate, perhaps, with modern audiences, who, if they are like me, tend to be reminded of a popular television game show, involving a wheel. And presumably a fortune, if you got the answers right. In mediaeval times they apparently took all this far more seriously, with the wheel, whisked by the capricious goddess herself, raising hapless mortals to the dizzy heights of success before plunging them down into the depths of failure. I think there is a lesson there for us all. And it might have made for a more entertaining game show.

Chivalry

– So did you do anything to celebrate today?
– Celebrate? Today? Did I do anything to celebrate today?
– Yes. St George's Day. The day on which you should take pride in your – Englishness.
– Of course. I've never really got into the swing of St George's Day. Not sure what to make of it, to tell the truth.
– Well, I suppose you can try and do something typically English. Perhaps recite a few words of Wordsworth. Earth has not anything to show more fair. That sort of thing.
– And there was one about daffodils, I remember.
– Indeed. Although I suppose roses would be more appropriate, as our national flower. Or you could celebrate by taking a relaxing stroll through our green and pleasant land. Or even partake of one of our national dishes.
– Such as?
– I'm rather partial to our many and varied steamed puddings. With custard. Crème anglaise, as the French would say. Were we to ask them.
– You see, I'm never sure where St George comes into it.
– Into custard?
– No, into the day itself. He doesn't seem very – local.
– True. But that's of minor importance. I think he personifies something very close to the English spirit.
– He killed a dragon.
– Yes. You can imagine that's the sort of thing that would appeal to the average chivalrous Englishman faced with a distressed damsel.
– Not much fun for the dragon, though.
– I suspect any dragon with his wits about him would come to expect it as an occupational hazard: passing knights taking a pot shot at him. After all, if he goes about distressing damsels, he has only himself to blame.

Roses.

Egg

– There seems to be a lot of chocolate around the house.
– Yes. Easter, you know. It's traditional. At this time of year.
–  Easter was weeks ago.
– Well, yes. I try my best, but it takes a while to get through it all. But I'll get there. Eventually.
– If you should need a hand –
– A hand?
– To help out with all the chocolate. You don't want it cluttering the house for ever.
– I'm sure it won't be for ever.
– It's already been three weeks or so. And you don't seem to have made much of a dent in it.
– I don't know. There was a lot more of it to start with. You should have seen it. I think I've actually done quite well. Sometimes there's a limit to how much chocolate you can face in one day.
– Precisely. That's why I thought it might be helpful if I were to lighten the load. It would make it seem you were on the home stretch. Practically on the finishing line.
– True. But then it would only make your house look untidy.
– I could find space. Tidy some junk away into the loft, that sort of thing.
– That's very considerate of you.
– What are friends for?

Legacy

It has been a week of mixed emotions, from the senseless horror of the Boston bombings on Monday to today's sombre and moving funeral ceremony for Baroness Thatcher. In different ways, moments of history in the making. Random acts of terrorism strike at all of us, making us fearful of the society we have created. On a more personal level, funerals likewise stir up strong emotions, challenging us to reflect on our own achievements and failings as well as those of the departed.

It is intriguing how politicians argue about the legacy of the Thatcher years, some claiming we are all Thatcherites now, in as much as the world has changed so radically since the 1980s that no future government would want to turn back the clock. It is as if we have collectively changed the way we think: to view society through the eyes of the previous generation may be as difficult as getting into the minds of  people of previous centuries. Acts of terrorism have the same effect: in an instant we begin to look at the world in a different light: things can no longer be taken for granted.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Neighbours

