I rather like the winter solstice. Although I will not admit to suffering from a Seasonally Affected Disorder, my mood does seem to lift as the 21st December is approached and I find the day needs to be spent in a celebratory mood. It is our wedding anniversary, so the celebration is naturally forthcoming and doubly great. But that aside, it still feels a great day.
The summer solstice passes me by, but the knowledge, in winter, when the day passes on which the sun is the lowest in the sky and on which it is the furthest away from west when it will set and that, from the solstice, we are gaining more sight of the sun (clouds permitting) is fine for me.
Of course, the Church knew what they were doing to tag their Christmas to a time already popular with pagan celebration. Just as the Romans were happy to embrace the culture they invaded, the whole winter festival stuff is a huge public relations exercise and, over the years, the various factions have felt at the heart or squeezed out of centre stage.
I was amused to watch, on early morning TV, a friendly, Dara O'Brien look-a-like bishop brought in to give balance after a Richard Dawkins based celebration to which God and Jesus were not invited. This celebration of Christmas was claimed to be for those of agnostic belief.
At one point, the interviewer asked that the celebration had hi -jacked Christmas. The bishop emphasised that the celebratory clue was in the word Christmas, forgetting completely the church's hi-jacking of those wonderful, Bacchanalian festivals of fire, light with folk being delighted (alcohol may have been involved) at the fact we could start another year.
And so, the year turns. There is a song from a musical written by John Kelly and comes along in making Scrooge realise the error of his grasping days. It is called The Rolling of the Year. I rather like its sentiment.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
I thought I'd wait until Christmas...
'Yep, it's that time of year again – and the Christmas adverts are already on the telly," remarks a man at the start of this year's B&Q Christmas advert.
I am grateful to Charlie Brooker, of the Guardian, for sampling the above from the incoming tide of TV adverts that are now assuaging the watchers of all those prime time, audience voting, tabloid headlining programmes that fill the schedules. They are all there in their places, piling up like presents under a tree. I blinked and then "Celebrity.." sneaks in. At least, this programme has the minimal dignity to call itself by its truncated and gossipy title. I cannot see the BBC billing "Strictly" to follow suit. But I am now Brookering. Charlie Brooker does all the ranting I could want to and would do. That is not the purpose of why I write these etherteric words.
I am to have a traditional Christmas. I have decided. I shall not be swayed from the path that I have followed for a few years now. And, I believe, will millions of others. I used to have the Asda Christmas. Cheap and cheerful with a good basic covering of all the necessaries and a few treats as well. I cannot imagine a Tesco Christmas. All a little in deference to the great traditions set by the masters of the festive time. Can one compare with M&S? "Deck the hall with Marks and Spencer.." as the traditional rhyme goes. A Sainsbury Christmas is good, especially as it made a contribution to the flora of the season and another verse to the "Holly and the Ivy".... "The Cranberry bears a berry, to brighten any pie..."
As friend said, Christmas does not begin until the Coca Cola TV advert is shown. And I look forward to toasting the Queen with a cold glass of sugary fizz. Part of the tradition, I'm afraid.
I do try to avoid all manner of mass advertising, mass journalism and mass marketing. I like to think I buy what I like and when. I realise to avoid the marketing dreams of companies is not really achievable. Once you part with money, you are in the consumer game and I do part with money occasionally.
I like to think that millions have a similar idea. That millions do what they have always done and not drift from what they feel is right for them is what I hope. If they buy their turkey from Tesco, their stuffing from Sainsbury, their mince pies from Morrisons and all the rest from Aldi, then good for them. Go with the flow of your choice. And let's laugh at the hopefully, failing competition of the big Christmas dream makers.
Have a good Christmas and laugh at their expense.
I am grateful to Charlie Brooker, of the Guardian, for sampling the above from the incoming tide of TV adverts that are now assuaging the watchers of all those prime time, audience voting, tabloid headlining programmes that fill the schedules. They are all there in their places, piling up like presents under a tree. I blinked and then "Celebrity.." sneaks in. At least, this programme has the minimal dignity to call itself by its truncated and gossipy title. I cannot see the BBC billing "Strictly" to follow suit. But I am now Brookering. Charlie Brooker does all the ranting I could want to and would do. That is not the purpose of why I write these etherteric words.
I am to have a traditional Christmas. I have decided. I shall not be swayed from the path that I have followed for a few years now. And, I believe, will millions of others. I used to have the Asda Christmas. Cheap and cheerful with a good basic covering of all the necessaries and a few treats as well. I cannot imagine a Tesco Christmas. All a little in deference to the great traditions set by the masters of the festive time. Can one compare with M&S? "Deck the hall with Marks and Spencer.." as the traditional rhyme goes. A Sainsbury Christmas is good, especially as it made a contribution to the flora of the season and another verse to the "Holly and the Ivy".... "The Cranberry bears a berry, to brighten any pie..."
As friend said, Christmas does not begin until the Coca Cola TV advert is shown. And I look forward to toasting the Queen with a cold glass of sugary fizz. Part of the tradition, I'm afraid.
I do try to avoid all manner of mass advertising, mass journalism and mass marketing. I like to think I buy what I like and when. I realise to avoid the marketing dreams of companies is not really achievable. Once you part with money, you are in the consumer game and I do part with money occasionally.
I like to think that millions have a similar idea. That millions do what they have always done and not drift from what they feel is right for them is what I hope. If they buy their turkey from Tesco, their stuffing from Sainsbury, their mince pies from Morrisons and all the rest from Aldi, then good for them. Go with the flow of your choice. And let's laugh at the hopefully, failing competition of the big Christmas dream makers.
Have a good Christmas and laugh at their expense.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Spaghetti, are you sure?
The other day, my father, who is almost 86 years of age, asked me an out of the blue question. His mind is still alert and can express opinions, remember if he's seen an episode of Poirot - his favourite TV detective , and laugh at a joke, so the question had to be taken seriously. It was not the rambling of a failing brain.
The question was not easy to answer. In fact, I couldn't answer it clearly or precisely. It wasn't whether God exists, or is there an afterlife but simply what does spaghetti taste like. He'd seen it being eaten by people on TV and was quite curious about the stuff. He had gathered it was soft, as he reassured me that spaghetti was the stuff seen hanging from a fork prior to being twirled around and placed in to the mouth.
