RogerNoblog

2012-01-23T04:05:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I visited an exhibition - it doesn't matter where, or who was on show, for the same problem is everywhere. But at yesterday's display, this camel suffered a major prolapsus disci intervertebralis. Today's issue is Frames. At some point in history an invidious clique of otherwise uninspired (presumably failed) artists decided to invent the past-time of Framing. It is no coincidence that the term Framing is used in the sense of putting otherwise unimpeachable people into a nasty setting. What is it that drives gallery curators to ruin the jewels in their collections by mounting them in hideous pieces of wood (often combining dust and gold - which has nothing to do with Gold-dust). Frames most frequently overpower their contents, or caste an evil chromatic reverbation over them. Some Moriatian genius of evil decided that impressionist illustrations should be twinned with grossly adorned full-on renaissance twirls, and that gritty expressionist graphics should be surrounded by pretty leafy things better suited to My Little Pony. Cubist masterpieces hide behind imperial architraval patterns.I have a yearning to go into the National Gallery, liberate the canvasses, and steal off with the frames - to burn them in a massive bonfire.FRAME - ETYMOLOGY: Anglo-Saxon framian to benefit (so what did the Anglo-Saxons know).

From Aix to Ghent

2011-10-05T08:05:00.000-07:00

Last June...

2011-09-19T16:14:00.001-07:00

And this was last year...

Satnav blues

2011-08-07T10:15:00.000-07:00

The old satnav (Luccia) died when we sold her life support system with the car (but she was very old so it was a blessing). So I went to buy a new one. After hours of intensive research on webpages, magpages and adpages, I fixed on THE model. At the shop it took them 47 seconds to sell me a different one. Still it’s very good. It did get me to Steyning (she calls it Staining) and back… but there the good news ends. Her cord is inherently flawed. If I hold her at an angle and plug her into the USB socket, and then breath in for sixty seconds she begins to charge. The PC won’t recognise her (it’s the voice - very odd) and her software ignores her - but she does charge. As long as I still hold her at an angle. In the car she doesn’t. So I can’t drive for more than two hours. Luckily we haven’t yet bonded, she has no name, and (crucially) she’s still under guarantee. The trouble is, I didn’t want to go to Steyning (Staining) anyway. So let’s have a picture of waves.

Malta

2011-02-16T06:36:00.001-08:00

Monday - The quickest check-in we've ever had (Air Malta) and no Easyjet crush and rush. A three-hour flight and we land in sunshine.

The 'boneshaker' bus was not at all bone-shaking – and we drive through streets that look like Jerusalem. The gateway to Valletta is being renovated but the city is clearly beautiful. We reach the hotel on foot within five minutes - a beautiful entrance and public rooms – stone walls, arches etc. Out to explore - Republic Street - we think they have decorated for the Chinese New Year, but it proves to be the feast of St Paul who was shipwrecked here. Decorations, banners and street pedestalled statues (and fireworks at night) in preparation for Thursday. We walk down to the siege bell tower which overlooks the Grand Harbour. All streets have English and Malti names. Malti is a mix of Arabic and Italian.

Tuesday - Walk round the south east shore of Valletta then coffee at the cafe by the Lower Barrakka Gardens overlooking the Grand Harbour. It’s sunny and warm. We go to the Co-Cathedral and admire the Caravaggios. The cathedral itself is very ornate – Chapels for each of the each of the Langues (divisions of the Knights of St John. An amazing display of vast choral books beautifully illustrated, and occasionally crassly defaced in order to update them by sticking paper on overlaps on top of exquisitely illustrated parchment. Lunch at the theatre. The afternoon is disrupted by the discovery that the fully charged camera has turned itself on and discharge the battery. I obsess but eventually buy an emergency camera that works on AAA batteries. Lecture and recital - Liszt’s 200 anniversary - a tour de force by a guy who spoke without notes – linking Liszt's life and music with Wagner and others, and placing his subject in the European context on the broadest canvas – all illustrated by a pianist.

Wednesday - Today we do a circular bus tour of the North - the Dome at Mossda (the third or fourth largest in the world) - Medina classical medieval silent city - glass shop - and the Cathedral (St Paul's) – the high point is the Carmelite Priory, a beautiful simple building – and a cello and tenor recital - the Roman house - not much remains though it is interesting - Dotto train around Rabat - Northern beach resorts (resorty) - Ferry back to Valletta where there are fireworks and church bells. We encounter a huge brass band, strolling (not marching) through the streets as part of the festivities for St. Paul's eve. We join in and shuffle after them for an hour.

Thursday – St Paul's Fiesta - Ferry to Sliema for a tour by boat around both harbours into every creek. This put the whole area into perspective. Many photos and strained vertebrae later we returned to Sliema. I'm dying for coffee – so we fall victim to Daniel – touting up business for a timeshare. After a free but very long coffee we emerge with a bottle of wine, some trinkets and a holiday vouchers. Why? We just catch the last ferry which finishes early on feast days. The afternoon and evening are spent following parades, more brass bands, effigies of St Paul and always just missing the fireworks. We walk all round Valletta from the Upper Gardens to the Lower Gardens – and have tea in the Upper Gardens with a spectacular view. Later after a noisy supper (pursued by St Paul) we walk to the other side of the city to look over the Marsamxett Harbour where an old Maltese man chats with us about how lovely Malta is, and how sad it is that his family is all in Australia – old and dying – all too far away to visit. We chat for a while as he becomes the subject of my book. Back at the hotel we discover the roof terrace and the swimming pool.

Friday - Off on a Bedford boneshaker – to the megalithic temples at Hagar Qim and Mnajdra. These are spectacular – sited above the blue Mediterranean and the Ayres-Rock-like island of Filfla. Both are covered with protective canvas domes but otherwise are almost as spectacular (in some ways even more than) Stonehenge also they are more accessible – there are areas you can walk through and round, and you can touch the rocks. Walk a further mile along the coast to Wied iz-Zurrieq, the village above the Blue Grotto, and other caves. M. trips and ricks her ankle. But she manages to continue downhill and round to the tiny inlet where we sail round the coast to grottos and caves. This was stunning – shimmering colours and deep caves. Also a bit scary – high waters and big waves. The camera batteries last just long enough. We have a beer at a picturesque cafe overlooking the island of Filfla. Then a hobble up to the bus. Mary's ankle begins to ease a little as we arrive at the bus station in Valletta – until on an uneven pavement she goes over on it again – this time it's much more painful. We relax and soothing the ankle with wet towels while Mubarak steps down and Egypt erupts and Malta votes for its Eurovision entry. Supper at the Kings Own Band Club.

Saturday - Pick up the Guardian to catch up with the news – especially from Egypt. We do the tourist presentation – the Maltese experience - a wide screen film about the history of Malta. Then up to the Lower Barraka Gardens and hear the mid-day chime from the siege bell, and on to the Museum of archaeology where we see a lot of fat megalithic ladies. Drinks at the Coffee Garden, and to the Upper Gardens to read the papers. After supper we head for the theatre for the Liszt concert by Dmytro Sukhovienko - the Sonata in B minor and a selection from the transcendent etudes.

