youth climate strike…

Moira, Ruth, Felix and I (plus lots of friends we bumped into) joined Iris and her schoolfriends at College Green, Bristol at today’s Youth Climate Strike (and I know that Hannah+Ursa took part in a demonstration at Ursa’s school).
It was probably the biggest demonstration I’ve attended in our city (10,000, according to YouthStrike4Climate).
It was a global day of protest. It had been publicised weeks in advance… and, by the look of the television/newspaper/social media pictures I’ve seen, an amazing number of people from almost 150 countries turned out to make a stand and to demand urgent action from politicians before it’s too late.
It was an important, impressive, humbling day of protest.
My own generation are the guilty ones. Some of the guilt comes from lack of awareness, but much can be put down to people’s selfishness and greed.
Saying sorry isn’t enough. Obviously.

The frightening, depressing thing is that, even today (when we know so much more about climate change and its causes), some corporations, some politicians and some individuals are STILL turning a blind eye to the stark realities of the climate crisis… and putting off making crucial decisions on the basis of “promising to deal with the problem, once we’ve done X or Y”… or “it’ll be another politician’s job when I move on so, for time being, I’m not going to put the my head above the parapet (and, in the meantime, just feather my nest)”.

Clearly, some politicians feel passionately about climate change but, in all honesty, it seems that those in power (including Environment Secretaries) are simply prepared to pay lip service to the problem.

In a strange way, for some, today’s protest in Bristol was something of a metaphor for the Climate Crisis… “Climate Crisis? What Climate Crisis?” and perhaps “It’s not really going to affect me in my lifetime… I can’t do anything to change it, so I’ll ignore it”.
Three examples:
1.  We were walking into Bristol this morning with our banners/placards and a very pleasant young lady approached us to ask “what’s going on?”. “We’re going to the Youth Climate demonstration in town” we replied. The woman clearly didn’t know what we were talking about. “Have you heard of the 16 year-old Swedish environmental campaigner Greta Thunberg?” we asked. Completely blank response. “Climate Change?” Still nothing. She smiled and wished us well and we continued on our way (somewhat perplexed).
2.  Maybe I live in a bubble, but people had been talking about today’s demonstration for ‘some time’ (and especially over the past week). Surely, it would have been obvious to anyone who knew our city that there would be a large demonstration. It would have been talked about/referred to relentlessly over recent days on local radio and in local newspapers, social media etc etc. Silly me! Clearly, LOTS of motorists (mainly private cars and vans – although the local bus company obviously just ‘gave up’ until the streets returned to ‘normal’… with passengers abandoning their journeys) hadn’t a clue. Why on earth would you even dream of driving into the city centre at a time to coincide with a MASSIVE demonstration involving thousands of people? Well, let me tell you, they were there in their hundreds (thousands?)… with most of the drivers looking bewildered and frustrated. Ridiculous.
3.  This is somewhat similar to (2). Demonstrators had set off on their march around the city on a pre-planned route. Clearly, as we took to the roads, traffic came to an utter standstill. Some drivers blatantly refused to accept that they would be ‘inconvenienced’ for perhaps half an hour at the very least (there were an awful lot of people!) and kept their engines running. Very bad move… resulting in a long line of marchers chanting “engine off, engine off” as they walked past you. Humiliation. But, hey, I digress… one of these cars just happened to be a taxi… with a passenger (silly man had still to realise it would be quicker to walk)… and the meter still appeared to be running! It felt a bit like an encapsulation of the climate crisis itself – the clock is ticking and it’s now too late to do anything about it.

No doubt, we’ll hear from world leaders (there are always some exceptions… no names!) who will be applauding the enthusiasm and effectiveness of the demonstrators and will be promising to take action to do ‘stuff’. But, of course, we know it’s all hot air… pie-in-the-sky promises. Governments will NOT put their heads together at the Climate Action Summit in New York on 23 September and commit themselves to making the huge carbon dioxide reductions that are urgently needed. They’ll agree on something that ‘sounds’ quite positive (for media purposes) but, actually they’ll be saying things: “well, we’d LIKE to do more, but country A doesn’t want to play ball, so neither will we – because we don’t them to have a commercial advantage”.

The scary thing (and there are LOTS of scary things relating to Climate Change) is that, after a day of worldwide demonstrations – which will no doubt earn praise and acknowledgement from national leaders – people will feel a little like Greta Thunberg, when she addressed the Senate Climate Change Task Force earlier this week:
“Please save your praise. We don’t want it. Don’t invite us here to just tell us how inspiring we are without actually doing anything about it because it doesn’t lead to anything.
If you want advice for what you should do, invite scientists, ask scientists for their expertise. We don’t want to be heard. We want the science to be heard.
I know you are trying, but just not hard enough. Sorry.”
Action, not words… now, not soon.

wild swimming at bristol old vic…

Moira and I went along to the Old Vic (The Weston Studio) to see FullRogue’s “Wild Swimming”, directed by Julia Head. The production received excellent reviews when it was performed at the Edinburgh Fringe and, on the basis of what saw tonight, they were fully deserved. Lasting just over the hour and featuring just two actors (both quite superb: Alice Lamb as Nell and Annabel Baldwin as Oscar), the play takes place on a beach across five centuries of time-shifting action.