He'd not even had the tinned variety and this was not the spaghetti he was referring to. It was the real thing which had been boiled until edible. I explained some of the ways it was eaten - mixed with other ingredients or a meat or cheese sauce. I described my favourite and, perhaps, the simplest method of preparing it- ie spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. Boil the spaghetti until soft. Take good olive oil, heat gently and add four or five crushed cloves of garlic. Fry gently and do not burn the garlic, and then mix with the drained, softened spaghetti. Place on a warmed bowl and add shavings of good parmesan and there you have it. Its just good, tasty, fast food. I think he would like to try spaghetti.
What amuses me about the enquiry is that my dad ate a most limited diet built around fried eggs and bacon, pork pies and tomatoes. He ate fish, fried of course. and loved a traditional Sunday roast. Except traditional meant that the vegetables, which at one time he grew himself, had to be boiled to a virtual puree, and to whatever he was eating was added salt and ground white pepper and, to add a dash of flavour to carrots, some Worcester sauce.
His unique contribution to the world's dishes was sticks of celery eaten with Hula Hoops placed along the length of the stalk. He couldn't get over the texture and the right saltiness this creation gave him.
His single culinary art developed a delightful way of frying an egg, which involved my dad stooping at the hob with the frying pan handle lodged around his belt buckle and him bending at the knee so that the lard, never, ever oil, would form a deep pool at the edge of the pan. Into this, he would break an egg, knowing instinctively the right level of sizzle as the egg sunk into the deep fat. This gymnastic approach ensured that the egg white remained compact and did not spread into a layer across the pan and also there was sufficient oil to baste the yolk, the final flourish, before lifting it out and onto a plate. He never cooked more than one egg at a time, so breakfast took time to cook, after he had ascertained how many eggs each person needed.
And now spaghetti. What shall I do? Well, the answer is easy. I must make some for him. I wonder if fried egg and bacon spaghetti can be done. Carbonara without the cream. I'll have a go. All I need is a hot food carrier..........
The question was not easy to answer. In fact, I couldn't answer it clearly or precisely. It wasn't whether God exists, or is there an afterlife but simply what does spaghetti taste like. He'd seen it being eaten by people on TV and was quite curious about the stuff. He had gathered it was soft, as he reassured me that spaghetti was the stuff seen hanging from a fork prior to being twirled around and placed in to the mouth.
He'd not even had the tinned variety and this was not the spaghetti he was referring to. It was the real thing which had been boiled until edible. I explained some of the ways it was eaten - mixed with other ingredients or a meat or cheese sauce. I described my favourite and, perhaps, the simplest method of preparing it- ie spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. Boil the spaghetti until soft. Take good olive oil, heat gently and add four or five crushed cloves of garlic. Fry gently and do not burn the garlic, and then mix with the drained, softened spaghetti. Place on a warmed bowl and add shavings of good parmesan and there you have it. Its just good, tasty, fast food. I think he would like to try spaghetti.
What amuses me about the enquiry is that my dad ate a most limited diet built around fried eggs and bacon, pork pies and tomatoes. He ate fish, fried of course. and loved a traditional Sunday roast. Except traditional meant that the vegetables, which at one time he grew himself, had to be boiled to a virtual puree, and to whatever he was eating was added salt and ground white pepper and, to add a dash of flavour to carrots, some Worcester sauce.
His unique contribution to the world's dishes was sticks of celery eaten with Hula Hoops placed along the length of the stalk. He couldn't get over the texture and the right saltiness this creation gave him.
His single culinary art developed a delightful way of frying an egg, which involved my dad stooping at the hob with the frying pan handle lodged around his belt buckle and him bending at the knee so that the lard, never, ever oil, would form a deep pool at the edge of the pan. Into this, he would break an egg, knowing instinctively the right level of sizzle as the egg sunk into the deep fat. This gymnastic approach ensured that the egg white remained compact and did not spread into a layer across the pan and also there was sufficient oil to baste the yolk, the final flourish, before lifting it out and onto a plate. He never cooked more than one egg at a time, so breakfast took time to cook, after he had ascertained how many eggs each person needed.
And now spaghetti. What shall I do? Well, the answer is easy. I must make some for him. I wonder if fried egg and bacon spaghetti can be done. Carbonara without the cream. I'll have a go. All I need is a hot food carrier..........
Monday, 7 September 2009
Fringe shows 2009
A quick run through the shows of 2009 which we saw. The only order they appear in are the order in which we saw them. A great full paced opener and a dramatic clever ender with some delightful whimsical performances in between.
Morecambe.
A strong, one man show which told the life of Eric Morecambe up to and including his death. A show that was joyous and which captured the life of a man who took seriously the art of making people around him laugh. Its always good to start the Fringe visit with a lift and this was it.
Hugh Hughes.....360
I am a fan of Shon Dale-Jones who as Hugh Hughes uses whimsy and and charm to tell tales of imagination and of an apparent biographical nature. His story telling is very endearing and in this, his latest, has moved almost towards a stand up routine.
Mickey Flanagan
The east end boy moves to middle class lifestyle, but you can take the boy out of the East End but.... I like his quiet honesty and his warm tone. His routine about dealing with neighbours - meeting them, avoiding them and peeping at them was delightful.
Stefan Golaszeski is s widower
A strong one man play set in the future about a man looking back on his life and death of his wife. It sounds grim, but as the teller of the tail, he was not a truly likable man, so his pain felt almost like a comep-uppance to him. The play was sprinkled with clever references to how life changes and yet remains the same. Men still followed football, but its Yeovil Town who in 50 years time are the new Manchester United.
Marcus Brigstocke - God Collar
I like this man and after his show, I still do. He hits his targets hard and is not afraid to cause a gasp in and a bit of shock to his audience. Religion is a ripe area and no one area was safe, not even the atheists, so he was fair.
The Origin of Species...
The longest title in the programme. This is not the best rule of thumb by which to plan a programme, but this was delightful. Clever comedy songs and a great one man performance as Darwin and his family, friends and sponsors were brought to life in the shape of he performer.
The Doubtful Guest
Based on a story by Edward Gorey, this was absolute magic and has lived with me for over week now. Shon Dale-Jones wrote and directed it. It had the man's touch alright.
The actors played a family whose lives had been overturned by a strange poltergeist like visitor. The family had decided to present their experiences in a theatre and so they did as best the family could - awkwardly, embarrassingly and using theatrical devices that they thought were appropriate. And that what was so funny. Oh and the music was hauntingly fitting.
