A roll of paper tape for printing tickets or receipts unravels amid the traffic in Mount Pleasant. It flows and ripples in the wind on the tarmac like a long white tail; and the tyres of cars and buses cannot tame it.
Because of the cold, wet wind, there are no children in the railed-off playground in the Grove. Mr and Mrs Crow have taken it over. Mr Crow sits on the railing and caws. Mrs Crow pecks at the grass and looks for sweeties that the children may have dropped. She makes a strangled clucking noise, a dutiful acknowledgement of her husband's sovereignty.
Whether it is because of the printing ink or the glossy paper on which it is printed, the National Geographic magazine smells wonderful when you first open the new issue. It smells almost as good as some of the photographs look.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
footnotes, Mr Crow, knickers
Footnotes can intrude. Perhaps that is why, nowadays, publishers seem to place notes at the end of a book. I find that this is not always an improvement. English publishers seem to arrange the notes chapter by chapter and number the notes of each chapter separately under the chapter headings starting each time with 1. So you have two things to look for -the number of the chapter and the number of the note. In contrast, the French tend to print footnotes continuously and always linked to the page number. I'm reading Emile Zola's novel, L'Oeuvre at the moment in the Gallimard Folio Classique edition, where the notes, arranged in this way, are easy to follow. It so happens that, in the case of l'Oeuvre, they are of particular interest because they explain the story's links to the early impressionist painters and their struggle for acceptance in the face of ridicule by the critics and the public - a dramatic episode of art history, fascinating even if it were not supported by a plot. So thank you Gallimard.
Mr Crow, atop the Turkey oak in the Grove, caws his head off, this morning, proclaiming his territorial rights, I expect. "Noisy devils, aren't they!" Says Olive who lives on the other side of the Grove.
Discarded undergarments suggest a story. In the gutter, a pair of black underpants, (male probably for want of close inspection), look like an item of road kill.
Mr Crow, atop the Turkey oak in the Grove, caws his head off, this morning, proclaiming his territorial rights, I expect. "Noisy devils, aren't they!" Says Olive who lives on the other side of the Grove.
Discarded undergarments suggest a story. In the gutter, a pair of black underpants, (male probably for want of close inspection), look like an item of road kill.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
slogans, fragrance, looking down
It is nice to be reminded (in an article in The Independent, of slogans from the Paris of 40 years ago."Il est interdit d'interdire"; "Soyez realiste, demandez l'impossible"; "Imagine- c'est la guerre et personne n'y va"; and above all; "Je suis marxiste, tendance Groucho" . What joy 'twas then to be alive! To be young was very bliss!
A new book called Cooking with Flowers by my friend, Frances Bissell, who used to be cookery writer for The Times , arrives in the post. I have always loved the taste and scent of rose water and orange flower water, which unsurprisingly feature in a number of her recipes. Lavender, too! And my favourite, nasturtiums! She writes of using the flowers' scent as a flavouring as one might use a herb or spice. But there is no doubt that flowers also add to the appearance of a salad or a dessert, and there is plenty in her book to inspire in that direction as well.
Standing by the traffic lights at the top of Mount Pleasant and looking down the hill it is a pleasant surprise to find that you are at the same height as the clock tower over the station.
A new book called Cooking with Flowers by my friend, Frances Bissell, who used to be cookery writer for The Times , arrives in the post. I have always loved the taste and scent of rose water and orange flower water, which unsurprisingly feature in a number of her recipes. Lavender, too! And my favourite, nasturtiums! She writes of using the flowers' scent as a flavouring as one might use a herb or spice. But there is no doubt that flowers also add to the appearance of a salad or a dessert, and there is plenty in her book to inspire in that direction as well.
Standing by the traffic lights at the top of Mount Pleasant and looking down the hill it is a pleasant surprise to find that you are at the same height as the clock tower over the station.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
sour and sweet, old, japonica
More about pomegranates. In a book called The Origin of Plants, I read that Henry IV of France took the pomegranate as his device with the motto "sour and sweet". The book quotes a poem by Andre Gide:
A little sour is the juice of the pomegranate
Like the juice of unripe raspberries.