As you take your seats before the play commences, you immediately get a contagious sense of fun and irreverence as the actors chat, sort out their initial costumes and endeavour to find sweets, snacks and various props filed away in the small storage units that form part of the stage set.
You get the sense that it's all going to be OK and that you can just relax and be joyfully entertained.
Sweets continue to be shared with the audience, certain people are given water-pistols and water pumps to use during the performance and informal, constant dialogue puts everyone at ease… and then, suddenly, the lighting switches, the actors are in position and motionless… and we’re about to start.
The action begins in the late 16th century, then skips to the 18th, then the 20th, and finally present day. Nell comes from a rich family, but she’s a woman, and she’s bored and life has no proper purpose… until she begins to write. Oscar is a university student with grand ideas about swimming, writing (and the Hellespont) and preaching to Nell about his theories, but that’s as far he ever gets. As the play develops into the 20th century, one becomes aware of a reversal of gender-derived success…
Throughout the play, we have the complicated relationships between two characters – sometimes great friends, sometimes loving, sometimes hating, sometimes jealous and resentful… and all this amid on-stage costume changes, constant (frequently bawdy) dialogue, musical accompaniment and, of course, random sweets being thrown into the audience. It’s also brilliantly-scripted (by Marek Horn) – although the actors are quite wonderful in their frequent ‘deviations’ from the script and their ability to react to each other’s ad-libbing interventions/audience interactions with apparent ease.
There’s a wonderful chemistry and energy to it all and, certainly, last night’s audience loved it! It finishes at the Old Vic on Saturday 21 September… if there are any tickets left, then I’d strongly advise you to get to see it. Really excellent.

referendition... my 'poem' for resonate

Referendition…

 Let’s ask their permission

Consult the population

Pose them a question

Call it democratisation

Powers of persuasion

Lies and distortion

Blame immigration

Avoid any retraction

Keep raising the tension

Use manipulation

 

 Art of discretion

Another edition

Evil collusion

Special adviser’s deception

He’s no relation

Self-gratification

Don’t stop for reflection

Congratulation

Lack any compassion

Stand to attention

 

 Shun all contrition

Do you want an election

Face annihilation

No constitution

No negotiation

No retraction

Don’t even mention

Prorogation

Don’t tell the nation

Slow realisation

 

 Abject depression

Hopeless position

Utter dejection

Bring revolution

Time for some action

Ignore apprehension

Discover restitution

Seek reconciliation

Achieve restoration

Let’s find a solution

 



trip up’t north…

Moira and I have just spent a rather lovely week in Yorkshire. We stayed in the heart of Skipton’s town centre - a stone’s throw away from both the High Street (named England’s Great Street of the Year 2009!)(Moira still doesn’t believe me!) and the Leeds+Liverpool Canal… and only a low bow shot from Skipton Castle.

Although we’re not particular boat-lovers, we do both love canals. We love walking their towpaths (Moira likes them because they’re ‘flat’!); we love their urban and rural settings; and we love the gentle pace and rhythm of life that they offer. Our towpath walks included an amble to Bradley (and a drink in the Slater’s Arms), where we watched some of the impressive Fell Races (3.5 miles/900ft rise)… and a walk along the canal near Bingley (via Bingley station) to the impressive 3- and 5-lock rises.

We were also very impressed by Skipton Castle (original built in 1090, with subsequent fortification improvements after 1310. During the English Civil War the castle was the only Royalist stronghold in the north of England until December 1645) – now beautifully preserved and surrounded by the greenest grass you’ve ever seen!). The one minor niggle for us was the group of four loud-mouthed (literally) American tourists who spent their time talking VERY loudly to each other as they came across new treasures (why do so many Americans have to be SO noisy!?)(sorry, my lovely American friends... I know I'm generalising!). We were also very taken by the wonderful Skipton Castle Woods – 36acres of ancient woodland along a river valley (hauntingly beautiful and, in Moira’s words, “beguiling”).
We visited Saltaire a couple of times. We love its history as a Victorian model village (built in 1851) and the inspired vision of Sir Titus Salt who created it. Salts Mill, with its cafés/restaurants, museum, galleries, bookshop et al, was a particular highlight. Beautifully renovated, laid out, decorated and lit – and the perfect space in which to view work by David Hockney in a permanent collection.

I sketched, we walked, we explored, we read, we chatted, we laughed, we ate and we drank the odd glass… and the weather was reasonably kind (which was a bonus). Not being car owners these days, we travelled everywhere by train (when we weren't walking)(excellent rail link between Leeds and Skipton… and beyond) and we loved the differing landscapes we travelled through – with distant fells, wide open green acres, small old villages (their houses were much better than most of the stuff erected these days… IMHO!) and busy industrial towns (some perhaps not quite so busy these days).

Yorkshire (even without setting foot on the Moors) is a very beautiful part of the world and we fell in love with much of what we saw.
Photo: Moira+I drinking at The Slater's Arms, Bradley.
PS: Click on this link for my Skipton+canal pics.
PPS: Click on this link for my Saltaire+Salts Mill pics.