Sarah Millican
Bright and sharp, Sarah swings from a weak vulnerable woman to a side that shocks and pulls no punches. She builds her act cleverly, targetting men and women equally. Extremely funny to extremely painful, there were moments where I felt uncomfortable - but that is when Ms Millican might have said in her beautiful Geordie lilt, "Well, you deal with it, I have no problem."
Barbarshoper II
Fast paced musical fun that told the story of a Spanish bullfighter who inherits a barbers in an East Anglian coastal town but not without the attention of the resident hairdresser whose trichological empire building are now thwarted. Sheer energy and great amusement and all in four part harmony.
Sociable Plover
Yes, it is a bird and this attention holding short drama was a great finale before the train home.
A plot that settled in to one groove before the play's built-up stereotypes were dramatically overturned in a most surprising manner.
Those were the shows and there will be more, I hope, next year.
Morecambe.
A strong, one man show which told the life of Eric Morecambe up to and including his death. A show that was joyous and which captured the life of a man who took seriously the art of making people around him laugh. Its always good to start the Fringe visit with a lift and this was it.
Hugh Hughes.....360
I am a fan of Shon Dale-Jones who as Hugh Hughes uses whimsy and and charm to tell tales of imagination and of an apparent biographical nature. His story telling is very endearing and in this, his latest, has moved almost towards a stand up routine.
Mickey Flanagan
The east end boy moves to middle class lifestyle, but you can take the boy out of the East End but.... I like his quiet honesty and his warm tone. His routine about dealing with neighbours - meeting them, avoiding them and peeping at them was delightful.
Stefan Golaszeski is s widower
A strong one man play set in the future about a man looking back on his life and death of his wife. It sounds grim, but as the teller of the tail, he was not a truly likable man, so his pain felt almost like a comep-uppance to him. The play was sprinkled with clever references to how life changes and yet remains the same. Men still followed football, but its Yeovil Town who in 50 years time are the new Manchester United.
Marcus Brigstocke - God Collar
I like this man and after his show, I still do. He hits his targets hard and is not afraid to cause a gasp in and a bit of shock to his audience. Religion is a ripe area and no one area was safe, not even the atheists, so he was fair.
The Origin of Species...
The longest title in the programme. This is not the best rule of thumb by which to plan a programme, but this was delightful. Clever comedy songs and a great one man performance as Darwin and his family, friends and sponsors were brought to life in the shape of he performer.
The Doubtful Guest
Based on a story by Edward Gorey, this was absolute magic and has lived with me for over week now. Shon Dale-Jones wrote and directed it. It had the man's touch alright.
The actors played a family whose lives had been overturned by a strange poltergeist like visitor. The family had decided to present their experiences in a theatre and so they did as best the family could - awkwardly, embarrassingly and using theatrical devices that they thought were appropriate. And that what was so funny. Oh and the music was hauntingly fitting.
Sarah Millican
Bright and sharp, Sarah swings from a weak vulnerable woman to a side that shocks and pulls no punches. She builds her act cleverly, targetting men and women equally. Extremely funny to extremely painful, there were moments where I felt uncomfortable - but that is when Ms Millican might have said in her beautiful Geordie lilt, "Well, you deal with it, I have no problem."
Barbarshoper II
Fast paced musical fun that told the story of a Spanish bullfighter who inherits a barbers in an East Anglian coastal town but not without the attention of the resident hairdresser whose trichological empire building are now thwarted. Sheer energy and great amusement and all in four part harmony.
Sociable Plover
Yes, it is a bird and this attention holding short drama was a great finale before the train home.
A plot that settled in to one groove before the play's built-up stereotypes were dramatically overturned in a most surprising manner.
Those were the shows and there will be more, I hope, next year.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Edinburgh once more
Just returned from our fourth jaunt to the Fringe festival in Edinburgh. This time not a full week. We spent a few days from Thursday until Sunday.
The Fringe is a learning curve unless you know exactly what you are looking for. Our first jaunt merely taught us the geography of the venues, many of which are close to each other as in the Pleasance's dozens of performance areas and the Assembly but, which, to the untrained, can be quite spread out.
The word performance area is chosen carefully, because as some can be called theatres, with stage, raked seating and with room for hundreds, many are quite tiny, little larger than a Maersk container which are seen on the trailers of lorries up nd down the motorways.
Having mastered the geography allows us some planning which minimises the distance each day to get around. There is no requirement to see lots of shows, but it seems right to pack some in in the time you are there. This year we pre-booked nine shows which included some stand up, some drama and a small amount of music. Whilst there, we added two more, one on the recommendation of a friend who was with us and without whom the whole Fringe experience might never have entered our lives and without whose planning would add stress of finding accommodation and of getting there.
We still make mistakes. With just over 2000 shows being presented at 369 venues, picking winners is a difficult task. We went on Thursday and came back on Sunday and had booked to see just ten shows, which, as can be seen, is a small ripple in a big pond.
But of the shows, we were disappointed really only once. And its a mistake we have made before.
Comedians, who seem quick and entertaining when on television, all too often descend, and, in my, it's a descent, into crude and frankly tedious areas. I avoid people when they sound off on basic comments and easy targets and subjects, usually in pubs. And thus it was with one act we saw.
The rest however were, in the main, theatrical experiences. A good narrative, a piece of whimsy or musical nonsense. Shows which would not be found anywhere else but at the Fringe.
So, all in all, a good few days, supported by eating at some splendid and affordable places, notably the Steak and Mussel bar in the Grassmarket.
Have I learnt anything for next time? Yes. Having mastered the geography, I need to plan the timings better. Group shows for each day closer together in time - an afternoon one day and evening together - and look for the producers who pleased us before.
I am rubbing my hands already.
The Fringe is a learning curve unless you know exactly what you are looking for. Our first jaunt merely taught us the geography of the venues, many of which are close to each other as in the Pleasance's dozens of performance areas and the Assembly but, which, to the untrained, can be quite spread out.
The word performance area is chosen carefully, because as some can be called theatres, with stage, raked seating and with room for hundreds, many are quite tiny, little larger than a Maersk container which are seen on the trailers of lorries up nd down the motorways.
Having mastered the geography allows us some planning which minimises the distance each day to get around. There is no requirement to see lots of shows, but it seems right to pack some in in the time you are there. This year we pre-booked nine shows which included some stand up, some drama and a small amount of music. Whilst there, we added two more, one on the recommendation of a friend who was with us and without whom the whole Fringe experience might never have entered our lives and without whose planning would add stress of finding accommodation and of getting there.