Sunday - The town is busy on Sundays. Locals, tourists and costumed knights (there's a battle re-enactment this morning somewhere in Valletta) mingle around the vast entrance gate to the city. At the bus station we take the 13 bus to Tarxien. Despite the guidebook the area isn't drab, but as we feared the Hypogeum is booked up till tomorrow. We walk across the town to the temples. Fascinating, but abysmal information. Together with Dutch, Maltese and American tourists we wander around trying to work out what was what. We try to help the old Maltese couple whose digital camera has malfunctioned. I fiddle but fail so they toddle off and buy a disposable film camera, and M. gives me a look. Earlier protective work (pouring concrete over megaliths) appears to have damaged the stones, but there are some original and replicas stones with the intricate spirals and animal decorations. We discover our way to the bus stop and a real boneshaker speeds us backed to Valletta – we are protected by the fact we have to stand all the way. In Valletta we drink Kinney overlooking the three cities, and soak in the sunshine. We drop down to check out the huge dome that we pass every day. The Carmelite Church is highly decorated but appears pleasantly plain. The dome in particular is magnificent but simple – you can see the stone it is built from rather than any decoration. Then back up to Republic Street and St James Cavalier Centre of Creativity – an astounding conversion of an old military fortification into galleries a theatre, a cinema and a cafe. A display of cartoons about diversity, and a really inspiring exhibition of pottery and glass ceramic works called ‘on site’ – by George Muskat. I run out of superlatives to describe the place. We detour on our way back to the hotel via St George's Bastian (where we met the old Maltese man who has meanwhile became the main character not only of my next novel but also a set of short stories). The view here also demands superlatives, but my camera gasps at its last few remaining watts of battery and gives up. Last photo taken, last sun absorbed and we returned to the hotel, where I jot down notes on the novel.

Monday Boarding and journey home easy and comfortable and we return to sunny Brighton.

Well finished…

2011-02-01T10:02:00.001-08:00

The novel is nicely shaped and smoothly finished – plot put to bed, characters for a while relaxing amongst my synapses, dialogue and text quietly muted in the literary twilight. One of the most enjoyable parts of the process is preparing a sample submission for agents – and posting off comfortably padded packages. Gone is the eye-strain and mental grind of proof-reading. Still to come the gentle slups of rejection slips through the letter box.

Now the next is in the process of early germination. And new characters come into focus, and whisper suggestions for plot lines. But I resist their ministrations, and allow myself the luxury of unlimited initial conjunctions.

Soon we are off to Malta, following in the tracks of the Knights of St. John, Caravaggio, and the President of Tunisia.

2010-11-07T11:11:00.001-08:00

'Perish the thought!' she said.
He looked at her and shuddered. The cold was penetrating his bones, and another hour with this dismal virago was unthinkable. He needed a cigarette. Down by the bandstand a crowd of kids was restaging scenes from Quadrophenia.

2010-10-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

before the universe there was only empty eternity.

Portugal in June - a retrospective

2010-08-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

Holiday diaries are like holiday slide shows. To be avoided at all cost. These notes on Portugal in June went astray – but I found them hidden in a dusty subfolder. Anyone reaching this far should skip this entry.

Tuesday 1 June, 2010

Tuesday we are ready well ahead of time and faff until 2.30. Train to Gatwick and replacement shuttle bus to north terminal. As we check in our luggage the estate agent phones - Mr T. from France has put in an offer – too low - we turn it down. We check in and go through to departures where finally I ogle an I-pad. As we wait for our flight to be called the estate agent calls again. Our flight is called and in the confusion I nearly turn down Mr. T’s acceptance of our revised asking price. Price agreed, we board the plane. At we pick up the car - a cute Nissan micra - and I quickly acclimatise to it. To L. and R's where we surprise S.

Wednesday 2 June, 2010

Wednesday - to Montecarapho for turkey - butcher closed so we sit and drink cool beer. In Tavira we sightsee (mainly the market hall) and then very reasonable and good meal - sardines and horse mackerel. Olhaiou for supermarket then home for swim - then to T. and N's place for inky cuttlefish.

Thursday 3 June, 2010

Thursday - M&I leave for Seville at about 10. It is Corpus Christie and the streets are lined with madonnas and pine branches - very festive. We wander then have lunch in an aircon restaurant before spending most of the day in the Alcasar – we do not change clocks to Spanish time but still miss the cathedral that closes at 5.00. On the way back to Faro we fill up with Spanish (i.e. cheaper) petrol and once the attendant has sorted out the petrol cap we buy an expensive Manchana cheese and he gives us a sack of potatoes. We drive to Faro airport and get there with plenty of time to pick up D. and to L. and R's for another surprise for S. Now N too has arrived - the full complement though by now S doesn't believe us.

Friday 4 June, 2010

Friday to the beach where the vast expanses of sand are only visited by those who know the tides - we arrive for the two hours of lowest tide - even then the tide turns and so we miss the option of wading to an island and soon have to return for the outing we are joined by two friends of L and R – T and K (sic) and their two Portuguese water dogs (making four with L and Rs two) then back for supper - the birthday meal which involved the consumption of barrels of wine, cocktails, port and spirits.

Saturday 5 June, 2010

Saturday - harder to get going but eventually M, D, S and I head out for the village of Estoi and the Roman ruins at Milreu. Time is limited as we leave late and the site shuts at 12.30 so of course we get lost eventually we ask a local who in good English explains - we get there in time - in fact it shuts at one. An old roman villa it was restored and extended many times and lived in continuously till the 6th century. There are mosaics and a temple to Neptune - and a newer Portuguese villa built over part of the ruins. A tourist guide gave us a rundown of the place. We took S and D back to Bon Vista (the small complex where the kids live) - a short path walk from L and R. then M and I went back to explore Estoi. I drive over pavements I think are roads and we park. We climb thru picturesque alleys and an old woman directs us puffingly to the 19th century palace - now restored as a five star hotel. We have iced tea and sandwiches on the terrace overlooking the Romanesque grounds and the gardens that are being restored. We stroll around and then wander back and head out to Igreja capela de Sao Lourenco dos Matos - a tiled church where we have to wait while a churchful of Belgians get the spiel in Flemish. The tiles are overwhelming showing St Laurenco being barbecued on the left side. Far more impressive is the cultural centre with its exhibitions of paintings and sculptures. Back home to a poolside game of having iced water thrown over you if you get the right answer in a quiz - then supper. Once the kids were off to bed L & R, S, M and I sat discussing family history till bed. R tells us the fascinating story of her family starting with a 7th generation matriarch in Sfat. More family stories and we go to bed late.

Sunday 6 June, 2010

Sunday and a lazy morning by the pool. S packs and we leave to take her to the airport via a fisherman’s restaurant in Olaiou port. R orders plates of vast anchovies. Strong coffees and we bid farewell to S. D goes off to the beach T and the kids while M and I head off to Sao Bras - a gem of a town in the hills - where we stroll around and visit the Algarve heritage centre showing ethnic artefacts and a big exhibition of cork manufacture. We see the outside of the church and verbena gardens but they are shut on Sundays. After a cool drink we head along a beautiful route to Luz and join the others on the beach at Praiha da Barel - and spend an hour on the glorious sands till we head for Moncarsoachio where we intend to have a snack but end up with huge meals. I had a massive hanging kebab – the younger kids had slabs of steak on a hot stone. Then back for more drinks with L and R, and D T N and N. Then bed...