august-september 2019 books…

Bloomsbury (ed Gillian Naylor): Right… prepare yourself for THREE Bloomsbury/Charleston books on the trot! This one, published in 1990 (Moira bought it secondhand in Oxfam in 1999), focuses on the work and ideals of the artists, writers and designers associated with the Bloomsbury Group during the early years of the 20^th century. I’ve ‘read’ and perused the book on lots of occasions, but realised that I’d actually never REALLY read it. So I’ve now done so. I’ve long been fascinated by people who made up the ‘Group’: the likes of Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant, Roger Fry, Virginia Woolf and Clive Bell. What’s so nice about this book is that it’s made up entirely ‘by the artists, authors and designers themselves’ – extracts from diaries, letters, books and so on (with references to the Omega Workshops, Charleston, Hogarth Press and society in general). Yes, I’m very aware that they came mostly from upper middle-class professional families (which, no doubt, took a little pressure off the need to ‘earn a living’!) but, nevertheless, I was intrigued by their overlapping, interconnected similarity of ideas and attitudes (“the creation and enjoyment of aesthetic experience and the pursuit of knowledge”) which I found incredibly stimulating and which provided much food for thought. A beautiful book that I’ll certainly continue to delve into over the coming years.
Charleston (Quenton Bell+Virginia Nicholson): We bought this book (published in 1997) when we visited Charleston in 1999. Charleston is a rather lovely house set in the heart of the Sussex downs. This is a book that celebrates the “lives, wit and originality” of some of the people who lived there from 1916 onwards – including painters Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant. In this very beautiful, illustrated book, the authors Quentin Bell (younger son of Clive+Vanessa Bell) and his daughter Virginia Nicholson tell the story of the house and some of the leading cultural figures who were invited there (the book reckons its ‘golden age’s was from 1925 to 1937 – a period I particularly love, when it comes to British art). The house’s rooms are all richly (and unconventionally) decorated by many of those who lived in it over the years and, certainly, the house today (opened to the public) is an enchanting place - a feast of colour and creativity. Clearly, it wasn’t always such a heady experience in the early days – the garden was completely overgrown and the heating was either patchy or non-existent. My favourite passage in the book reads thus: “When the house was being restored (by the Charleston Trust) it was discovered that the studio walls had, in fact, been painted only after the pictures and the large mirror had been hung. Clearly Duncan and Vanessa had never considered doing anything so time-consuming as taking them down and hanging them up again, and when they were finally removed areas of bare plaster were exposed.” Over recent years, I’ve become more and more fascinated by the work (and personalities) of Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant – particularly Grant (who apparently painted every day and was constantly experimenting – decorating furniture, designing textiles, pottery etc). Whatever your views on British art in the early years of the 20^th century (art fashions change rather quickly!), I think there’s something really quite inspirational about the work associated with Charleston. It’s a very lovely book.
Deceived With Kindness (Angelica Garnett): Right, the very last of my Bloomsbury/Charleston-related books (promise)! First published in 1984 (+new Preface 1995). Angelica Garnett (1918-2012) was the daughter of painter Vanessa Bell; her childhood homes – Charleston, Sussex and Gordon Square, London – were both centres of Bloomsbury activity and she grew up among the most eminent writers and artists of the day. But she battled (and largely failed) to achieve independence from this rather intense and remarkable community and this memoir is essentially a self-analysis of her struggles… and she DID lead a rather complicated life! Her relationship with her mother was never straightforward (Garnett regretted the lack of frankness on both sides and it seems that children rather got in the way of her mother’s art!); her schooling was haphazard and regarding as somewhat unimportant (eg. missing whole terms to spend time in France on vacation); she spent the first 18 years(?) of her life believing that her father was Clive Bell, when in fact it was Duncan Grant (Vanessa’s painting partner); she ended up marrying one of her parents’ contemporaries, David ‘Bunny’ Garnett – 26 years her senior (and, for a brief time, also Duncan Grant’s lover)… as I say, her life was ‘complicated’! It’s a beautifully written, incredibly honest book which reveals another fascinating side to the Group.
Plot 29 (Allan Jenkins): You might recall that I recently read Jenkins’s excellent ‘Morning’ book… about him rising very early and tending his north-west London allotment before breakfast (amongst other things)? Jenkins is the editor of ‘Observer Food Monthly’. In this book, he talks about how its content changed from his initial perceptions: “It was to be about gardening, a year in the life of a piece of land, with personal stuff added in”. The final book tells the story of him as a young boy in the 1950s/60s Plymouth, together with his brother Christopher, being ‘rescued’ from care by an elderly couple (who lived in Averton Gifford, Devon – a village I know well). Although things didn’t really work out in the end, they did learn to grow flowers from seed at their riverside cottage. As Jenkins digs deeper into his difficult past, he finds solace in tending his allotment and its echoes with his childhood memories. A beautifully-written, brave and encouraging book about resilience and, as Monty Don puts it: “A superbly written testament to the power of earth to nourish and heal”. I’m no gardener, but I really loved this book.
The Scent Of The Night (Andrea Camilleri): This is the last book of my Montalbano ‘stock’ – I think I need to check out (and acquire!) the few remaining books in the series that I haven’t yet read. I really enjoy reading the bizarre adventures of the Sicilian police inspector… the plots are always clever - this one, quite complex, involving a financial entrepreneur who, through a kind of pyramid scheme, had successfully (albeit illegally) relieved large numbers of people of their life savings. But, for me, the real pleasure of the books comes from the characters of Mantalbano’s loyal and eccentric tea, the Sicilian setting, his food-loving lifestyle, his eccentricities, the beautiful women and, of course, the humour. Easy reading certainly – but always pleasurable too.

magic money tree?

Mr Johnson has just announced that schools in England are to be given over £7 billion more in spending over the next three years. That’s brilliant news. Many of us have been pressing for extra funding for education over recent years and, suddenly, it’s actually going to happen.

Mr Johnson has also pledged nearly £2 billion for hospitals.