We still make mistakes. With just over 2000 shows being presented at 369 venues, picking winners is a difficult task. We went on Thursday and came back on Sunday and had booked to see just ten shows, which, as can be seen, is a small ripple in a big pond.
But of the shows, we were disappointed really only once. And its a mistake we have made before.
Comedians, who seem quick and entertaining when on television, all too often descend, and, in my, it's a descent, into crude and frankly tedious areas. I avoid people when they sound off on basic comments and easy targets and subjects, usually in pubs. And thus it was with one act we saw.
The rest however were, in the main, theatrical experiences. A good narrative, a piece of whimsy or musical nonsense. Shows which would not be found anywhere else but at the Fringe.
So, all in all, a good few days, supported by eating at some splendid and affordable places, notably the Steak and Mussel bar in the Grassmarket.
Have I learnt anything for next time? Yes. Having mastered the geography, I need to plan the timings better. Group shows for each day closer together in time - an afternoon one day and evening together - and look for the producers who pleased us before.
I am rubbing my hands already.
Monday, 8 June 2009
A mild electronic shock
Don't you just love the electronic world we live in? I do not want to get in too deeply. It can get very complicated, very quickly. I do want and wish to embrace as much as my ageing and limited intelligence will allow, dependent upon cost and personal need, naturally
Strong parameters I know, but nonetheless the scope of satellite navigation, PCs for music and photography, mobile phones and digital scanners and cameras leave me breathless at their ease and flexibility.
I give a simple and recent example of their wonder. A group of us were taking a walk in the countryside around Oundle in Northamptonshire - a county perhaps overlooked and described by a woman in the Tourist Information as the Cotswolds without being twee. We were mapless and the sky was cloudless, but after about thirty to forty minutes, we collectively decided that there should be a turning soon as we had been trekking for sometime away from the car park without any evidence about how to get back without tediously retracing our steps.
Had this been autumn the hedges would be thick with blackberries, but the one we were pleased to see on this beautiful summer evening was an electronic Blackberry. A GPS app soon located the device and us on an aerial photograph using the Google Earth app - apparently the word application is too tedious for use now. It showed us next to field boundary and there it was! We were able to plot the continuation of the walk to a successful outcome. Trish did wonder what would happen if we waved. Would the Blackberry would be able to see us do so. That would be something. One day in a shop soon no doubt.
But where technology leads, there are some with a heavier tread. Maplins (hi -de-hi), who bill themselves as 'the electronic specialist' recently charged me twice for the same item . A modest sum was involved, twice, and one of them was mine! (Ho-de-ho.)
A phone call to settle the matter was all I needed. They error was due to a till malfunction or 'crash' which happened when I was buying the item, but 'the electronic specialists' were unable to give me refund in the store. I found this mildly ironic.
The phone call was even more so. I would need to submit a bank statement showing that I was charged twice. I had such a copy from the internet banking service I use. Paperless statements are a little that I contribute to the greening of the earth. Not good enough for Maplins. They need one issued by the bank. So the electronic specialists cannot accept a document I have downloaded from my bank having entered a secure site with three coded passwords. They see it better to have me walk to the bank, queue, ask for a statement and then post it to them marked FAO Sarah. What age are they living in?
I am aghast.
Strong parameters I know, but nonetheless the scope of satellite navigation, PCs for music and photography, mobile phones and digital scanners and cameras leave me breathless at their ease and flexibility.
I give a simple and recent example of their wonder. A group of us were taking a walk in the countryside around Oundle in Northamptonshire - a county perhaps overlooked and described by a woman in the Tourist Information as the Cotswolds without being twee. We were mapless and the sky was cloudless, but after about thirty to forty minutes, we collectively decided that there should be a turning soon as we had been trekking for sometime away from the car park without any evidence about how to get back without tediously retracing our steps.
Had this been autumn the hedges would be thick with blackberries, but the one we were pleased to see on this beautiful summer evening was an electronic Blackberry. A GPS app soon located the device and us on an aerial photograph using the Google Earth app - apparently the word application is too tedious for use now. It showed us next to field boundary and there it was! We were able to plot the continuation of the walk to a successful outcome. Trish did wonder what would happen if we waved. Would the Blackberry would be able to see us do so. That would be something. One day in a shop soon no doubt.
But where technology leads, there are some with a heavier tread. Maplins (hi -de-hi), who bill themselves as 'the electronic specialist' recently charged me twice for the same item . A modest sum was involved, twice, and one of them was mine! (Ho-de-ho.)
A phone call to settle the matter was all I needed. They error was due to a till malfunction or 'crash' which happened when I was buying the item, but 'the electronic specialists' were unable to give me refund in the store. I found this mildly ironic.
The phone call was even more so. I would need to submit a bank statement showing that I was charged twice. I had such a copy from the internet banking service I use. Paperless statements are a little that I contribute to the greening of the earth. Not good enough for Maplins. They need one issued by the bank. So the electronic specialists cannot accept a document I have downloaded from my bank having entered a secure site with three coded passwords. They see it better to have me walk to the bank, queue, ask for a statement and then post it to them marked FAO Sarah. What age are they living in?
I am aghast.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Cast a clout, now
My goodness, the month of May be soon out and thus I may find my clouts to cast them.
As I sit, as wood smoke shifts by me, I must write a few words before the month be out. Summer seems to be here and the evenings once again treat us to what life can be like. People once again smile at each other.
Very simply, life is halcyon. Bird song, fountaining water in the pond, Trish hosing the borders and the cat staring at anything. As a squirrel scuttered across the lower roof of the garden room, a hedgehog struggled across the paving below. The cat was somewhat interested, but he finds such days something of a time when you don't really be need to be bothered.
I like it. But there is an edge which ekes in around the time the sun sinks. Another layer is called for to cover the cool calling from the west. The light dims and the sky azures and purples. I am pleased and it all costs nothing.
It is now 10pm.
These are the days.
As I sit, as wood smoke shifts by me, I must write a few words before the month be out. Summer seems to be here and the evenings once again treat us to what life can be like. People once again smile at each other.
Very simply, life is halcyon. Bird song, fountaining water in the pond, Trish hosing the borders and the cat staring at anything. As a squirrel scuttered across the lower roof of the garden room, a hedgehog struggled across the paving below. The cat was somewhat interested, but he finds such days something of a time when you don't really be need to be bothered.