Waxlike is the flower
Coloured as the fruit is coloured.
Close-guarded this item of treasure,
Richness of savour,
Architecture of pentagons.
The rind splits; out tumble the seeds,
In cups of azure some seeds are blood;
On plates of enamelled bronze, others are drops of gold.
We greet the fish and chip shop owner on his way into the Compasses for a pint. "Terrible, " he says, "Nothing works when you get to 79!"
The wax-like red flowers (perhaps a little like the wax-like, red flowers of the pomegranate) of Japonica ride up some railings in Mount Sion. You want to say that, in the perfection of their shape, they look almost as good as artificial flowers. But the light comes off them more with more confidence than if they were really made of wax.
A little sour is the juice of the pomegranate
Like the juice of unripe raspberries.
Waxlike is the flower
Coloured as the fruit is coloured.
Close-guarded this item of treasure,
Richness of savour,
Architecture of pentagons.
The rind splits; out tumble the seeds,
In cups of azure some seeds are blood;
On plates of enamelled bronze, others are drops of gold.
We greet the fish and chip shop owner on his way into the Compasses for a pint. "Terrible, " he says, "Nothing works when you get to 79!"
The wax-like red flowers (perhaps a little like the wax-like, red flowers of the pomegranate) of Japonica ride up some railings in Mount Sion. You want to say that, in the perfection of their shape, they look almost as good as artificial flowers. But the light comes off them more with more confidence than if they were really made of wax.
Monday, February 25, 2008
rare, monopoly, brassy
The second of the rare Chinese teas which, Heidi's daughter Caroline gave me for Christmas is Oolong Gold. It has large leaves which, when brewed, retain the shape and outline of leaves coarsely chopped. The beverage itself is the most gentle, greenish, golden colour, pale and translucent, which almost describes the way it tastes. You need to compose yourself into a state of spiritual receptiveness before sipping it.
In the window of a house in Christchurch Avenue is an unfinished game of Monopoly, where green houses and red hotels, already occupy some of the streets.
How brazen is the daffodil flower!
In the window of a house in Christchurch Avenue is an unfinished game of Monopoly, where green houses and red hotels, already occupy some of the streets.
How brazen is the daffodil flower!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
green rug, pizza, literary character
On a bench in Calverley Park, I see what looks like a rough, green blanket twisted over to reveal a brown lining. When I look closer, I see that it is a strip of turf that has been left there(presumably by exuberant young people on a spree). "Is that your turf?" I say to a park attendant in his electric tractor". "I'm just going to collect it," he says. He tells me that the turf is used to repair patches of worn grass," a task which he is currently engaged in, a remarkably pleasant one I think, fit for an angel.
Two empty pizza boxes are in a green waste box outside a gate. They bear the injunction "enjoy your pizza" above the pizza's measurement - 18 in. They puts me in mind of my first pizza, 50 years ago in Rome. I remember a dark, little hole of a restaurant, with a wood-fired oven, and, hot out of the oven, on the blade of one of those long flat shovels, these fantastic bread circles covered in tomato and cheese, olives and anchovies. Pizzas were unknown in England then. I had not even heard of them. The experience was, I suppose, an epiphany, if you can apply the word to an item of food.
Clare (Three Beautiful Things) Grant, whom I meet, this morning, on her way back from the farmers' market, while on my way to the farmers' market, introduces me to her boy friend Nick. "I've read about you," I say. "Yes, " he says, "I'm a literary character". And I think that in a sense he is, and that I have just met someone who has stepped out of the pages of a book.
Two empty pizza boxes are in a green waste box outside a gate. They bear the injunction "enjoy your pizza" above the pizza's measurement - 18 in. They puts me in mind of my first pizza, 50 years ago in Rome. I remember a dark, little hole of a restaurant, with a wood-fired oven, and, hot out of the oven, on the blade of one of those long flat shovels, these fantastic bread circles covered in tomato and cheese, olives and anchovies. Pizzas were unknown in England then. I had not even heard of them. The experience was, I suppose, an epiphany, if you can apply the word to an item of food.