Mr Johnson has also indicated that over £1 billion will be allocated to provide extra police officers.
Mr Johnson has also promised some £2.5 billion for extra prison places.
Mr Johnson has also pledged funds for “fantastic new road and rail infrastructure and full-fibre broadband” (the cost for these is somewhat vague – figures of up to £40 billion have been cited).
Mr Johnson has pledged £300m of new funding for the expansion of Growth Deals across Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.
Mr Johnson has allocated an extra £2.1 billion in the event of a no-deal Brexit (on top of the £4.2 billion already ‘set aside’).
Mr Johnson is also going to REDUCE taxes (by raising income tax thresholds).

Do you get a nagging feeling that Mr Johnson might be preparing for a General Election?

Call me politically and financially naïve (and I’d be the first to accept that this might well be the case!), but how is all of this going to be paid for?
Is there a Magic Money Tree?
Or is Mr Johnson simply relying on squirming out of paying the £39 billion EU divorce bill previously agreed and accepted by Mrs May’s government… because he doesn’t think this would apply in the event of a no-deal Brexit?
Asking for a friend…
Photo: BBC.com

the chambermaid…

I went along to the Watershed this afternoon to see Lila Avilés’s film “The Chambermaid”, following the behind-closed-doors life of Eve - a hard-working, conscientious chambermaid (played by Gabriela Cartol) who works long hours in a luxury hotel in Mexico City.
We get a glimpse of the lifestyles of some its patrons (including the mess and debris left behind by some of them). We get to see the rigid discipline and sheer graft of the maids, and others, who are responsible for transforming rooms to their original splendour (on time, of course)… and to whom customers will beckon at the drop of a hat.
Eve works long hours for relatively little pay. She has a 4 year-old son who is looked after by a neighbour. On the occasions when she can return home at the end of her shift, she has to be up at 4am in order to be able to start work again at 6am. Life is very hard.

The hotel appreciates her hard work and focussed discipline (well, in theory anyway). She has complete responsibility for 21st floor, but her real goal is to be ‘given’ the penthouse suites on the 42nd floor… and the hotel management is only too keen to tell her that this will come her way quite soon (probably). Well, she soon discovers that it’s not necessarily the most hard-working who get noticed for advancement.

Eve takes huge pride in doing her job well but, inevitably, the message that comes through is all about servant/master relationships; about the haves and the have-nots; about privilege and exploitation; and about the distain/lack of respect that many of the hotel’s guests have for the lowly staff that help maintain the hotel’s high standards. There are various 'side-shows' such as a VIP who collects/hoards toiletries; an Orthodox Jew who insists that Eve pushes the lift buttons for him on the Sabbath; and an Argentinian woman who urges Eve to look after her baby while she showers (and offers vague promises of working for her full time... on better money).

In some ways, it’s quite a claustrophobic film as all the ‘action’ (of which there’s very little apart from making beds, cleaning bathrooms and replenishing toiletries!) takes place within the hotel itself… and this is, not surprisingly, limited to bedrooms, laundries and maintenance areas (certainly not the plush splendour of the reception area, restaurants and lounges). It also feels as though the film is providing a snapshot of five-star hotel life behind the scenes and that it would be possible to take another snapshot next year (and subsequent years)… and it would all look just the same. The days are monotonous and indistinguishable. As depressing as this is, there’s no shortage of people willing to replace any of the workers who might want to throw in the towel (as it were).

It’s a compelling, humbling and somewhat haunting film. Definitely worth seeing – unless you’re specifically looking for a ‘feel-good’ film! It'll definitely make you leave your hotel bedroom in a reasonable state in future (as if you ever wouldn't)!

bauhaus centenary…

I watched this excellent programme on iPlayer celebrating the 100^th anniversary of the Bauhaus School. Architect Walter Gropius founded the Bauhaus in Weimar in 1919 and determined that it should revolutionise the way art and design were taught. He gathered together teachers and students and established a framework in which all the disciplines would come together to create the buildings and products of the future, and define a new way of living in the modern world.
I started at the Oxford School of Architecture in 1967 and, thanks to art tutor Tom Porter (a hugely influential figure within the school), I was urged to see the Bauhaus Exhibition at the Royal Academy in 1968 – probably at a time when the Bauhaus and its influence had been more or less forgotten. I remember it as a brilliant, inspiring exhibition – and it was the first time I’d seen a Marcel Breuer chair (amongst other iconic pieces)!

I’d actually made a special study of the Bauhaus School as part of my Art A Level course (but, obviously, in a pretty superficial way!)… and I certainly remember sketches I made of two of Gropius’s new school buildings (when the school moved to Dessau).
Through political pressure, the school moved again, to Berlin, before it was finally closed in 1933 after the Nazis took control of Germany – although its influence continued to spread as teachers and students departed to foreign lands.

Gropius was clearly influenced by figures such as John Ruskin and William Morris, but his emphasis was thoroughly modernistic. Although I regard Gropius as something of a design hero, I’m not sure he was a particularly good architect (I’ve certainly read comments about his inability to draw – something I still regard, even with today’s computer technology, as a fundamental requirement!). But Gropius certainly DID excel in other areas: he was a philosopher; he was ‘good with people’; he was a true networker; he involved himself as a member or a leader in the myriad small groups of revolutionary artists of extraordinary talent, such as: Paul Klee, Oskar Schlemmer, Wassily Kandinsky, Josef Albers, and Lázsló Moholy-Nagy.

It wasn’t all wonderful and inspirational stuff though. Gropius was a great theoretic champion of sexual equality within the Bauhaus workshops but, in practice, female students were directed to the weaving class (sounds ridiculous today!). Although the best of Bauhaus weaving is stunning (there’s this other excellent documentary focussing on Anni Albers), there were huge frustrations in a system in which only one exceptionally determined student, Marianne Brandt, entered the product design workshop.