Monday 7 June, 2010

Monday - the last day - up and a quick therapeutic swim before the kids arrive to colonise the pool. Then pack and make our farewells. We take N to the airport then drive into Faro and park in an indoor car park. We wander around looking at the cathedral with its quirky tower and quirkier sculpture made of monks skulls. We eat at a fish restaurant (I'm fished out) in the blazing heat, then wander through the streets past the Potuguese armies exhibition preparing for the national day next week. Then we come across T and kids and get together to look around and cool off under the city fountains before they head off for their plane. We meet again in the airport – then fly off with memories of L&R’s hospitality bubbling through our gently sossled cerebella.

After the Grand Tour

2010-08-16T16:34:00.000-07:00

The extended Grand Tour is over - and we are back home - sharing again with daughter, daughter's furniture and daughter's mysterious cat-dog, Puppy. A brief summery summary (more an itinerary).

From Hove to Coventry via Kenilworth and resolutions to (re?)read Scott (downloaded from Gutenberg that very day). Coventry Cathedral tour with a friendly knowledgeable and talkative octogenarian who branded us 'American tourists' when we apologetically left after the first ninety minutes. M's trip on the steps of the old Cathedral proves of temporary concern.

Then to Dillon's Cottage in Ripon - a jewel in the British tourist enterprise. M. and G. host us in magnificence and we explore real ale pubs, tithed villages, horticultural potteries, Oxfam bookshops and the legendary Ripon wakeman.

A couple of days later we recce Hadrian's wall in reparation (can't think for what so later edit it to read) preparation for our Spring walk, we visit Haldsteads, and I do a bit of research (for the novel) in Haltwhistle. We reach Glasgow for a couple of days with A. and tour Loch Lomond (I take photos to send to a genealogical correspondent in America).

The hotel in Inverness proves to be miles outside the city - this proves no disadvantage - and we walk for miles along the Moray Firth. Does anyone read other people's blogs? We set out early so that we can stop at Glen Livet - where we tour and test - and buy.

The cross country drive to Ullapool takes us through the Highlands, but the West coast in particular is magnificant. We spend the following day feeding the midges and climbing Stac Pollaidh. Only at the top do I remember my vertigo, and M. has to carry me the first twenty five yards down from the razor edge ridge till I regain my normal insanity. The stay in Ullapool is magical, the weather deteriroates and we visit Mohammed el Fayad at the Falls of Shin, but compensate by visitng Glen Morangie where we tour and test.

A slow drive down along the Great Glen and through to Fort William and down to the Cowar Peninsular where J and I welcome us to their panoramic residence. We miss the seal but think we see Dolphins, we miss the Trident sub passing down the estuary, but spot (can we miss) a massive cruise ship setting off in snooty elegance. We visit Bute and the Magnificent Mount Stuart - and eat in a local gourmet pub. A. takes the ferry from the mainland, and we tour Dunoon then leave J and I and head back to Glasgow.

We visit the Poeple's Palace on Glasgow Green then head south for Salford Quays. We pay tribute to N's sculpture but don't have time to visit. Then to Brighton to wash our dirty clothes. An e-mail from A. who is visiting next week - so we again book a room for a couple of days at the Salford Quays Etap.

One day's rest and across to La Barbotiere. We fix an appointment with the Notaire for September, meet some hidden neighbours in the village and make detailed plans for work on the house for September.

Back for a few days - I celebrate my birthday - and succumb to the philistine's gadget - I buy an e-book reader. (S. has a rant about exercise bikes - and puts me off my original choice of present). B and G. visit and M makes plans to celebrate my birthday in October. We follow Gay Pride through the streets of Brighton. I also finish my portfolio - the penultimate task on the course.

We take the train to Manchester and this time visit N and N. Then we meet up with A. who is here with R. - a thoughtful and serious man (who I think I insult by mistaking him for his brother). We tour the Lowry Centre then head for the Imperial War Museum (North) - built by Daniel Libeskind.

Back in Hove I get the portfolio bound and ready to send off. We see two films - one on Louise Bourgeoise, the other a biopic of Serge Gainsbourg. We celebrate little A's first birthday - he is oblivious to the event whilst B and his friends have a great time. Major event - D. moves in with Puppy. The house is full again. A posthumous prize - I get a letter from NS&I - just before probate was granted M. won £25 on the Premium Bonds. She always promised to buy me a new house if she won.

So the blog is finally up to date - time to get back to the final draft. Goodnight Puppy.

Toblerone

2010-07-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

Summer - and it is hard to remain indoors. So any excuse takes us to town and then down to the beach. We wander around an exhibition titled Sickert and Gertler but it mainly consists of the nostalgic works of Robert Bevan - it is the collection of his son. Inspiring. We wander back to ninety minutes of goal-lessness. By the 120th minute I remember things I have to do - but finally Spain wins, and puts us out of our agony for another four years. Bubuzelas honk along the streets.

I am having a meditation about my Tongue. (as a result of losing a filling and not having time or courage to see the (albeit brilliant) Dentist. My Tongue is constantly exploring that area, I puzzle over the non-olfactory, non-digestive, non-linguistic and non-amatory function of this plump rubicund organ. There is more to this slab of meat than meets the eye. For example have you ever watched a child struggling to put words down on paper. Look at the tongue. It poke out. It wiggles to the left and right. It has an intimate yet invisible link to the moving hand that writes. Somewhere, perhaps in bits of the cerebral gunge only poked at by Brocca or Wernicke, some synaptic spaghetti junction has signposted a deviation via the Tongue. But why is this a single carriageway. If it is actually a Four Way Street then stimulation of the tongue might just produce some amazing actions at the literary coal-face. Chocoholics could be programmed to produce the works of Shakespeare, by feeding crumbs of Green and Black, while bodice-ripping Mills and Boons would emanate from bars of Galaxy chocolate. I hunt for the Toblerone and return to my novel...

The End of the Year already

2010-07-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

Last week was June, and I made New Year Resolutions. This week (most of it still June) and it's the NAW End of the Year Show. I take the preparation seriously, and go jogging (which I have just resumed in desperation at my lack of exercise). Then I trundle up the Southern and West Coast lines to New Street. My ticket gets me there early with a couple of hours to spare. Despite tropical temperatures I venture into the Birmingham Museum and Gallery. There is a stunning photgraphic exhibition by Steve McCurry. Most are photos from Afghanistan. One in particular is the focus, The Afghan girl, and the account of his quest to find her again 25 years on. Pehraps too focussed - it took away some of the attention from the rest of the rich portraits and landscapes. This is art and journalism well balanced.

Then to the show - meeting up with old and new friends - some I haven't seen for over a year, others regular faces around.

The readings were great. When people asked me if I was reading, I replied that it was the only way I could get my work read. The readings were great, and mine went down quite well.

The talk was given by Carole Angier, biographer of Jean Rhys and Primo Levi. She helped me develop further my ideas about Life Writing (her term) - exactly in line with my ideas. I had to leave early to catch the train home but it was a good visit.