I like it. But there is an edge which ekes in around the time the sun sinks. Another layer is called for to cover the cool calling from the west. The light dims and the sky azures and purples. I am pleased and it all costs nothing.
It is now 10pm.
These are the days.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
A talent to amuse
Now Britain has officially got talent. Or so we are led to believe due to the success of an engaging television programme which is well into its third series.
Once upon a time, variety was the thing. Up and down the country, theatres in virtually every town and city boasted a variety theatre where, weekly shows, outside of the summer and winter when summer seaside seasons and Christmas pantomimes took away the bigger names, gave opportunity for all that was variety and entertainment. Jugglers, magicians, dancers, comics singers, dog acts and animal impersonators filled bills up and down the country.
Artists hoped that there was some form of progression up the bill and up the range of theatres in which they could work. Like professional football today, the Premiership is the height to aspire to but there were dozens, if not hundreds of acts kicking around the provinces hoping to be spotted.
It is said that the whole thing died away because of television. People were not bothered to go out when the big names could be seen on TV. Acts on TV were seen by millions in one go, instead of a few hundred nightly. Some acts suffered because television demanded acts to come up with new material whereas touring the theatres allowed an act to keep the same format for year on year.
Now variety is back though the irony is that it happens on television. The breaks are there and the rewards are those elusive and ethereal rewards - fame and success.
I love the programme - well aspects of it. Its not as formulaic as some of the dancing competition shows for a start. There are the tedious shots of ecstatically waving hopefuls as well as those closer shots of acts going through their paces surrounded by what seems like hundreds doing exactly the same. I love the people whose talents are completely in inverse proportion to the belief in their ability. I wish had an iota of their certainty in being the next best thing. The bigger the belief and the smaller the talent makes me smile. But I also love the ones whose talent is beyond their appearance and audience expectation and who effortlessly and modestly do the stuff and knock you out.
There are short shots of those acts who we never see, but who are successfully and, naturally, jubilantly boisterous as a result. We see glimpses of other acts on stage. But there is something manipulative going on which tells you that we are being controlled in what we are allowed to see. How does such basic crap get to the front for us to enjoy the disappointment and gasp at their temerity that they thought the Queen would really think they were entertainment?
And I guess that is the shows success. OK, it throws up much the same kind of talents for the phone in vote - and ugly adult who can belt out a song with the best of them, a group of dancers who have worked, untrained and untutored, for years on the streets, a waif of a child with cute gaps in their dentition who can sing with power and accuracy, groups of made up and costumed groups from dance schools, and a few odd old style variety acts such as a juggler who defies gravity or an acrobat with sublime skill making it look easy.
But that's what I like. Anyone who makes it look easy, natural and as natural to us as we find simply walking or breathing, are the ones with real talent. And I like, too, the cash register smile of Simon Cowell. You don't need dials or score sheets with this programme. Simply watch his eyes and his smile. You know when he sees true talent. It's there in the wink.
Once upon a time, variety was the thing. Up and down the country, theatres in virtually every town and city boasted a variety theatre where, weekly shows, outside of the summer and winter when summer seaside seasons and Christmas pantomimes took away the bigger names, gave opportunity for all that was variety and entertainment. Jugglers, magicians, dancers, comics singers, dog acts and animal impersonators filled bills up and down the country.
Artists hoped that there was some form of progression up the bill and up the range of theatres in which they could work. Like professional football today, the Premiership is the height to aspire to but there were dozens, if not hundreds of acts kicking around the provinces hoping to be spotted.
It is said that the whole thing died away because of television. People were not bothered to go out when the big names could be seen on TV. Acts on TV were seen by millions in one go, instead of a few hundred nightly. Some acts suffered because television demanded acts to come up with new material whereas touring the theatres allowed an act to keep the same format for year on year.
Now variety is back though the irony is that it happens on television. The breaks are there and the rewards are those elusive and ethereal rewards - fame and success.
I love the programme - well aspects of it. Its not as formulaic as some of the dancing competition shows for a start. There are the tedious shots of ecstatically waving hopefuls as well as those closer shots of acts going through their paces surrounded by what seems like hundreds doing exactly the same. I love the people whose talents are completely in inverse proportion to the belief in their ability. I wish had an iota of their certainty in being the next best thing. The bigger the belief and the smaller the talent makes me smile. But I also love the ones whose talent is beyond their appearance and audience expectation and who effortlessly and modestly do the stuff and knock you out.
There are short shots of those acts who we never see, but who are successfully and, naturally, jubilantly boisterous as a result. We see glimpses of other acts on stage. But there is something manipulative going on which tells you that we are being controlled in what we are allowed to see. How does such basic crap get to the front for us to enjoy the disappointment and gasp at their temerity that they thought the Queen would really think they were entertainment?
And I guess that is the shows success. OK, it throws up much the same kind of talents for the phone in vote - and ugly adult who can belt out a song with the best of them, a group of dancers who have worked, untrained and untutored, for years on the streets, a waif of a child with cute gaps in their dentition who can sing with power and accuracy, groups of made up and costumed groups from dance schools, and a few odd old style variety acts such as a juggler who defies gravity or an acrobat with sublime skill making it look easy.
But that's what I like. Anyone who makes it look easy, natural and as natural to us as we find simply walking or breathing, are the ones with real talent. And I like, too, the cash register smile of Simon Cowell. You don't need dials or score sheets with this programme. Simply watch his eyes and his smile. You know when he sees true talent. It's there in the wink.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
The play was the thing.
I have been to several theatres but walking into and down the Quarry Theatre of the West Yorkshire Playhouse is a really sublime experience tinged with anticipation and excitement.
Laid out below is the set. This time, as the play was When We Are Married, you looked down upon a wealthy living room of someone who has made it. From the entrance, the scale was like gazing upon the set designers model, but once your seat was reached the true intimate scale was revealed.
Being a classic Northern comedy and just to set the tone, brass band music was played as house music, as I gazed over the photographs of imaginary lives, the carpets, potted plants and furniture that stated quality and status.
Then comes that magic moment of blackout accompanied by an equally sudden hushing of the chatting audience. You know that the beginners are assembled somewhere behind the set waiting for the music and lighting cue to bring the performance to life. It is an intense moment of anticipation.