What I did find hugely inspiring about Bauhaus, back in the 1960s, was the drawing together of art, design and technology… and I still think this has massively important relevance today. Sadly, the pitiful focus (don’t get me started!) on ‘core subjects’ (Maths, English and Sciences) in the UK education system – at the expense of the Arts, Humanities and Technology is utterly shameful in my view… and goes against virtually everything the Bauhaus was championing.

Oh for that time of bold and beautiful experiment in bringing creativity alive to be re-born!

august 2019 books…

August Heat (Andrea Camilleri): My monthly Montalbano allocation (actually, this WAS the last Camilleri book in my ‘collection’, but I found another one in the ‘The Last Bookshop’ at the start of the month!). I felt that the storyline seemed a little far-fetched at the beginning of the book, but it all ‘came together’ very effectively by the end. Another clever plot, set alongside the usual engaging characters, the sun, the beautiful women, great food, plenty of swimming, much humour and Montalbano’s rather lovely beachside apartment. Another very enjoyable read.
The Undoing Of Arlo Knott (Heather Child): This novel, by a local Bristol author tells the story of a boy, Arlo Knott, who discovers he can reverse his last action, undo any mistake. In some ways, it felt that the book was the outcome of a bizarre conversation amongst friends (over several glasses of wine!), when someone would ask: “so, if there was one thing you could change in your life, what would it be?”. A perfectly reasonable subject to speculate upon… but an entire 436 page novel based on a single premise? Really? ‘Goodreads’ is apparently full of 5-star book reviews… but I’m afraid it just didn’t ‘do it’ for me. Within a couple of chapters, I felt I knew how the story was likely to end (*no spoilers!*)… it all felt very predictable. The book is written in the first person from Arlo’s perspective and I never warmed to him as a character throughout the entire novel. The words ‘arrogant’, ‘immature’ and ‘clichéd’ come to mind. Although I found the book readily readable (and bits of it intriguing), I thought it was far too ‘drawn out’ (it could have been drastically reduced in length, to my mind) and that the ‘plot’ contained too many strands. A perfectly acceptable ‘holiday read’, but it really didn’t hold my attention – and it won’t feature as one of my ‘books of the year’.    
Through the Artist’s Window (Maggie Smith): This book is written by our lovely friend Mags. Our families lived just round the corner from each other in Thame, Oxfordshire and she and her husband Jez moved down to South Hams at about the same time we moved to Bristol (and we still meet up very regularly). She’s a successful painter and printmaker and this brilliantly illustrated book, featuring her work and her photographs, is rather special. She has a beautiful studio, set behind their house, where she works and teaches small workshops. The range of her work is hugely impressive – pen+ink, watercolours, acrylics, mixed-media, drypoint, monoprints, etchings, woodcuts and collagraphs to name just a few (I particularly love her woodcuts, monoprints and acrylics). Yes, it’s a truly inspiring book from an artistic perspective - examining the wealth of work she has produced over recent years – but one of the most impressive things I liked about the book was Mags simply telling her story and how she works. About the times when ideas don’t flow easily; about her routines; about her need to walk, write, read and reflect; about the different seasons; about needing to be quiet… or to sing… or dance; about working in the garden and feeding the hens; about getting into the right mindset; about making mistakes; and also about trying to have some fun! Really stimulating, encouraging… and beautiful.
The Immortalists (Chloe Benjamin): Another book being read by our lovely Storysmith book group. If you knew the day you were going to die, how would you live your life? This is the intriguing question on the novel’s cover. The story starts in 1969, in a grimy tenement building in New York’s Lower East Side. There’s a rumour that a travelling psychic is claiming to be able to tell anyone the date they will die. Four (very) young siblings (aged 13, 11, 9 and 7) decide to seek her out. The novel is in four parts, one for each of the siblings in order of their predicted deaths. It’s only some nine years later that they even talk to each other about what they’d individually been told. How WILL they live their lives? Indeed! Each of the siblings reacts in different ways… but, don’t worry, *no spoilers* here! Although I had reservations on one or two of the book’s storylines, I thought it was an absolutely compelling, brilliantly-written, well-researched novel that draws you in to experiences of youthful high spirits, wildness, grief, anger, frustration and fear… and one that I found becoming more absorbing as I worked my way through it – one of those books that will continue to haunt me (in a good way!) over the coming days. An excellent book for a book group discussion!
Blacklight Blue (Peter May): I’m a great admirer of Peter May’s books. This is the second “Enzo Macleod Investigation” I’ve read (it’s the third book in the series of six – I’ve previously read the fourth… I never seem to read stuff in the correct order!). Scott Enzo Macleod is a forensics expert who has taken on a bet to solve seven ‘cold cases’… but he’s diagnosed with a terminal illness and is running out of time. His daughter is nearly killed, he is mugged (and then arrested). Someone is out to destroy his character… and framing him for murder. Another very clever book – although I did feel that some aspects were a little far-fetched. Nevertheless, intense, threatening and ‘unputdownable’(!).

blinded by the light…

I went along to the Watershed this afternoon to see Gurinder Chadha’s film “Blinded by the Light”. Adapted from Sarfraz Manzoor’s memoir “Greetings from Bury Park”, it‘s a poignant comedy about Sarfraz’s youthful obsession with US rock legend Bruce Springsteen and how the power of music and words changed his life.
The background is Luton, in 1987, and schoolboy Javed (played by Viveik Kalra) simply wants to escape the dreary town – awash with its racism, the economic turmoil of the time and its lack of opportunity. Javed wants to become a writer, but sees little hope of being able to achieve his goal – his domineering father expects him to pursue a ‘sensible’ career to bring money into the struggling family. That’s when a classmate introduces him to the music of “The Boss” (Springsteen) and Javed – despite being accused by some of his colleagues as now being a lover of “Dad-Rock”(!) - immediately sees parallels to his own working class life. Springsteen’s music and powerful lyrics become the outlet for his own pent-up ambitions.