Back today to work on the dreaded portfolio. I delve amongst my papers for evidence of contact with agents and publishers. My papers are disorganised and I browse through my life in writing - disorder reigns - my first days at Harperbury, a winter coach journey in 1962 to Glasgow with Tony to see Howard, George, Elaine and Marlene, Asaf's wedding in Gedera in 2000, arguments with Bilmin about going on aliya, wandering across the Amberley marshes with Stuart, Budapest and Barcelona, schoolboy self-exhortations to fulfil my destiny (self-identity and an early reference to Thracymachus), Martin's wild Alsatian, Psychologists chasing the witches of Pendleton, locking up the rabbis in the Jerusalem language laboratory, honeymoon notes, Hadrian's Wall and Vilnius. This leaves me disorientated, so I give up and bake some bread, then go down to Starbucks to scribble my diary.

Mid Year's Resolution

2010-06-25T07:21:00.001-07:00

I thought it was an Age thing. All my contemporaries are at it. Then I discovered it was everyone. Doesn’t matter how old or how young. They’re all at it. Start a conversation and within two minutes they’re rabbiting on about it. Well for me it’s going to stop. From today – my mid-year resolution – I am determined that every week between Wednesday and Monday there will be no mention of… Well sorry, I can’t actually say what. It’s Friday today.

Wednesday I was in Birmingham – a classic masterclass, and a rehearsal for next week’s end of year show. Claimed my copy of the NAW anthology. Looks good – almost as good as last year’s. But it was Wednesday, so missed the England-Slovenia match, and the Isner-Mahut marathon at Wimbledon. Strangely the streets of Birmingham were empty as I wandered back into the city centre at 4.00.

Today started well. Resumed jogging despite XXX (deleted due to mid year resolution). And then settled down to work on my portfolio. The plan is to have it finished a week today so I can get back to the (final draft of) the novel. Spoke to a couple of other writers on Wednesday. We all share the same problem – we write best when we’re supposed to be doing something else. So progress on the portfolio was punctuated by laundry, sorting out probate, baking a brioche bread, and scribbling bits about the novel. Oh yeah – and this blog. And later – well, after proof reading the next section – there’s the garden. Well next week is clear. Except I’ve got this Doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. Oh bugger – there goes the mid year resolution!

A trip down the Old Kent Road

2010-05-19T17:33:00.000-07:00

They lit the Pier with lasers to mark the Chinese New Year, but that didn’t save it. More bits are falling off, and people wander down and gaze at it. Of course no-one wants to lay out the millions to repair (or rather reconstruct) it. The best solution would be to cut it free from its moorings and let it float gently around the coast where entrepreneurs could beam more lasers on it, or set fireworks off from it, or make movies on it (Oh what a lovely fruit machine).

The starlings took up residence on the Pier after their favourite trees were blown down in the hurricane of 1989. Where will they go now?

The problem of living by the sea is that it is too inspiring. So whenever my pen freezes (or the keyboard jams), I slink down to the beach for inspiration and a cappuccino. The snag is that I don’t get any ideas. Today however the pen is singing happily, so I sit back, watch and wait. A story is emerging from a pub in the Old Kent Road…

My other blog's a...

2010-05-19T16:44:00.000-07:00

The secret is I have another blog - in fact two. One is a writing diary - a notebook of ideas, jottings and influences, the other is a fantasy world in which words become people, real-life events are transmogrified into bizarre oddities, and I can rage with impunity. Unlike this blog, neither can be found by other people - so perhaps neither really exists outside my thoughts (though the neural traces have a parallel form in the googlecloud). I know they exist - since googlecloud's hippocampal functioning is a lot better than mine. But now here's a question: I don't advertise or publicise this blog so although in theory anyone could access it, in reality it is highly unlikely that anyone would - so is it also a figment of my imagination?

What's in a name - lots in a name - lost in a name

2010-04-01T11:12:00.001-07:00

So today's question is - what do you do about names? I have spent the afternoon worrying about the name of a villain. First it had to be a name that could be easily confused with a similar (but differently spelt) surname - for example Terry and Deiry. The problem was that Deiry doesn't look like an English surname, and Terry sounds too modern for a guy born in 1920. I moved on to Barry and Parry. After some checks that seems authentic. Then the worries kicked in. Too authentic? What happens if a real Harold Parry or Barry Driscoll (not the real names) took offence? Is it possible to find a name that isn't attached to a real-live and potentially litigious human-being? Do I rename my more unpleasant characters Nastybartfast and Detunia Pursley - or stick to real names like.... well you know what I mean.

Immune from grief?

2010-03-15T07:08:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I had expected to be immune from grief. Early experience? My father dying when I was... you see I don't even remember how old I was. I have no memory of the early years before my father died. Or perhaps because my mother was in her 97th year - and obviously wouldn't go on forever. Nevertheless - the end when it came was unexpected - even after her fall. But with the rush of mundane practicalities, the tears shed seemed to indicate the experience of grief. So only now do I realise that the following weeks of numbness, not really being in touch with the world, showed it had all affected me more than I had thought.

By chance we had two breaks planned. After the funeral we went away for a few days to Cardiff. The Art Gallery, the Castle, the Bay, and most interesting the Welsh Assembly. Too much food, a good jazz club, and a concert at the Millennium centre (after we managed get tickets despite braving the hoards queuing for Britain's Got Talent).

Then a hiatus as we nursed grief, non-healing injuries and more cold weather...

February was a month of abstinence - no alcohol. So the second day in Madrid (the 1st of March) ended the sobriety. We had arrived to a warm welcome from the local pickpockets, and lost all our euros and a credit card. The evening at the police station however proved a interesting and informative experience. We were assigned an English speaking police officer. We had no details of the (French) credit card - so had to go on-line. She directed us to the nearest Internet Cafe, which was more like an opium den. The Chinese grandmother who welcomed us spoke as little Spanish as we did, so we conversed in nods and finger poking. Less than a euro for half an hour. We shuffled between the crowded work stations where blank faces stared at blue screens through a haze of foggy smoke (there is a relatively absent smoking ban in Spain). We tapped away and found the details we needed. We phoned Credit Agricole to cancel the card but they had never heard of Britline (their English speaking branch) but neverthless took our details and had heard of us. Then back to the police officer who took us through the procedure - we only had to give all the details on a (free) phone to another English speaking official. Within an hour we emerged (with smiling farewells) clutching our official typed police report - and back to our holiday. The police had been incredibly helpful and friendly.

Soon we learned the metro system, and visited galleries, cafes, gardens, churches, museums and palaces - but the highlights were a day trip to Toledo and a day of small art centres. The Prado was great, the Queen Sofia magnificent, but the 'small' arts centres were even better. 'Small' in inverted commas - because one of them - located at the old city abattoir, covered a vast area. It held an innovative installation of a huge urban landscape sculpted from boxes, bottles, old detritus, and patrolled by a model train that carried a tiny camera and broadcast its video to a large screen at the far end of the hall. From time to time we appeared as giant ghostly images hovering above the blanketed hillsides, or polystyrene skyscrapers. Even more amazing was the Chinese installation art - that combined models, illusions, animations and film. So much to see.

Toledo was the expected jewel - but still a place where people live and work. Many El Grecos of course in the cathedral, chruches, museums and galleries. The town was also full of its (pre 1492) Jewish heritage, though oddly the oldest synagogue was run by Jews for Jesus, it art (mostly by an Israeli painter) dedicated to unifying religions. As everywhere we ate in an 'authentic' restaurant rather than a tourist dive.