Clare (Three Beautiful Things) Grant, whom I meet, this morning, on her way back from the farmers' market, while on my way to the farmers' market, introduces me to her boy friend Nick. "I've read about you," I say. "Yes, " he says, "I'm a literary character". And I think that in a sense he is, and that I have just met someone who has stepped out of the pages of a book.
Friday, February 22, 2008
railwaymen, pigeons, camellia
Four railway workers in orange jackets walk briskly past the station. I think to myself: they need someone to write a poem about them or put them in a picture?
Pigeons wheel and ride the wind above Mount Sion.
Last year and probably the year before I made a note about the pink camellia in flower in Grove Avenue. Though it looks a little out place against the stucco houses and subfusc paving, it has found a perfect new home here where it can flourish, far from its origins in the foothills of the Himalayas or a mysterious Chinese valley.
Pigeons wheel and ride the wind above Mount Sion.
Last year and probably the year before I made a note about the pink camellia in flower in Grove Avenue. Though it looks a little out place against the stucco houses and subfusc paving, it has found a perfect new home here where it can flourish, far from its origins in the foothills of the Himalayas or a mysterious Chinese valley.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
half and half, turkey oak, party
"I half like him," says a bloke to his mate as they pass me in the street.
There is a towering oak tree in the corner of the Grove. For a long timeI have thought of it as a Turkey Oak on account of its characteristic, long pendulous leaves. But I occasionally have doubts. These are allayed from time to time, because Clare of Three Beautiful Things fame refers to a Turkey Oak in the Grove in her blog. But is hers the same tree as mine? Today, I meet Clare in the Grove and venture to ask. "It's the one in the corner," she says. "I'm never completely certain," I say. "It's the one on the corner", she says. "I think I must have got it from you." In this way myths are made. I hope I had it right from the start.
A party not to have missed. On May 18, 1922, a rich Englishman called Sydney Schiff, gave a supper party at the Hotel Majestic in Paris. Present were Picasso, Proust, Stravinksy and James Joyce. According to John Richardson, who describes the event in his biography of Picasso (vol 3), it was not a notable success.
"When asked by Proust whether he liked Beethoven, Stravinsky said he detested his music. "But surely the late quartets?" "Worst thing he ever wrote," Stravinsy snapped. Proust fared no better with Joyce, who arrived late, drunk and inappropriately dressed. 'Joyce complained of his eyes, Proust of his stomach. Did Mr Joyce like truffles? He did. Had he met the Duchesse de X? He had not. 'I regret that I do not know M Joyce's work,' remarked Proust. " I have never read M. Proust' , Joyce (lied)... Thus the two greatest novelists of the Twentieth Century met and parted".
There is a towering oak tree in the corner of the Grove. For a long timeI have thought of it as a Turkey Oak on account of its characteristic, long pendulous leaves. But I occasionally have doubts. These are allayed from time to time, because Clare of Three Beautiful Things fame refers to a Turkey Oak in the Grove in her blog. But is hers the same tree as mine? Today, I meet Clare in the Grove and venture to ask. "It's the one in the corner," she says. "I'm never completely certain," I say. "It's the one on the corner", she says. "I think I must have got it from you." In this way myths are made. I hope I had it right from the start.
A party not to have missed. On May 18, 1922, a rich Englishman called Sydney Schiff, gave a supper party at the Hotel Majestic in Paris. Present were Picasso, Proust, Stravinksy and James Joyce. According to John Richardson, who describes the event in his biography of Picasso (vol 3), it was not a notable success.
"When asked by Proust whether he liked Beethoven, Stravinsky said he detested his music. "But surely the late quartets?" "Worst thing he ever wrote," Stravinsy snapped. Proust fared no better with Joyce, who arrived late, drunk and inappropriately dressed. 'Joyce complained of his eyes, Proust of his stomach. Did Mr Joyce like truffles? He did. Had he met the Duchesse de X? He had not. 'I regret that I do not know M Joyce's work,' remarked Proust. " I have never read M. Proust' , Joyce (lied)... Thus the two greatest novelists of the Twentieth Century met and parted".