There’s huge irony (in my view at least) that Javed, inspired by Springsteen’s songs, sees America as the nation to which we should all aspire – and certainly in both music and opportunity. Thirty years later, in these depressing ‘Trump times’, Springsteen made these comments last November: “These are times when we’ve also seen folks marching, and in the highest offices of our land, who want to speak to our darkest angels, who want to call up the ugliest and most divisive ghosts of America’s past… And they want to destroy the idea of an America for all. That’s their intention... Trump has no interest in uniting the country, really, and actually has an interest in doing the opposite and dividing us, which he does on an almost daily basis. So that’s simply a crime against humanity, as far as I’m concerned. It’s an awful, awful message to send out into the world if you’re in that job and in that position. It’s just an ugly, awful message… It’s a scary moment for any conscientious American, I think.”

Anyway, I digress… It’s certainly not a brilliant film, but it is evocative, charming, hopeful and even inspiring in its way. Very definitely a ‘feel-good’ film (although rather over-doing the sentimental ‘pulling at the heartstrings’ in my view). Obviously, Springsteen’s brilliant music provides most of the film’s soundtrack (and pretty successfully at that) and the lyrics frequently appear on the screen to reinforce the message.

It wasn’t a film I expected to enjoy (especially having read a 2-star review in The Guardian beforehand) but, actually, I rather enjoyed it.  

morning…

My lovely friend Mags recently gave me a book called “Morning”. It’s written by Allan Jenkins – who, like me, is an early riser (and, unlike me, regularly does a little light gardening at 5am in soft light!). The book’s cover contains the following words from the author: “This is my manifesto for morning. There is an energy in the earlier hours, an awareness I enjoy. In today’s world we tend to wake as late as we can, timed to when we have to work. But we don’t need to chase the day”. In the book, he ‘talks’ to a number of other early risers who are asked to reply to a standard set of questions.

I thought it would be fun to try to answer these questions for myself, so here goes:

First, could you tell me a little about yourself?
Retired architect (I ran my own Practice in Buckinghamshire for nearly 30 years), married to Moira, three daughters, six grandchildren… enjoy sketching, taking photographs and walking. We’ve lived in Bristol for 16 years and are a 10 minute walk to the harbourside.
What time do you wake up (and why)?
It varies. I’ve always been an early riser. During my ‘working life’, I would invariably wake up at 5.10am (really!), and it’s still very much the same since I ‘properly’ retired in 2011 (although my waking time varies from 3.30am to 6am). I love the early mornings… it feels like ‘bonus time’ – especially since I retired.
Do you have a morning ritual?
If I wake VERY early, I might read for a while… but usually I get up as soon as I wake. I go downstairs, unbolt the front door, open the living room curtains, take my medication, put two rounds of bread in the toaster and make myself a coffee (something between a double espresso and a small Americano). I check out the news online (briefly), post a status update on facebook and post my daily blog (a photograph and a drawing on alternate days – a daily ‘ritual’ that’s now been going for very nearly 7 years, with well over 2,500 images). Then I usually go back to bed and read for an hour or so (these days I read something like 90 books a year).
How does being awake early affect your life?
Waking up early really does feel like a bonus. I love looking at the morning sky each day; I love listening to our local blackbird singing its heart out from dawn; I love being aware of the changing seasons and changing positions (and times) of the sunrise. Every day I feel as if I’ve ‘achieved’ things long before most people have arrived at work (one of the bonuses of retirement!) and feel pretty relaxed about fitting in all the other stuff I/we get up to in our regular activities. During my ‘working life’, I tended to breakfast and drive into the office early (by 6am if I could, as the children got older); I think I was driven by a sense of being able to get lots done before everyone else had started work (and without interruptions). Looking back - having established a rather different, more relaxed, morning routine in my retirement – I do have some regrets that I was perhaps ‘too driven’ and that my work/life balance wasn’t ideal.
What time do you sleep?
These days, I frequently go to be VERY early (sometimes before 9pm)(I know!) and read for up to an hour (in the main, with a few exceptions, television bores me!).
Does your sleep vary through the year?
Not really… but perhaps my ‘rising time’ extends by the odd quarter of an hour during the winter months?
Has your sleep pattern changed?
During most of my working life, I would be in bed between say 10pm and midnight and would be perfectly happy with perhaps 4-5 hours sleep a night (with occasional catch-ups at weekends?)… but, these days, I need more sleep time (even though I tend to wake quite frequently during the night).
Is the light important?
Yes. I love to see the bright morning sky shine through the curtains (the sun shining through the stained glass propped up on the window cill and casting coloured shadows on to the curtains). Drab, grey days definitely ‘pull me down’ somewhat.
What do you like least about being awake early?
I really can’t think of anything negative about waking up early.
How would you sum up your thoughts on your mornings in 100 words or less?
I absolutely love early mornings. I get a real sense of new beginnings and new opportunities (that sounds a little corny doesn’t it!). Early morning walks (frequently around the harbourside in my case) are very special. It often feels a bit like a secret world and there’s part of me that wants to keep it that way and not to tell anyone else about it!