We will return to Madrid, and its botanical railway station.

And now the year is well under weigh, so back to whatever routines we are managing to design.

Sloth and Anxiety

2010-02-16T18:30:00.000-08:00

I read War and Peace yesterday afternoon. Well to be accurate it was the libretto to War and Peace, the opera by Prokofiev. It's a bit shorter. Until yesterday morning, even though I’m a fan of his film music, I didn’t actually know that Prokofiev had written an opera based on War and Peace. I had been in the library looking for Handel’s opera Dido and Aeneas. For some reason I could never find it – even when (as yesterday morning) I realised it wasn't Handel but Purcell. I had a short lament and took out the Prokofiev instead.

My search for Dido had been triggered by some early morning memory, when I lay in bed worrying. I am often in the habit of waking in the middle of the night and worrying about trivia, the significance of which is lost on me when I wake properly in the morning. But all that seems set to change. Yesterday we took delivery of a memory foam mattress. We had seen it in the shop – a nice thick slice of advanced sleep technology. What arrived however was a tight white roll that looked like a long (but slim) sleeping bag in a stout polythene cover. One snip of the plastic, and the foam began to expand like extruded polystyrene until it covered the bed luxuriously, languidly filling out and firming over the next few hours as we stood watching and waiting and wondering when we could to go to sleep.

Last night I slept like a… well actually like a sloth. No worrying dreams, no early hours anxieties. And when I woke I didn't particularly want to get up. No. Nothing was going to get me up. So I realise that this is my dilemma. Motivation is based on anxiety. Cure the anxiety and I become slothful. Sloth and Anxiety. Now that’s a subject for an opera. Perhaps Philip Glass or Steve Reich. That would be worrying.

2010-02-12T04:25:00.001-08:00

The flower that once has blown…

January was a tough month, and thankfully has ended – so a new month, a new blog.

The Year begins with a crisis followed by a bereavement. Mary falls on the ice - a serious fractured wrist. Over several visits, we get used to the hell of blank faces in bleak A&E waiting spaces. Then as things begin to get back to some sort of reality, my mother also has a fall - at least in the comfort of her home - but then decides after 96 years that the time has come. She speaks to all the nearest and dearest on the phone, and the next day slips away while watching a grizzly thriller on TV. As she would have wished we are with her. The next few weeks are full of wistful administration.

It’s funny. As a writer, even during the lowest of life events, your mind is absorbing, filing stuff away. Even during the grimmest moments of the last few weeks I was acting like two people – one experiencing what was happening, the other recording it. But for me at least that didn’t feed into action. The pen was too heavy, the keyboard too clunky. The moving hand was waiting for another day. Yesterday I found my mother's copy of the Fitzgerald Rubaiyat – a note slipped into the book to mark the famous 51st quatrain. However, browsing, I spot a more apposite line – How time is slipping underneath our feet. Well bugger Fitzgerald and his dubious translations.

Today, it seemed for the first time for weeks, the sun began to shine. We wandered down to the sea, to find that Brighton will never be the same.

The bulldozers are out and pulling down the grand old skeleton of the West Pier.

The stink of the old girders, encrusted with the generosity of the gull population, wafted across the pebbles. A huge disaster – what will I take photos of when the sun goes up and the sun goes down?

The End of the Pier Show.

The problem of living by the sea is that it is too inspiring. So whenever my pen freezes (or the keyboard jams), I slink down to the beach for inspiration and a cappuccino. The snag is that often I don’t get any ideas. Today however the pen is singing happily, so I sit back, watch and wait. A story is emerging from a pub in the Old Kent Road…

Dear oh dear oh dear

2009-10-08T16:02:00.001-07:00

A writer must be committed or be committed. So perhaps I'm not a writer, in the sense that I'm not driven in the way I should be. I err at the simplest level - no diary, no notebook - at least not consistent ones. This for example - the perfect diarist's mechanism, a blog - and my last entry was in August. And not even this August.

Okay - let's try again. I have conjured up an excuse, a rationalisation. The NAW has occupied my time, and stolen my originality. My writing has been shoehorned into assignments and formal diaries for - of all things - professional development. I descend back into sick bureaucritic (sic) purgatory.

So - I am nearing the final pages of the prepenultimate draft of my novel - and am toying with an idea. What I will have (after the forthcoming 'research draft') is a narrative novel, uncomfortably straddling the treacherous rocks of main stream and experimental styles - steered towards the former by peers and industry savvy tutors, but striving somehow to reach the other banks. Until now I have gone along with the the former - and have not done what I want in terms of style. Concept and themes hold well, but are not fully understood, and are not well projected in that style. So I will take a diversion. I will work a bit on the second section that developed afer the original experimental start. But I will move away from the original staccato and head to the lyrical. Just for a while.

Summer - diary; summar - y

2008-08-25T04:54:00.000-07:00

Remembrance of things passed... I guess I can go back to the start of July when I did my second post-accident visit to La Barb. A good visit - but the journey back involved a ferry cancellation and a trip to Dieppe with an early hours (2.30) crossing.

The following week I went to London and met Steffi at the Royal Academy to see the Summer Exhibition and the Hammershoi Exhibition. That Friday I had my first session with the new physio followed by my first appointment with Hatrick, the Orthopaedic Consultant - very consultant-like but he did take the injury seriously, and gave me a steroid injection and described the surgical option - which he will consider at the next appointment in September.

The third week in July was mainly concerned with preparation for the Davnob family reunion. It even played a prominent part in my tutorial with Lance - again at the Tate - when I described the Davnob Generations Lulu book to him. Min's preparation for the reunion included a visit to the chiropodist. My preparation had to include getting things ready for France as I was doing my third visit immediately after the reunion - taking things that we would need in the summer holiday as room in the car would be limited with Barry and Elaine's things as well as ours.

The books arrived from Lulu (for Min, Cyril, and Lionel - as well as Steffi, us and the kids, and a thank you copy for Joan) and the family trees and history presentations were all ready in time. Friday Adam arrived from Lancaster, and we picked up Min and then Mary (from school) and trundled along the coast to Eastbourne. We settled into the Cavendish, where the strangest thing was travelling in the lift - each time the doors slid open there were more Davnob inside. Full account, photos and videos elsewhere - but a note to remember - I still need to edit the video!

Monday morning and off to France. No luck with the builder (to demolish the 'dependence') - who has also let our neighbours (Monsieur and Madame) down. On the way back I start a series of dramatic nosebleeds (probably from the dust and plaster) as I wait for the ferry. This continued as I prepare my clothes fro Ben Coptiches wedding (I go through several shirts - and decide to take a spare linen suit - just in case). Great wedding, at which we film a short video clip of the Rabbi - Emily no less - for Barry and Elaine.

Saturday 2nd - my birthday - in the afternoon Mary and I to London for Ella's (at Barbara's). On the way we did a Tate Britain visit (Lure of the East), then on the way to Barbara's we passed Litchfield Grove.

On the 5th - Tuesday - we left early for Newhaven and Dieppe - then Lucia - then new SatNav - took us to Chateauroux, and on to Sarlat and the village of Allas les Mines in the Dordogne. A great visit - staying in an old house with Barry and Elaine and Ruth (it belongs to a friend of hers) - seeing the old castles and caves - in a holiday punctuated or punctured by my back which didn't stand up well to the strain of the journey - perhaps to compensate for problems in the collar region! One day was almost all lying down! But we saw a lot and did a lot of visits, history, talking, eating and drinking.