And then you're away. Cleverly, this set had more dimension that expected and initially indicated. Behind a set wall of screens, which appear solid with light upon them and transparent with light behind them, the main characters were seen beyond the living room, across a corridor and in the illuminated dining room behind. All three couple enjoying themselves as they each celebrate jointly 25 years of marriage.
Of course, there is a story ahead. The sky, like the the light in the dining room, is darkening with distant pigeons are coming home to roost. As the light fades in the dining room, the light comes up in the living room. The play has begun, but all's well that ends well, but that's another play altogether.
Laid out below is the set. This time, as the play was When We Are Married, you looked down upon a wealthy living room of someone who has made it. From the entrance, the scale was like gazing upon the set designers model, but once your seat was reached the true intimate scale was revealed.
Being a classic Northern comedy and just to set the tone, brass band music was played as house music, as I gazed over the photographs of imaginary lives, the carpets, potted plants and furniture that stated quality and status.
Then comes that magic moment of blackout accompanied by an equally sudden hushing of the chatting audience. You know that the beginners are assembled somewhere behind the set waiting for the music and lighting cue to bring the performance to life. It is an intense moment of anticipation.
And then you're away. Cleverly, this set had more dimension that expected and initially indicated. Behind a set wall of screens, which appear solid with light upon them and transparent with light behind them, the main characters were seen beyond the living room, across a corridor and in the illuminated dining room behind. All three couple enjoying themselves as they each celebrate jointly 25 years of marriage.
Of course, there is a story ahead. The sky, like the the light in the dining room, is darkening with distant pigeons are coming home to roost. As the light fades in the dining room, the light comes up in the living room. The play has begun, but all's well that ends well, but that's another play altogether.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
A class act
I happened to be in the same space as the Lord Lieutenant of South Yorkshire the other evening. I knew he was arriving and I knew he had arrived.
There were no fanfares, no red carpet, yet his bearing and clothes clearly defined his status. The dark blue double breasted blazer with light gray trouser, set off with white shirt and emblematic tie said the man was in casual dress. But he was elegant. He manifested status and, as he walked away in casual conversation with his hosts, his hands found their way behind him to clasp themselves suggestive of breeding and bearing.
Not bad for a man born and bred in Barnsley. And who still lives here. He is a simple Mr. Mr David Moody. He took the job after the resignation of Lord Scarborough. But he displayed the pose and poise of someone of the upper class. I want to know more of this fellow. He was a charming and diplomatic representative of the crown.
As they left the building, they had won a raffle prize. A large tin of Miniature Heroes was the gift they could have taken home to round off a splendid night of theatre where they had seen the best and very splendid LYTE (Lamproom Youth Theatre Ensemble).
But they gave the goodies to be shared amongst the company of children who had entertained them. I could feel the Fawltiesque capitulation in the presence of true class as when the gullible and guiless Basil Fawlty offers Lord Melbury an aperitif, on the house, and who then only asks for a dry sherry. "What else?" replies the overwhelmed host.
Pure class.
There were no fanfares, no red carpet, yet his bearing and clothes clearly defined his status. The dark blue double breasted blazer with light gray trouser, set off with white shirt and emblematic tie said the man was in casual dress. But he was elegant. He manifested status and, as he walked away in casual conversation with his hosts, his hands found their way behind him to clasp themselves suggestive of breeding and bearing.
Not bad for a man born and bred in Barnsley. And who still lives here. He is a simple Mr. Mr David Moody. He took the job after the resignation of Lord Scarborough. But he displayed the pose and poise of someone of the upper class. I want to know more of this fellow. He was a charming and diplomatic representative of the crown.
As they left the building, they had won a raffle prize. A large tin of Miniature Heroes was the gift they could have taken home to round off a splendid night of theatre where they had seen the best and very splendid LYTE (Lamproom Youth Theatre Ensemble).
But they gave the goodies to be shared amongst the company of children who had entertained them. I could feel the Fawltiesque capitulation in the presence of true class as when the gullible and guiless Basil Fawlty offers Lord Melbury an aperitif, on the house, and who then only asks for a dry sherry. "What else?" replies the overwhelmed host.
Pure class.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Top Fear
How can things get so complicated just to make things easier?
As we now spend much time driving a reasonable distance, we thought it high time to update the wheels. The old faithful warhorse was beginning to get tired. Its last medical revealed some extra fumes in its exhaust which, although controlled for the purpsoses of passing out fit in the way a drug can hide a symptom in humans, we felt that the long term prognosis was one of increasing concern for the engine.
So, after much internet searching, we decided to kick some tyres. Car buying is not a confident field. I know little about the things and generally work on trust in a very large way. We had a budget beyond which we would not budge but we wanted some quality. We did not want new. Quite happy to appreciate someone else knocking off the massive depreciation cars achieve within 100 metres of the showroom.
Armed with this catalogue of desires we went ahead. Oh, we wanted Japanese. Trevor, our man who advises, was impressed with the words Toyota and Mazda, but added, there being no real British car manufacturer, a BMW to our shortlist to balance up a world view. As they make the Mini, the name of the great icon of Britain when Britain was post war great, it sounded almost like an British car.
We ended up with a Honda, but what we got was the ultimate, for me, in in-car specifications, none of which we expected to achieve ownership of as we strolled the car show grounds - well the large tarmac areas outside the show rooms where cars have their boots open and have balloons attached, to make the car buying process jolly and carefree - not quite the lightening of the atmosphere I experienced. I often wonder what they might do at balloon sales.
But to go back a way. My very first car was a ten year old 1964 Morris Minor Traveller. Compared to this latest purchase, the Morris had climate control. No, it had a heater and............ No, that was all. Its sole contribution beyond the basics to driver in-car convenience was that it had a heater. Even the screen washer was operated by a foot pump. I have had this new car a week and there are buttons I have not dared to touch and this from a man who is no technophobe. The instruction manual runs to 506 pages of A5 paper - and the navigation system has its own sub book of 100 pages. From a person who ignores instruction books a rule, its very hard to take an approach of total disregard for once. More fool you I hear the chorus.
It has taken me 30 minutes to pair the HFC system via bluetooth with my mobile phone. Hardly anyone rings me on it when I am at home, so why they should when in the car. Buts it's magic. I am wholeheartedly adopting the technical enthusiasm of Uncle Bryn from the television programme 'Gavin and Stacey'.