july-august 2019 books…

The Paper Moon (Andrea Camilleri): I’m trying to restrict my Montalbano reading to one book a month (in fact, I think I’ve only got one other book left on my bedside table after this)! I really love the stories – always clever, intriguing plots (set against a backdrop of Sicilian corruption, vendettas, sunshine, delicious food, beautiful women and humour) but also for Montalbano’s endearing, almost shambolic, attitude to his life as a crime-fighter. This story is set against a gruesome murder of a man (shot in the face from point-blank range), two evasive beautiful women, dirty cocaine and dead politicians. Montalbano is also plagued by self-doubt (is he getting too old for all this?). One of my favourite bits of the story was about him reflecting on (and deploring) the very idea of any policemen needed to make notes in order to solve crimes (he’s never done such a thing in his entire career) and, so, when he finds himself struggling to remember key details or take an overview of matters, decides to write himself a letter pointing out the particular pieces of evidence that he feels might prove useful to him! As ever, Stephen Sartarelli’s translation captures the essence of things perfectly.
A Shepherd’s Life (WH Hudson): First published in 1910, this book is essentially about one man… named Caleb Bawcombe, a shepherd, whose flocks grazed the Wiltshire, Hampshire and Dorset borders at the turn of the (19^th/20^th) century. And yet it’s also a story of poachers, gypsies, sheepdogs, farmers, landowners and labourers (with some accounts dating back to the 1830s from people Hudson spoke to who’d been inhabitants of the some of the villages during their childhoods. A magical, humble record of rural life in southern England from an age gone by – a time of deprivation, hunger and poverty (bringing up a large family on six shillings a week)… but also a time of few comforts, simple living and, of course, picturesque landscape. I really enjoyed this beautiful, gentle book.
Morning (Allan Jenkins): My lovely friend Mags recently gave me this book. The author, like me, is an early riser (and, unlike me, regularly does a little light gardening at 5am in soft light!). The book’s cover contains the following words from the author: “This is my manifesto for morning. There is an energy in the earlier hours, an awareness I enjoy. In today’s world we tend to wake as late as we can, timed to when we have to work. But we don’t need to chase the day”. The book, amongst other things, gives a monthly diary covering a whole year (with Jenkins’ own diary extracts)… the sounds, the routines, the observations, the reflections, the opportunities do stuff. He also ‘talks’ to a number of other early risers who are asked to reply to a standard set of questions. Not surprisingly, perhaps, they all talk incredibly positively about this magical, ‘bonus time’ of the day (in the same way I frequently find myself doing). A really beautiful, gentle and empowering book.
Under The Bright Wings (Peter Harris): Good friends of ours have a long-established association with A Rocha (an international network of environmental organisations with a Christian ethos) and are soon to depart Bristol to live and work in Nice for the organisation. Although I was very aware of A Rocha, I realised that I had only limited knowledge of the extent of their work. Peter Harris (then a curate on Merseyside) and his wife Miranda (and their three young children) set up the first A Rocha in the Algarve, Portugal in 1983/4. The book provides frank (and frequently funny) descriptions of their early days – struggling for finance, recognition, acceptance by the local community etc – as they sought to establish a community that was true both to their Christian beliefs and to their concern for the environment (very much harder in practice than theory). Clearly, an awful lot has changed since this book was first published (in 1993) and A Rocha is now an established worldwide organisation at the forefront of environmental projects and campaigns. They were clearly way ahead of their time. Fascinating and challenging. From small beginnings…
Go Ahead In The Rain (Hanif Abdurraqib): I don’t really get hip-hop or rap but have realised that, over the years, it’s become (or was?) an important, meaningful outlet for huge numbers of people… and so feel that I need to try to appreciate it more. Perhaps my other problem is that I frequently don’t understand, or even hear(!), the lyrics properly (some have actually described it as “mumble rap”). Having said that, I was hugely taken by Stormzy’s ‘set’ at Glastonbury this summer and his ability to communicate a wide range of issues and concerns through music (maybe it’s easier to ‘hear’ the message when you can actually watch the performers?). At the end of last year, I read a book about hip-hop band Wu-Tang Clan – which I found both fascinating and helpful. So, this book about the band called ‘A Tribe Called Quest’ (formed in 1985) is another attempt to educate myself musically (I’d seen the music journalist in The Guardian list the book as one of his top ten) – and it contains various cross-references between the two group. The author, Hanif Abdurraqib, is “an obsessive fan” who has followed the collective/band for 30 years and the book is a mix of autobiography, social history and slightly fanatical musical detail - although this also included references to Leonard Cohen+Marianne and also Cohen’s death coinciding with Trump’s election (Abdurraqib and I both despair about Trump!). I know some of the Tribe’s music and I like much of its jazzy, instrumental setting (blimey, that sounds SO pretentious doesn’t it!), but, frankly, I do struggle. I recall reading a couple of pages full of music references to other artists/bands/collectives and realising that I hadn’t heard of a single one of them! But, hey, the book’s very well-written and informative. The Tribe have been a hugely important part of Abdurraqib’s life and this book reflects this rather beautifully. I have to say that, by the end, he had won me over.