Ruth left us on the Sunday, and on Tuesday we drove to Limoges where B & E took the train to Cannes to Steve and Beryl's, and we continue to Lemans and then to the house. More plastering and gardening - but more significantly we (properly) hosted Stephen and Lyane - preparing a proper meal. Monsieur and Madame were very helpful in getting us a builder - a lovely man who looked pained when
we said we had to demolish the 'dependence' - the oldest bit of the buildings with gradually crumbling lath and wattle walls, and discovered an antique plough amongst the rubbish we wanted removed. This was the sort of interaction we had heard about - long amble around the property, lovingly estimating the work to be done - then a lengthy historical discourse over a cup of coffee as he tells us his life story. Unfortunately the second part of the interaction we had heard about is usually "and then we never heard from him again!".

On our way back to Le Havre we discovered a great ruin in Normandy called Jumierges Abbey - the largest ruin in France (of course we own the smallest ruin in France).

Back to England where we went straight into preparing Min's 95th birthday lunch - a small do - just us and Steffi and Danush - but the reunion had provided enough activity and family contact - so the many family cards and watching the reunion video gave a sense of a busy family day.

And now we collapse - and (and this is where I came in) I try to re-establish my routine - especially my writing routine. So the notebook starts - but not as a diary - this really was just a catch-up.

May diary entries

2008-05-29T12:26:00.000-07:00

Introduction to May entries

May is the Brighton Festival and we've seen some incredible dance performances, a series of great classical and folk concerts, several raucous gigs and the most appalling Fringe play I have seen this decade. Most of the time has been spent finishing a Life Writing Assignment for the NAW. Apart from that physiotherapy is changing my life - and the last few days of may have seen a significant sense of improvement. So much so that I have booked the ferry and am off on the 2nd June to cut the grass....

5th May

The Brighton Library runs an excellent series of events for writers. This week there was a workshop run by Crime Writer Sue Walker, and her subject was Location. In the workshop we explore the role that location has in relation to character, them, mood and plot. We talked of real and imagined locations, and then each did short exercises. I keep exercises such as these for my notebook - they usually spark of something at the time so that I usually want to continue to work on them beyond the workshop. Even if nothing else comes out of the pieces, I type them up for my 'notebook'. Sue takes the research for location very seriously - planning out a timetable which includes a photo shoot, picture boards, and being in the place to experience it. I know that I have always found it useful to keep photos of places or similar places nearby when writing. My current desktop is strewn with pictures of Vilnius which I refer to for my current NAW assignment. And a bonus at the end of the workshop - we each received a free copy of Val McDermid's Place of Execution which is this year's book at the centre of Brighton's 'City Reads' project. The idea is that everyone in Brighton shares reading the same book, and that this will trigger off events and discussions.

12th May

Finally I get an appointment with the physio - eleven weeks after dislocating my collarbone! Her reaction suggested that the Consultant had not given me the best advice - far from immobilising it with a sling I should have been using it. And I could have been driving. I spend the rest of the week over-exerting!

An emergency e-mail arrives - in a change of plan we need to proof edit our own entries for the NAW Annual Anthology - and there's a tight deadline. I'd had three pieces selected - two book reviews and the account of my dislocation. I put other things on hold and work on this again. Everything is in by the deadline. But all in vain. Despite all the work that went into them, the new editors have decide to cut all three of my pieces. Probably worse than not being selected in the first place.

19th May

Tina has been working with an illustrator on a collaborative work - and wants to know if other NAW students would be interested. I look on Moodle and find a piece that interests me - by an artist called Ben. He wants a writer to collorate with on an illustrated book. I draft a story around his pictures and send it off to him. We meet up in Birmingham. He likes my ideas, and I love his illustrations. We work through the ideas - he has a tight schedule - having to submit it as an assignment by the end of May so we finalise various details and I agree to send him more stuff. He wants to do more work afterwards so that he can get it published in an extended version, and I'm happy to contribute to that as well.

26th May

The Life Writing Group kept in touch after the last scheduled session and we were all keen to do some more workshopping, so we agreed a date and Brenda booked a room at BCU. We each circulate our stuff and meet up for a good long session. My own feeling is that there should be a lot more workshopping on the course - so it was a really good afternoon.

31st May

My self-imposed deadline has arrived. I spent the week working on the assignment, editing and re-editing The problem is that I wrote far too much for the exercise. But I got the balance I wanted - and each successive shaving off of another few hundred words changes the balance and structure. I fantasize creating a book out of extracts I have edited out of my work - like television out-takes. Now at last the pressure of assignments is off.

With the physio sessions I am now driving, and so this week we bought a lawn-mower appropriate to my condition (i.e. self-propelling). I booked the Ferry for the beginning of June. Yes I'm finally going to cut the grass - it will be a thick forest by now! But the most important thing is that we will be able to stock up our dwindling wine collection.

When I get back from France I will get back to the novel. I wonder what I'll make of it after the break. Meanwhile this weekend we're going to see La Boheme.

Archived postings...

2008-03-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

Putting two blogs togetehr, i came across these old postings...

Thursday, December 22, 2005
Time and a vodka martini...

Burning the Clocks 2005.... the dragon weaves along the beach. Crowds line the cliff top. Flames spurt and the fire bursts alight. The clear sky is smashed with fireworks. The year is ending....

Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Time and the kitchen

Time goes on and the kitchen has a new ceiling. Thus the magic of chinese dragons is replaced six months on by the mundane...

Spring has arrived and with it gales and hailstorms. And to celebrate the arrival of Spring - the big announcement. The timing? The end of September.

Sunday, October 07, 2007
Guess who...

Somehow I managed to reinter this blog after months of seeing it and not knowing how to access it. Well I'm back - and this is probably where Hedre will soon be reborn

Dislocation, dislocation, dislocation....

2008-03-24T12:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, the backpack was too heavy. I'd brought too much for a single overnight stay. And I didn't need to bring the laptop – the weighty laptop. The books generously added to the bulk by Mike Barnard after the Master-class were probably the final fateful touch. Perhaps it was all the fault of the Master-class.

Inspired by the ideas of Macmillan New Writing, I hurried up to the computer room in the Edge Building to type out my notes. Notes. Too inspired. Too long. Now I was late.

I'm running. I know that I'll miss the train, but still I try. The traffic lights outside the Shopping Centre turn as I run across to the station. Nearly make it.

It's the new shoes. The smooth soles. The wet road.

I slip.

I twist.

The backpack – with too many clothes, and the laptop, and the books from Macmillan New Writing – swings over. I'm falling. The bag pulls me round. My face smashes against the tarmac. My shoulder – not at its normal angle – hits the road.

As with every awakening I grasp for my glasses. They are there – slightly bent from where they dug into my face. Hands stretch out and pull me up.

Half a dozen people crowd around.

“No. It's okay. I'm fine. I'll just...”

I show them I'm fine.

“I'm okay.”

She stands and looks at me.

The others nod, and fade away.

The angel stays.

I feel my shoulder. The bone sticking up. She sees me go pale.