But, it is very comfortable, very quiet (at least until I fathom out the sound system) and very, very nice. Not quite the hyperbolic Clarkson review, but understatement is sometimes enough.
My next project is get the car to understand me. Occasionally, she - for it is a female voice- does not get my drift. I do not want to know that the air conditioning is off as I am asking for the CD to play track 4. Perhaps she does it deliberately because I have, on occasions, ignored her directions and she has had to re - calculate.
Oh my word! I am actually talking to my car. After all, humans always understand each other when they talk, don't they?
As we now spend much time driving a reasonable distance, we thought it high time to update the wheels. The old faithful warhorse was beginning to get tired. Its last medical revealed some extra fumes in its exhaust which, although controlled for the purpsoses of passing out fit in the way a drug can hide a symptom in humans, we felt that the long term prognosis was one of increasing concern for the engine.
So, after much internet searching, we decided to kick some tyres. Car buying is not a confident field. I know little about the things and generally work on trust in a very large way. We had a budget beyond which we would not budge but we wanted some quality. We did not want new. Quite happy to appreciate someone else knocking off the massive depreciation cars achieve within 100 metres of the showroom.
Armed with this catalogue of desires we went ahead. Oh, we wanted Japanese. Trevor, our man who advises, was impressed with the words Toyota and Mazda, but added, there being no real British car manufacturer, a BMW to our shortlist to balance up a world view. As they make the Mini, the name of the great icon of Britain when Britain was post war great, it sounded almost like an British car.
We ended up with a Honda, but what we got was the ultimate, for me, in in-car specifications, none of which we expected to achieve ownership of as we strolled the car show grounds - well the large tarmac areas outside the show rooms where cars have their boots open and have balloons attached, to make the car buying process jolly and carefree - not quite the lightening of the atmosphere I experienced. I often wonder what they might do at balloon sales.
But to go back a way. My very first car was a ten year old 1964 Morris Minor Traveller. Compared to this latest purchase, the Morris had climate control. No, it had a heater and............ No, that was all. Its sole contribution beyond the basics to driver in-car convenience was that it had a heater. Even the screen washer was operated by a foot pump. I have had this new car a week and there are buttons I have not dared to touch and this from a man who is no technophobe. The instruction manual runs to 506 pages of A5 paper - and the navigation system has its own sub book of 100 pages. From a person who ignores instruction books a rule, its very hard to take an approach of total disregard for once. More fool you I hear the chorus.
It has taken me 30 minutes to pair the HFC system via bluetooth with my mobile phone. Hardly anyone rings me on it when I am at home, so why they should when in the car. Buts it's magic. I am wholeheartedly adopting the technical enthusiasm of Uncle Bryn from the television programme 'Gavin and Stacey'.
But, it is very comfortable, very quiet (at least until I fathom out the sound system) and very, very nice. Not quite the hyperbolic Clarkson review, but understatement is sometimes enough.
My next project is get the car to understand me. Occasionally, she - for it is a female voice- does not get my drift. I do not want to know that the air conditioning is off as I am asking for the CD to play track 4. Perhaps she does it deliberately because I have, on occasions, ignored her directions and she has had to re - calculate.
Oh my word! I am actually talking to my car. After all, humans always understand each other when they talk, don't they?
Monday, 2 February 2009
Snow business?.....I like snow business
Yes, its an absolute nuisance. As a nation fond of discussing the weather, it fills everyone with conversation topping experiences but we cannot cope with the white stuff very well. It happens. Two or three days and people moan and count the economic cost. I am convinced that if a meteorite (or is it meteor?) destroyed most of the country, there's still be some economist stating how many days work the event cost the country.
I have, let me say at the outset, passed some scary journeys in it. I have had family arriving home 6 hours after leaving work some ten miles away, and friends travelling 14 hours from the next town, have had to abandon cars and have been unable to reclaim a vehicle for two days, have walked miles due to local transport failures. So when I say I love the stuff, I speak not purely from wonderful white Christmas experiences or through rose tinted snow goggles.
It is a rare and an increasingly rarer experience for all of us. But when it falls, I'm a kid again. I can't wait to get out in it. I'm saddened when the stuff turns to slush, become wary when it freezes and becomes lethally slippy, but as it arrives I am captivated by the changes in the world outside and spend much time looking through windows.
Going to bed as it falls and waking up to the brighter light on the ceiling, reflected off the surface of the snow through the gaps at the window, causes me to rush to the window to see what can be seen. And this morning was one of those mornings.
I was out and off, with the purpose of reaching the doctors surgery to order a prescription which could be done with all the ease of the Internet, but no. The snow was calling and falling. Mere electronic convenience was put aside. I know going to the doctors isn't exactly a recognised winter sport, nor is snowballing for that matter, but snowmen and snowballs, where they go to dance presumably, have taken a step down the list of snow activities for me. I can be happy now simply walking, looking and taking the odd photograph.
I know the weather conditions were a little alien today, but I did not realise that taking photographs of everyday objects covered with snow could create a sense of oddness for young people. "What are taking photos of then?" I was asked, with no sense of malice, by two mid to late teen youths. I was a little taken aback. It was so obvious to me. But when I pointed out that the snow had fallen, they passed on and simply added, "Its great isn't it?"
In the park, Trish built a snow rabbit. I photographed her and it. The sun came out briefly and the landscape was augmented by shadows of trees stretching across the flat white ground turning cream coloured in the mid afternoon sun. And then the local schools emptied their contents across the park.
Walking past groups who were sharing and showering snowballs with varying degrees of accuracy and parents dragging sledges loaded with shrieking toddlers, I realised that the thrill was slipping away. Children began to redistribute the overnight work of nature at quite a pace.
It will no longer the same.
Still, it had it moments.
PS Apart from people like me and children, the people who seem to enjoy this kind of weather even with greater relish, are TV journalists. When the rest of the country struggles to get anywhere, they turn up everywhere where the snow is deepest. Wonderful.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Dinner is served..............
I stood just inside the entrance to Matalan watching the ebb of trainer shod, track suited people of all sizes and ages clutching their bags of items, purchases no doubt inspired by the appearance of some photograph of someone famous I don't know, in other words a celebrity, all no doubt wanting to be different but nevertheless all ending up the same and I felt depressed. Add to this, a group rummaging through a table top holding jewellery all at the tempting price of 98p.