marianne and leonard: words of love…

I went along to the Watershed yesterday afternoon to see Nick Broomfield’s “Marianne+Leonard: Words of Love”. It tells the beautiful, yet sad, love story between musician Leonard Cohen and Marianne Ihlen. They first met on the Greek island of Hydra in the early 1960s and became inseparable.
The film takes the form of a documentary, starting with the young struggling Cohen on the island of Hydra, amongst a community of foreign artists, writers and musicians, with dreams of becoming an author. Here, he meets Ihlen (13 years older than him) – alone with her young son, after a failed marriage – who ultimately played a huge role in transforming Cohen from a struggling novelist and poet into the influential singer and songwriter he became (with a little additional help from Judy Collins).
Cohen – in his younger days, at least – was a selfish, self-centred, self-obsessed (almost narcissistic?) man who clearly felt he was something of God’s gift to women (and huge numbers of women seemed to agree!)… but also a complex man who struggled with depression and drugs.
The film contains footage of him talking about his time with Marianne… revealing how, at first, he spent six months of the year in Hydra with Ihlen, and the other six months in Montreal. Then it was four months a year, then two months, then two weeks as his career took off. Marianne Ihlen (unlike “Suzanne”, incidentally) emerges as someone of enormous gentleness and dignity, even coming to one of the huge concerts that Cohen did in his old age when he was enjoying a huge second wave of popularity.

The album “Songs of Leonard Cohen” (1967) was/is one of my all-time favourites (but, obviously, Joni Mitchell is the singer/songwriter I worship!) – featuring the iconic tracks ‘So Long, Marianne’ and ‘Suzanne’… at the time (and since!), some people couldn’t understand why I absolutely loved songs that were so bleak. Yes, I loved Cohen’s poetry, his voice… and his bleakness.

The relationship between Marianne and Leonard lasted some 8 years (off and on) and their friendship until their deaths (she died in July 2016 and he died just four months later). When he was advised of her impending death, Cohen sent her this poignant message:
“And you know that I’ve always loved you for your beauty and your wisdom, but I don’t need to say anything more about that because you know all about that. But now, I just want to wish you a very good journey. Goodbye old friend. Endless love, see you down the road”.

Clearly, for me, the music is a nostalgic reminder of my student days in Oxford from 1967 onwards… and of songs that I keep returning to, even more than 50 years later.

This isn’t a great film, but it does provide a vivid snapshot of the early 1960s and of a complicated, tender love story.

very first test match…

During the course of my life, I’ve watched an awful lot of cricket… BUT, ridiculously, I’d never ever been to a Test Match (I know).
This all changed on Thursday, when my wonderful brother treated me to a day at Edgbaston. And it wasn’t just any old Test Match – it was the first day of the first Ashes Test against Australia.
Very, very special.
We had a wonderful day. Alan lives just a short bus ride and 20 minute walk from the ground. We arrived there early “for the full experience” (even though, somewhat annoyingly, we and other early spectators were kept queuing outside the ground well beyond the advertised ‘gates open’ times). Alan provided the match tickets, all the food (prepared in advance, of course)… and I was left merely to buy the beer at the bar (and inadvertently bought two pints of cider for our ‘first round of the day’!! Duh). I think we each had four pints during the course of the day… which paled to insignificance compared with the group of Aussies seated alongside us – who were constantly passing us on their way to the bar for re-fills – and must have consumed much more than a dozen pints each!

Of course, as you might imagine, both Alan and I had spent the previous week or so checking out weather forecasts – as we know only too well, even the best laid plans can go horribly wrong. In my glass half-full way (and given the pretty gloomy advance weather predictions), part of me was convinced that the day would be a complete wash-out... and the forecast given out the day before the start pointed to a 50% chance of rain and some of it heavy (there were times that I’d have gladly accepted seeing ANY play, however brief).

In the event, we were incredibly lucky – a full day’s play (much of it in bright sunshine) with only 20 minutes lost to a brief light shower, which they were able to make up at the end of the day’s play.
There’s something quite magical about watching a sporting occasion when the ground is full to capacity… with expectations and emotions running high, people in fancy dress, the cricket pitch looking perfect, all the banter (most of it light-hearted), the noise and the entire ground feeling akin to an arena for gladiatorial combat.
In the event, it proved to be an absolutely fascinating day’s play. Australia won the toss and elected to bat – despite probably being very tempted to bowl first, given the cloudy conditions. England got off to a wonderful start and took three wickets before lunch and followed this up by reducing Australia to 122-8 (largely thanks to Stuart Broad’s 5-86 and despite bowler Anderson having to leave the field after only 4 overs due injury)… before a brilliant recovery, led by former captain Steve Smith (who ended up scoring a wonderful 144 runs), to finish on 284 all out.  The England openers survived the final two overs to finish the day 10-0.
It was a truly memorable, magical day.
We got home feeling physically drained after watching a compelling day’s play. We’d just WATCHED for goodness sake… we hadn’t bowled 37 overs or spent five-and-a-half hours scoring a century… but we were happy just to relax and reflect on the day. The players and, no doubt, some spectators would be up the following day to do it all over again!
Photo: “Brothers in Arms”: taken by one of our Aussie ‘friends’ before the start of play.
PS: My greatest cricket experience HAD been attending the Oxford v Cambridge Varsity match (perhaps more than 20 years ago) at Lord’s. I’d been guest of a friend who was a long-standing member of Middlesex CC (and someone who appeared to ‘know’ everyone associated with both the club and ground). At lunchtime, he took me into the Old Pavilion and into the ‘home’ (England!) dressing room… and, from there, we walked down the stairs, through the famous Long Room, down the pavilion steps, on to the green, green turf and up to the hallowed cricket square itself. BUT, this was nothing compared to witnessing the first day of the first Test Match against the Aussies!