I know I have gone pale. I can see that I have gone pale. I feel faint.

She asks, “What do you want to do?”

I am being led back through the underpass – clutching at my shoulder. I don't notice that she is now carrying not only two shopping bags and a satchel, but also my backpack. I don't notice much. I am desperately trying to keep my collar bone pressed down.

“Is he all right?” people ask. We are walking on.

The Campus Health Centre is shut. We are walking on.

“There's a surgery – a health centre – just down the road.”

The angel walks beside me. Carrying my bag. Now I notice. She's carrying my bag. Now I realise. I'm in shock.

I stop and rub my face. My hand is covered in blood. My face is swollen.

Still we walk on. It's getting dark.

The angel speaks. “It's just across the next road. I think.”

I am alert enough to pick up the last two words. I think.

Ten minutes later we stop outside the surgery. The windows are dark. The gate is chained. We try a side entrance. No-one answers the door.

I sag down onto a garden wall, still holding my shoulder.

“Stay here.” says the angel. “There's a chemist open across the road.”

Opposite a woman herds her children along. She glances round and sees me. She gathers the brood together and sits them down, then crosses the road, her sari flowing behind like angel's wings.

“What's the matter? Are you alright?”

I'm feeling faint, but nod.

The new angel looks closely at me.

“You're in shock.” From somewhere she fetches a bottle of water. I drink.

“Shall I call someone? Do you have number?”

“Thank you. I...”

Number? Call? I begin to start thinking again. I manage to extract my mobile and dial. Ambulance. Details. Ten minutes.

The first angel returns – with the pharmacist. He peers at me.

“I've called an ambulance.” I say.

He nods.

“Don't do anything till they get here. Just sit.”

Blue celestial lights.

The two ambulance women check me over. I am in a wheelchair, in the ambulance. The medic loads my backpack, two shopping bags and a satchel beside me.

“We're taking you to the City Hospital. Hold tight, it's a bit bumpy.”

I wince.

The first angel reclaims her shopping and satchel, and the ambulance doors shut, hiding the two angels. Shit! I haven't thanked them.

It's rush-hour, and the medic has plenty of time to take my details as we bounce over every traffic calming device in the West Midlands. But to no avail. My details are taken again when we reach Accident and Emergency.

The porter wheels me through.

“He's a minor.” he tells everyone as we head for bay H1.

I get to know bay H1 very well. It is directly in front of a clock. I watch the hands turn. Slowly they approach seven o'clock. The time my train is due to leave.

Finally another person. Again I give my details.

My train has left.

My train left half an hour ago.

Still I hold my shoulder.

The evening shift of drunks arrive. Nurses and porters herd them through.

Someone cleans my face.

My train left an hour ago.

Two uniformed prison warders escort a prisoner to treatment. He is not keen. He shouts and curses. He grabs at curtains, pulling them back and revealing frightened patients. He topples a stand, and the saline drip swings round and hits the wall. A scrum of warders, nurses and porters ease him along and out of sight, but not beyond earshot.

I am wheeled to X-ray.

“You've dislocated your acromio-clavicular joint.” the Consultant tells me, as he gives me strong pain-killers and a tetanus injection. He disappears back to the prisoner.

I am standing outside the hospital, by a dysfunctional cash machine, with an invalid train ticket and a few coins in one hand, the other in a sling. At my feet a backpack loaded with clothes, a laptop, books of new writing, and two shiny X-rays.

I shuffle towards the bus stop, praying that I have enough change.

Two electric wheelchairs laugh past me.

“Careful!” grins the first paraplegic.

“Mind yer bag!” says the second.

A weekend of iambic lines and meals...

2007-11-12T17:37:00.000-08:00

Good weekend. S. came for lunch so Min came round. Meanwhile D. had gone to Manchester to see N&N and A. went down to meet them. So the altekachers were together in Brighton, and the kids all together in Manchester. Apparently the ceiling fell down on D. (what is it with Roses and Ceilings?) and A's allergies were set off by the cats!

Sunday M and I met up with S&B in Virginia Waters for a halfway house lunch. We caught up on things we should have caught up on in France! Maybe next year.

And today it's back to writing - though I spent a happy hour in Starbucks writing iambic pentameters with enjambment and caesuras - I'm working through Stephen Fry's book on poetry.

But the Synopsis needs updating, not enjambment.

The wrong blog

2007-11-05T15:40:00.000-08:00

You can tell I'm back in harness! I'm doing two modules - and haven't done a blog entry since they started on 10th October. My life has a sudden unfamilar structure - Tuesday and Wednesday are fixed now between October and December. Tuesday I have to be in London late afternoon - but I am tending to go earlier so I can get to exhibitions and things. I've done several things at Tate Modern and Tate Britain, and the British Library. Thursdays I'm usually wiped out - and only get things together in the afternoon. There's a lot of reading - luckily 4 of the 6 books are great - but two are real drudgery. I've also read around a bit - so the set core texts are Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Sebold's 'Rings of Venus' - the latter is a real discovery. On the back of those I've read Iris Murdoch 'The Green Knight' - and will soon start on Sebald's 'The Emigrants'. I'm enjoying Sara Waters 'The Night Watch', and am just start Connolly's 'The Poet'. The drudges are The Village by the Sea (Anita Desai) and Sea Room (Adam Nicolson) - the latter is actually very good in places - but I'm a bit overwhelmed by the plethora of geographical, botanical, ornithological, marine, geological and other detail. Whereas that turns me off, when Sebald starts exploring byways and obscure detail, it is really exciting.

Enough - I'm wasting all my good critiquing on the wrong blog!

Today was bonfire night and M. and I went to Min's to watch the spectacular Fireworks Display at the Sussex cricket ground. Tomorrow - Birmingham.

Tramps and Mind Games

2007-10-08T15:37:00.000-07:00

Tramps come and go - and this one went. I missed the deadline - probably because I was attempting something too ambitious for the time I had available. I could have completed a story but it wouldn't have been coherent. But I won't drop it - it will be there to do more work on because I think there was a good gem of an idea there - probably will be a bit shorter than the originally planned 10000 words.

So back to the novel - and again I'm investing far too much time in research. I think I will ban myself from researching anything until the first draft is done, I have enough of the background to complete the first run through - at least get the clay thrown - the shaping I can do later. Most of today (when not having a nosebleed all over Min's carpet and getting someone in the mend out gas cooker) was spent re reading Sir Gawain and the Green Cross Code.

Yesterday I woke up to hear one of my fellow students on the Today Programme - what publicity - he was being sued by the Olympic Committee for titling his book 'Olympic Mindgames'. They withdrew the threat eventually - but not till it had bee widely reported and his publisher had agreed to print another run! Now what can I do????

Tramps

2007-09-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

Today was practical research (in contrast to the internet research on Vilnius) for a short story to be submitted to the Legend Press. I followed the route of the Tramp in my story as he wanders down from St.Anne's Well Garden down to the sea and past the Grand Hotel. An interesting way of generating ideas - I took a dictating machine and made observations as I walked - nowadays that's fine - it looks like I'm using a mobile phone rather than just being Psychotic. I also copied most of my NAW diary across to a separate blog for my tutor to access. So the story is well under way (or weigh apparently). ...