Matalan, a vast shed, but a tiny efflorescence of the huge manufacturing plant of China, is not outside my shopping range, but this visit really got me down. Not good for one who seeks the lighter and urban soul raising experiences of daily life. But I was stuck. No where to go. Even Next, which strangely, was next door, offered no lightening of the shopping gloom. Retail therapy, if I admit was necessary, was not to be found. It was like an acupuncturist being unable to stick in the pin anywhere near the target.
And thus I was resolved. I needed a simple lift to the daily existence and it came about quite easily and without the need of therapy of any kind. Although, I guess though it is therapy, if the process is life enhancing.
As I had already found delight in that weekend feeling, it was but a short step to improving the daily lot. We would eat dinner at the table in the appropriate place.
For too long we had felt the urge to settle down to the News on TV with a plate balanced upon a tray on our knees, generally listening to to the cliched and stale presentation that both the national and local news present themselves. "...and over now to our correspondent who is outside......." One of the silliest cases for me was when, one mid-November, the news that Myra Hindley, branded the Moors Murderess, had died in prison. The correspondent, was sent, not to be outside the gaol, but to stand in the dark, at night, on the moors, to report live. Absolutely barmy. I know of one local news reporter asking her director where to go, as the expected heavy snow fall had not materialised at the location to which she was first assigned.
But no more. Having the technology to have TV and radio on tap when we wanted and not when the schedules demanded we watch, we became free.
Eating the main meal of the day became relaxing and, well, civilised. I was smiling at this simple act. So, no matter what everyday life on the daily round outside may descend to, I now have the pleasurable interlude of the early evening.
I could become a dinner therapist.
Matalan, a vast shed, but a tiny efflorescence of the huge manufacturing plant of China, is not outside my shopping range, but this visit really got me down. Not good for one who seeks the lighter and urban soul raising experiences of daily life. But I was stuck. No where to go. Even Next, which strangely, was next door, offered no lightening of the shopping gloom. Retail therapy, if I admit was necessary, was not to be found. It was like an acupuncturist being unable to stick in the pin anywhere near the target.
And thus I was resolved. I needed a simple lift to the daily existence and it came about quite easily and without the need of therapy of any kind. Although, I guess though it is therapy, if the process is life enhancing.
As I had already found delight in that weekend feeling, it was but a short step to improving the daily lot. We would eat dinner at the table in the appropriate place.
For too long we had felt the urge to settle down to the News on TV with a plate balanced upon a tray on our knees, generally listening to to the cliched and stale presentation that both the national and local news present themselves. "...and over now to our correspondent who is outside......." One of the silliest cases for me was when, one mid-November, the news that Myra Hindley, branded the Moors Murderess, had died in prison. The correspondent, was sent, not to be outside the gaol, but to stand in the dark, at night, on the moors, to report live. Absolutely barmy. I know of one local news reporter asking her director where to go, as the expected heavy snow fall had not materialised at the location to which she was first assigned.
But no more. Having the technology to have TV and radio on tap when we wanted and not when the schedules demanded we watch, we became free.
Eating the main meal of the day became relaxing and, well, civilised. I was smiling at this simple act. So, no matter what everyday life on the daily round outside may descend to, I now have the pleasurable interlude of the early evening.
I could become a dinner therapist.
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Lost Weekend
I have just rediscovered the weekend. No, they have always been there. They do not actually get lost, but, from scanning the home page of Facebook, there will be many who may claim otherwise.
What I actually mean is that weekend feeling, the waking up on Saturday, not too early, and that marvellous glowing awareness that you don't have to get up. That alone has been the reward of a week's work that I have completed. In addition, foundations had been already laid to create this happiness. Early glances at the bedside clock in the twilight, not quite light hours, did not immediately cause the brain to mentally calculate exactly how much time remains before the alarm dings in. Oh, how different to the feeling twenty fours previously.
There is also a financial reward. I do have to mention it, naturally and once a good enough reason to take the work. That will arrive in due course showing as a welcome and significant figure in the bank account, but this morning was, well, ahead, with the money a few lengths behind. Backed up by a bright but very cold winter's morning, a winning double for which I could not have felt better.
Nagging very slightly, there is the very thin possibility that there will be a Sunday evening - work tomorrow call lying in wait just around the corner. Fingers crossed naturally. The smile of a Sunday free from Monday's call to toil is another bonus. A far cry from last Sunday evening when I received the request to teach, as a former colleague was laid low by one of the current members of the virus race. I ended up staying the week, and, apart from the need to go to bed at ridiculous hours, ie 9.30pm, and giving in to the demand for sleep in the late afternoon, it was a good week on the whole which has resulted with the reward of a Saturday morning lazy wake up.
I did have a good week with former colleagues and children who were good to work with, but, like everything that is pleasurable, over indulgence can spoil the appetite for more. I hope the telephone is quiet on Sunday. I hope the colleague I replaced is fighting fit and suffers no relapse.
I do not want to appear too greedy for another sublime Saturday morning.
What I actually mean is that weekend feeling, the waking up on Saturday, not too early, and that marvellous glowing awareness that you don't have to get up. That alone has been the reward of a week's work that I have completed. In addition, foundations had been already laid to create this happiness. Early glances at the bedside clock in the twilight, not quite light hours, did not immediately cause the brain to mentally calculate exactly how much time remains before the alarm dings in. Oh, how different to the feeling twenty fours previously.
There is also a financial reward. I do have to mention it, naturally and once a good enough reason to take the work. That will arrive in due course showing as a welcome and significant figure in the bank account, but this morning was, well, ahead, with the money a few lengths behind. Backed up by a bright but very cold winter's morning, a winning double for which I could not have felt better.
Nagging very slightly, there is the very thin possibility that there will be a Sunday evening - work tomorrow call lying in wait just around the corner. Fingers crossed naturally. The smile of a Sunday free from Monday's call to toil is another bonus. A far cry from last Sunday evening when I received the request to teach, as a former colleague was laid low by one of the current members of the virus race. I ended up staying the week, and, apart from the need to go to bed at ridiculous hours, ie 9.30pm, and giving in to the demand for sleep in the late afternoon, it was a good week on the whole which has resulted with the reward of a Saturday morning lazy wake up.
I did have a good week with former colleagues and children who were good to work with, but, like everything that is pleasurable, over indulgence can spoil the appetite for more. I hope the telephone is quiet on Sunday. I hope the colleague I replaced is fighting fit and suffers no relapse.
I do not want to appear too greedy for another sublime Saturday morning.
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