– At least it seems to be getting a bit warmer. Almost spring-like now. Even if today was blustery and wet in parts.
– Yes...
– A few more blossoms bravely peeping over the flowerbeds, a few more birds cheerfully greeting the dawn; that sort of thing.
– Mmm...
– Sorry – you seem somewhat preoccupied?
– Do I? Possibly a little tired, that's all.
– Have you had a busy day?
– Not really. Not at all, to tell the truth. I was half thinking this afternoon of getting the bicycle out, but then I thought it was a little too windy. Never sure what might happen on a bike, in the wind.
– Perhaps your momentum would have carried you along unscathed by the buffeting.
– Perhaps. But it was a risk I wasn't prepared to take. Though I did manage to wash the car.
– Despite the buffeting.
– Despite the buffeting. Although at times it was touch and go. And then, just as the weather started to improve, the football came on.
– That was a pity. Might have been nice to have gone for a stroll in the brief sunny spell we had.
– Yes. But what can you do? They don't pause the football coverage just to let people go out for a stroll.
– True... Although I thought you had one of those recording devices that allow you to pause live television. So actually you could have paused the football and gone out for a stroll.
– But if you pause it, it's no longer live.
– Of course.
– And before you manage to get home, some friend or neighbour will stop you in the street and tell you the result.
– Do you have that many friends?
– I have neighbours. Several.
– Perhaps if you had tried to avoid talking to them. Tried creeping silently past their house so that they didn't notice you. Or if they did, you could have made a sudden dash for your front door. It's maybe not very sociable, but certainly effective.

Storage

I was looking at furniture today. In a showroom: not in my living room; or anyone else's living room. Although your friends would doubtless feel complimented by your displaying a polite level of interest in their new sofa, there comes a point when they might be discomforted by your scrutinising it in too much detail: sizing it up with your tape measure, say, or photographing it from multiple angles on your smart phone. But in a furniture store this sort of thing is allowed, and even encouraged. The staff offer to make you warm beverages, and will happily sit and chat with you about their furniture as if they had all the time in the world.

I didn't buy anything, but I may go back one day soon. If I can make up my mind. It takes me a while to decide what it is I want, and whether it will look good in the confined space of my living room. When I first moved into the house, I managed to buy essential items, such as a bed, and a fridge, and a piano, quite promptly. Though not all these are in my living room: you couldn't really get a bed and a fridge and a piano in it, not unless you were to put the sofa and television in the kitchen. But less essential items get forgotten, and years go by without me getting around to doing something about them. Today I was looking for a bookcase, a replacement for the inadequate one I have at the moment. I say inadequate; but in fact it does quite a respectable job of holding books: it hasn't dropped one yet. Only, my collection of books is starting to swamp it, and is spilling over to the floor and filling up odd corners. I could try putting up shelves instead, only I'm not very good at fixing heavy objects to walls: it is a recipe for disaster.

Glass

It seems a long time ago – a different lifetime, almost – since the 1980s: going to university; starting my first job; marriage. Grown-up at last, or about as grown-up as I ever managed. The passing of Lady Thatcher a couple of days ago brings it all back to mind: her premiership coincided with those formative years. The media coverage of her life has highlighted the highs and lows of those times: Britain dragged into a modern market economy at the expense of traditional industries; the privatisation of utility companies and selling off of council houses; poll tax riots, miners' strikes, disputes over the European Union, war in the South Atlantic. It is difficult to remember how confrontational politics was then (when we tend to think it is pretty confrontational now), although we are soon reminded by the vehemence of recent comments on Twitter and the Web.

How do you put all this into perspective? There comes a point when you can recognise the impact of key historical figures and events without necessarily coming to a conclusion whether they are good or bad. And perhaps it is naive to think of any significant events as being entirely good or bad: maybe things are inherently more mixed than that, are shades of grey; and what we actually get to know of them, of their motivations and consequences, are even greyer. Yet there are people who will treat half-formed opinions seen through a glass darkly as being absolute truths, justification enough for whatever course of action they want to pursue. Or maybe it's just a problem I have: everything to me looks grey: everything is glimpsed through that dark glass or unpolished mirror: now we know in part.

I have a friend who would frequently get worked up over the ancient Romans. The Greeks he was very fond of, the fount of all learning and all that. But the Romans were, despite their straight roads and under-floor heating, basically barbarians. I could not feel so passionately about them: the Romans simply were, and I never felt they could be dismissed out of hand, or, for that matter, put on a pedestal.