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
licked, apocope, halos
A man with two alsation puppies on leads stops to do up a shoe lace. But the dogs won't let him. They assault him with paws and tongues, licking him as though his face was made of sugar, clearly impressed to find him at their level.
On a blackboard announcing the menu of the cafe in Calverley Park, after sandwiches, cakes and the like, "jackets". Jacket potatoes, of course. In the same way greengrocers sometimes shorten tomatoes to "toms"., and cucumbers to "cues" . Apacopes. I thought the word would come in useful.
The morning sun highlights the heads of people in the street, where I wait for Heidi outside the post office. It touches dark hair and fair, and edges white hair with silver. It gilds the tops of heads, bald and hatted, and gleams even on the hard hat of passing building workers. Saints everyone, they seem, and walk past ignorant of their short lived grace.
On a blackboard announcing the menu of the cafe in Calverley Park, after sandwiches, cakes and the like, "jackets". Jacket potatoes, of course. In the same way greengrocers sometimes shorten tomatoes to "toms"., and cucumbers to "cues" . Apacopes. I thought the word would come in useful.
The morning sun highlights the heads of people in the street, where I wait for Heidi outside the post office. It touches dark hair and fair, and edges white hair with silver. It gilds the tops of heads, bald and hatted, and gleams even on the hard hat of passing building workers. Saints everyone, they seem, and walk past ignorant of their short lived grace.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
old joke, sunset, sun up
Last time there was an election in the USA, a correspondent in Washington sent me a spoof proclamation to the effect that Britain is repossessing the USA.
"In the light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA ... we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately," it says. "Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume duties over all states, commonwealths and territories (except California, which she does not fancy ...).It goes on ann on. Item 16 reads: Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4pm with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quility biscuits (cookies) and cakes: plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.Today, effectively the same email arrives.
A woman we know describes a sunset, which she saw while driving back from Eastbourne on Sunday. "The sun was setting on the left," she says, "you might say in the West. We couldn't keep our eyes off it. It got quite dangerous."
Early sun: white balloon, creamy mist.
"In the light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA ... we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately," it says. "Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume duties over all states, commonwealths and territories (except California, which she does not fancy ...).It goes on ann on. Item 16 reads: Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4pm with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quility biscuits (cookies) and cakes: plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.Today, effectively the same email arrives.
A woman we know describes a sunset, which she saw while driving back from Eastbourne on Sunday. "The sun was setting on the left," she says, "you might say in the West. We couldn't keep our eyes off it. It got quite dangerous."
Early sun: white balloon, creamy mist.
Monday, February 18, 2008
reward, seagulls, straight ahead
We sit outside of the Compasses with a pint of bitter and some cheese on toast after a good walk on this bright, crisp morning.
Seagulls wheel in a continuing circle over a pond at the end of the artificial lake in Dunorlan Park. I point my camera towards the vortex of flapping wings. I have no confidence in the results: the birds themselves are enough for the moment.
From a distance, I watch a neighbour walk across the Grove. He look neither to left nor right. He had no eyes for the groups of people under trees or on the paths ahead of him. Nor does he appear to see the play of sun on the grass and trees. I wonder what he sees inside his head.
Seagulls wheel in a continuing circle over a pond at the end of the artificial lake in Dunorlan Park. I point my camera towards the vortex of flapping wings. I have no confidence in the results: the birds themselves are enough for the moment.
From a distance, I watch a neighbour walk across the Grove. He look neither to left nor right. He had no eyes for the groups of people under trees or on the paths ahead of him. Nor does he appear to see the play of sun on the grass and trees. I wonder what he sees inside his head.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
composition, to the point, machines
Two vapour trails are drawn parallel by aircraft at different heights. A seagull, gliding, not a movement of its wings, crosses both lines, its flight slow and graceful.