No. I decided that 25 years on I should check that one out. I recall Dick Mein telling me that 'underway' came from a nautical expression and should have been spelled 'under weigh'.(as in 'weighing anchor'). In fact he was partly right and partly wrong. The origin is the dutch 'onderweg', meaning “on the way”. This became naturalised as under way and is first recorded in English around 1740, specifically as a maritime term (its broader meanings didn’t appear until the following century). Some over-clever individuals connected with the sea almost immediately linked it erroneously with the phrase to weigh anchor. Weigh here is the same word as the one for finding out how heavy an object is. Both it and the anchor sense go back to the Old English verb, which could mean “raise up”. The link between the senses is the act of raising an object on scales. The Columbia guide to standard American English says "A ship has way on it when it is in motion, and thus the idiom to get under way [or underway] means “to begin to move,” just as the idiom to be under way [or underway] is “to be moving,” regardless of whether what’s moving or beginning to move is a ship, a car, or a fund-raising campaign. The idea of weigh, as with an anchor, is an error in either use, although in the past many reputable authors have chosen that form."

My Monday Morning

2007-09-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

If this is a diary it's failed miserably. No-one but me should be able to see it, so it can only be a diary - but no entry since February. Haval! So no brain waves and no blame waves - just straight into it - taking two leaves out of Danush's book - spontaneity and regularity (well for Danush regularity). I too will do monday mornings. I will work on transferring my Hedre blog in this direction, and also set up a more 'public' blog - perhaps for NAW co-students.

Started today by waking far too early - six - so went jogging. The weather was foul - rain and blustery winds - so got back soaked - but well exercised - and after a bath went straight back to bed. Restarted the day much later - but writing isn't coming easy. So read more of The Night Watch (for the Reading into Writing course - but also cos I'm hooked on it now. Sebald's 'Rings of Saturn' was much more effort - as I wanted to keep detailed notes and kept looking things up - but the most fascinating book I've read for ages - this however is just a well structured and well written clear, gritty, pages turner (that sounds really demeaning - it's supposed to be a complement).

My current writing paralysis is the dilemma between finishing a (long) short story which probably won't pat but is prestigious and will be published, against working the central point of my novel. So I avoid both and will probably go out instead!

Yesterday we saw a film 'Paris - jet'aime' - a compilation of short love related films about Paris but famous directors with a 'star studded' cast.

Uckfield and Shopping

2007-02-01T15:05:00.000-08:00

Thursday. Portfolio submitted. Trying to chill. I want to focus on the novel - but have to think about the Chapter! Morning - have to return books to Uckfield. Funny - I felt like I was visiting Amiad after a long break. Even sayng this makes me wonder if perhaps I still feel that Amiad is my spiritual home. That is odd - if anything Jerusalem and the German Quarter should be my spiritual home - but Amiad...? The time there was so miserable - yet the place is still (in my memory) so beautiful. Thoughts wondering! I went back to Uckfield. Yes - I really do miss the people - not the work - the pseudo-psychology, the politics, not even the clients - I miss the guys I worked with. Mark and Miranda were there. It was just natural sitting there - talking the same talk - and chatting with people who came and went - Sue, Rae, Sarah, Elaine. I must keep in touch with Mark and Miranda - and Diane B. Shame that Hazel, Diane C and Max weren't there - or Jackie. Still I guess it was a good day to visit. Not too many people in one go. Mark lent me a book to look through - for my chapter (will I ever write it?). Systemic Work - for a while I sank into it - and forgot I'd left it all a long time back.... Then I needed a brain sweep. Drove from Uckfield up to Firle Beacon - and a long walk along the top of the Downs. Restoring mental equilbrium and a bit of physical exertion. All in preparation for the 'Shopping Trip'. Picked up M. and took her to Waitrose. Constantly reminding myself that she's 93. She had prepared an ordered shopping list - but could not focus. So looking for tea - we pass something that reminds her that she must go back to find the mayonnaise (three aisles back) - no I can't get it for her - I wouldn't know what she wants. Then she remembers the bananas - this I can get - she can't walk another step. But then she thinks of the viennas - and the tissues - what were we looking for? Did we get the bananas? Ah yes - the tea. But that's that way - I just want to see the jams - which is the opposite way. Miraculously we complete this in less than an hour and a half - though I get some funny looks as a dash off to get the tissues and release a deep felt yowl when I'm out of range! Still if I can manage to shop at Waitrose and organise a home delivery, and charm the check out bloke when I'm 93 I'll be well satisfied. Back home Danny phoned. She's still in a very bad way. It seems that she was much closer to Ben than we thought -she is still tearful alot of the time. Mary was home by the time she came round. She is so lonely - yet she has all her friends supporting her. She met Ben's mother at Ian's. And clearly Ben's mum thought she was an important person in his life. It's so difficult to know what to say. Other than Bernie who died when I was too young to really remember (or have blocked it out), I was 41 before anyone really close to me died - and Bill was 79. To have a close friend, so young, die with no reason must be devastating. We try to get her to come up to Lancaster with us next week to visit Adam...

2007-01-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

I now have a fictional blog - and will eventually have a half-way blog - which mixes my life as it is, with my life disguised, with my (real) fictional characters interacting, and also my blog fictional characters. Lucky I don't belive in Freud - but I think George Kelly would approve.

Secret blogger

2007-01-30T08:42:00.000-08:00

Too much focus - so no blog, no Psychology Chapter, no novel - just the portfolio. I wasn't going to go on blogging - but got fascinated with one by a guy on the Writers Course. He was actually directing people to some writing resources on his website - but it linked to his blog as well. It's funny that I'd written before about subverting the blog - writing it but not letting anyone know about it. His is a set of very candid observations, confessions etc. I spoke to him a few times in Birmingham - but now feel that I know a lot more about him. In fact I realised after that I was feeling uncomfortable - as if I'd been spying on someone - after all I don't know if he even intended people to read it. Anyway it inspired me - so as I get back into finishing the Psychology piece, I'll do a blog as well - to keep the creative juices going. And of-course there will be things about Nick and Annie, - and their two sets of lives. I don't think I'll mention Michael and Laura - though they must still be hanging around somewhere. But as I said before - it will remain a closed blog - like a secret diary. Perhaps I need to have an anonymous blog where I really talk about what happens - and just change the names so that I won't be inhibited. Afterthought: what does that say about me as a writer?

2006-12-30T17:47:00.000-08:00

Well I came back for more. What is there to say? It is late - I am tired - I have to write - I cannot sleep. I put on some music, I pour a glass of malt - and I think about Nick and Annie, Otto and Mrs Lakosi. Of Colin there is little to say. He remains - and probably will remain a shadow. Yet everything hangs on him. But I have left Otto hanging around with him in the pub. So? Perhaps I need - despite the nature of everything - to actually focus on one of these people. Otto after all might be the most interesting. Annie is the one who holds things steady. Nick is inevitably the one I will follow throughout. And I fear for Mrs Lakosi. So be it. Let us refocus. Very soon we will come back to Colin - but for now let us think about Otto..

Because it's there

2006-12-27T04:51:00.000-08:00

I don't really want a blog - I don't like the name, and I don't like the commitment - but it seems everyone needs one - so this is mine. Perhaps I will subvert it - I won't tell anyone it's here - and I won't write anything on it. A minimalist blog - a blank screen.