In the supermarket, a child perched on a trolley pushed into me by a bustling mother, says to me as I try to reach some fruit: "Who are you?"
An American engineer called Ray Kurzweil, I read on the BBC website, believes that humans and machines will eventually merge as machines, such as tiny robots, are implanted in the body to boost intelligence and monitor and cure disease.
In the supermarket, a child perched on a trolley pushed into me by a bustling mother, says to me as I try to reach some fruit: "Who are you?"
An American engineer called Ray Kurzweil, I read on the BBC website, believes that humans and machines will eventually merge as machines, such as tiny robots, are implanted in the body to boost intelligence and monitor and cure disease.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
eggs, hellebores, dog carrier
In the Farmers' Market there is a stall with new laid eggs. The eggs are of different sizes, ungraded and unstamped. What is more they are dirty. None of these attributes suggestive of their outdoor origins may nowadays be taken for granted. Free range?" says the chicken farmer: "We have a fox-free, fenced-off area for about 400 chickens. Some of the them roost in the trees."
A man hurries past with several blue plastic bag filled with different coloured hellebores (lenten roses).
A collie-like dog snuggles up to its owner who walks up and down, the dog under his jacket. It looks very pleased with itself. And who wouldn't?
A man hurries past with several blue plastic bag filled with different coloured hellebores (lenten roses).
A collie-like dog snuggles up to its owner who walks up and down, the dog under his jacket. It looks very pleased with itself. And who wouldn't?
Friday, February 15, 2008
What did you say? swinging, next feast
In the newagent, the young man behind the counter says something to me in a language I do not understand, nor recognise.It takes some moments to discover that he is talking into a no-hands telephone hanging round his neck. It is a relief not to have to reply.
A woman passes me with bouquet of flowers in one hand. She swings it like a club as she marches up Mount Pleasant as though she intends to hit someone with it.
Valentine's Day is history. Outside The Barn Bar and Grill, a notice advises Mothers' Day. Book Today.
A woman passes me with bouquet of flowers in one hand. She swings it like a club as she marches up Mount Pleasant as though she intends to hit someone with it.
Valentine's Day is history. Outside The Barn Bar and Grill, a notice advises Mothers' Day. Book Today.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
puns, all day, knitting
Thinking about puns, I come across a line of W.H. Auden's, "... Good poets have a weakness for bad puns..." which, as sucker for bad puns, I find a consolation.
At four o'clock this afternoon I am enjoying a cup of tea and some buttered toast in a cafe when in come four people who ask for "all day breakfasts".
In Hall's book shop, today, the conversation turns to knitting. Suddenly I remember how as a child, when I was once confined to my sick bed, my mother, to keep me occupied, gave me thick wooden knitting needles and a ball of string with instructions on how to knit dishcloths.
At four o'clock this afternoon I am enjoying a cup of tea and some buttered toast in a cafe when in come four people who ask for "all day breakfasts".
In Hall's book shop, today, the conversation turns to knitting. Suddenly I remember how as a child, when I was once confined to my sick bed, my mother, to keep me occupied, gave me thick wooden knitting needles and a ball of string with instructions on how to knit dishcloths.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
daffodil bud, heavy metal, monkey love
The paper-thin membrane, which covers the bud of a daffodil, wrinkles and begins to fall away as the bud opens.
"I'm not a silver person, " says a woman in a fashion shop, to explain to the owner her lack of interest in the silver necklaces, bangles and other trinkets on offer. Pleased with the description, she repeats: "I'm not a silver person."
Yara and Thiego, a pair of red titty monkeys in the rain forest zone of the London zoo, I read in today's paper, are so devoted to one another that they sleep with their tails intertwined.
"I'm not a silver person, " says a woman in a fashion shop, to explain to the owner her lack of interest in the silver necklaces, bangles and other trinkets on offer. Pleased with the description, she repeats: "I'm not a silver person."
Yara and Thiego, a pair of red titty monkeys in the rain forest zone of the London zoo, I read in today's paper, are so devoted to one another that they sleep with their tails intertwined.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
romanescos, drama, scattering leaves
I have, for various reasons, neglected the kitchen garden this winter. When I last visited it, I had given up hope of any of those strange half broccoli, half cauliflower like vegetables, ever appearing among the kale-like leaves of the romanescos, which I sowed in the summer. Today I find they have sprouted magnificently, and though some have gone to seed, there are several for me to harvest.
When I raise the blind in the morning I enjoy seeing the sun coming from behind the house opposite and lighting, with a touch of theatre, just the tops of the evergreen trees in in its drive.
In the Grove, a park attendant is patiently sweeping up some leaves from a path, while some three-year olds are doing their best to put them back. They pick up the leaves and scatter them shouting "Autumn, Autumn", as they do. A parent runs forward; and, though she doesn't go as far as stopping the children, she says "sorry" to the sweeper, who goes on indefaticabily sweeping.
When I raise the blind in the morning I enjoy seeing the sun coming from behind the house opposite and lighting, with a touch of theatre, just the tops of the evergreen trees in in its drive.
In the Grove, a park attendant is patiently sweeping up some leaves from a path, while some three-year olds are doing their best to put them back. They pick up the leaves and scatter them shouting "Autumn, Autumn", as they do. A parent runs forward; and, though she doesn't go as far as stopping the children, she says "sorry" to the sweeper, who goes on indefaticabily sweeping.
Monday, February 11, 2008
six words, canine valentine, sprout puree
Thirty words, huh? The BBC Radio Today Programme has just drawn attention to a competition run by an on-line magazine called Smith, which invites six word memoires from readers. The idea is based on a $10 bet made by Ernest Hemingway that he could write a short story in six words. He won the bet it with: For Sale:baby shoes , never worn. From now on I shall venture the occasional six-word post. But not today.
A pegkingese sits on its owner's lap at a table outside the Ragged Trousers bar in the Pantiles. It is so pleased with itself in this elevated position that it appears to think it is a person. But this doesn't stop it making eyes at a Jack Russell terrier at a neighbouring table. After while the Jack Russell's owner stands up. Before leaving she lifts the Jack Russell and carries it to the Pekingese. "Say goodby to your friend then," she says, proffering her dog, face to face with the Pekingese. The two dogs sniff at each other's nose, not without, it seems, a certain embarrassment.
Tonight's supper: one of the stalks of sprouts from Saturday's markets provides the sprouts for a sprout purée to accompany grilled pheasant breast, the last pheasant of the season.
A pegkingese sits on its owner's lap at a table outside the Ragged Trousers bar in the Pantiles. It is so pleased with itself in this elevated position that it appears to think it is a person. But this doesn't stop it making eyes at a Jack Russell terrier at a neighbouring table. After while the Jack Russell's owner stands up. Before leaving she lifts the Jack Russell and carries it to the Pekingese. "Say goodby to your friend then," she says, proffering her dog, face to face with the Pekingese. The two dogs sniff at each other's nose, not without, it seems, a certain embarrassment.
Tonight's supper: one of the stalks of sprouts from Saturday's markets provides the sprouts for a sprout purée to accompany grilled pheasant breast, the last pheasant of the season.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Long finish, hand-in-hand, violets
Wine tasters talk about a wine having a long finish, when the flavours endure long after the wine has been spat out or swallowed. The nibble of goat cheese, which I was offered from a stall at the farmers market has a long finish too. I can still taste it on my way down Mount Pleasant and, come to think of it, a day later it is still "finishing" in my mind.
An old couple, he in a green jacket, she in a blue, walk hand in hand through the Grove. They stop and point things out to each other as though they are in the Garden of Eden.
In a wild, neglected front garden, a mass of sweet violets, glimmer among weeds and stones.
An old couple, he in a green jacket, she in a blue, walk hand in hand through the Grove. They stop and point things out to each other as though they are in the Garden of Eden.
In a wild, neglected front garden, a mass of sweet violets, glimmer among weeds and stones.
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