It is the first day of November and it still warm enough for the people of South Central Finchley to dine al fresco in the many cafes that line Temple Fortune. After a skinny latte and white chocolate muffin, I take a stroll to the site of the last pub in this part of Finchley, now divided into two retail units.
One remains a bare concrete shell; the only sign of pending life a bright yellow banner announcing “Fireworks 4 U !!” For such a seasonal business they are cutting it mighty fine.
The other unit is open, but it has no sign up. The inside is fitted out in Ben Nicholson tones of brown, from thick gluey tar to soft fudge. In the centre of the shop are three large leather cubes. Along each wall runs a single shelf. On each shelf there are five similar looking objects, each placed rhythmically apart from the next object.
“Can I help you?”
The voice comes from the far end of the shop. I suppose I had not noticed her before because her hair and clothes and complexion were co-ordinated with the tones of the décor.
“Just looking.”
I pick up one of the objects. It is brown and shaped like a large seashell with five ridges running lengthways. The object is solid but soft.
“Those are the ladies'. The men’s are on the other side.”
“Thank you” I say. The shop assistant is leaning in a languid manner against the back wall. Perhaps from embarrassment, or self-consciousness, I glance down. Her feet hover just above the floor; no more than an inch or an inch and a half.
I can see no discernible difference between the men’s and the women’s products. I can feel the woman’s stare on the back of my neck.
“You know what they are?” she says.
“Of course” I say studying the object. There is an opening at the narrower end of the object.
“Would you like to try one on?”
“Erm” I say. “Actually what are they?”
She glides over to me, smiling.
“Hand shoes” she says.
“Oh, of course” I say.
“We import them from Italy. They are hand made by an old cobbler in Venice. His family have been making hand shoes for over three hundred years. He is the last.”
“Do you know your size?”
I shake my head. She grabs my hand and examines it, pressing her fingers hard into my flesh. She lets out an indecipherable “hmmm” as she studies my hand. “Maybe a 5.”
“OK” I say, “although my hands are quite broad.”
“Which style?” she asks.
I look along the row. I think I can discern subtle variations in colour and style.
“How about this one?” she says.
“No” I say.
“How about this one?”
“No” I say.
“How about this one?”
“Ok” I say.
She glides to the back of the shop and disappears through a door. I don’t remember seeing the door before.
She returns with a white box. The hand shoes are wrapped in layers of soft white paper. “Rice paper” she says. She pulls open the aperture and I push my hand in, but it is too tight.
“Try a 6” she says, “but I do recommend buying them on the tight side because they will loosen up.”
“I know” I say “but I have a rule, learnt from many years of bitter experience, that if it doesn’t fit right in the shop, it will never be comfortable.”
The size 6 is too loose.
“Do you do half sizes?”
The woman shakes her head.
“What a shame” I say.
“I think I’d better leave it” I say.
The shop assistant smiles.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
That thing
THE THING
The thing is, what is the thing? Is this the thing, or is this simply the route to the thing? Or maybe just a red herring?
Will the thing live outside this thing, or will it be part and parcel of the same thing?
Can this thing be the thing, and if so what kind of thing can it be?
Can I think the thing into being, or will the thing just be?
Can I be the king of thing, or just a fucking nothing?
Nothing can come from nothing, but a thing can come from another thing.
One thing leads to another.
Wouldn’t that be something?
The thing is the thing the thing is.
The thing is, the thing is the thing.
The thing is, what is the thing? Is this the thing, or is this simply the route to the thing? Or maybe just a red herring?
Will the thing live outside this thing, or will it be part and parcel of the same thing?
Can this thing be the thing, and if so what kind of thing can it be?
Can I think the thing into being, or will the thing just be?
Can I be the king of thing, or just a fucking nothing?
Nothing can come from nothing, but a thing can come from another thing.
One thing leads to another.
Wouldn’t that be something?
The thing is the thing the thing is.
The thing is, the thing is the thing.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Vanessa da Silva
As you will have gathered from the gig review, I'm an enormous fan of Tunng's artwork, especially the image on the left which has numerous animals embedded in it. Perfectly suits the Tunng aesthetic, bucolic, nostalgic, slightly sinister, and at the same time bursting with energy and form.
Well I have tracked down the artist responsible.
She is Vanessa da Silva, and her website is http://www.vanessadasilva.com - go check out her illustrations!
Gig Review - Tunng
Tunng. The Scala. 25/10/06
Who: Tunng – one of the most interesting bands in England right now.
What do they sound like: The Wicker Man soundtrack meets Múm with a touch of the Books thrown in for good measure. Bizarrely rated as one of the Jewish Chronicle’s upcoming bands of 2006 due to the presence of Becky “I’ve got a Bar Mitzvah to go to” Jacobs on vocals, but Tunng are very much a Klezmer free zone.
Another gig Robin? Yes, three in five days. Also my third slice (lashing?) of Tunng in under a year. I’m just a bit evangelical about them and keeping dragging people off to see them. But yes aural fatigue was setting in.
Don’t forget the review criteria can be found a few posts below this one.
1. Coolness of crowd: 6/10 – Not very. All a bit studenty. Disappointing lack of facial hair in the audience.
2. Bob quotient: 3/10 – Generally a bit lame in the ladies hair department.
3. Annoyment factor: 3/10 – Much loud talking in my vicinity about, inter alia, accountancy, upcoming exams and where shall we go to play pool. Much smoking of particularly smelly fags. I seem to have received some stick for this category, but then was delighted to pick up a flyer for the Luminaire (my favourite stand up gig venue in London after the Scala) and noticed it says at the bottom “if you like to talk when the bands are on you’re not welcome here”. Bravo!
4. Sound quality: 7/10 – bit fuzzy in the vocals.
5. Comfort: 5/10 – there are some alcoves to sit in, but then you can’t see anything and the sound is not so great. I guess because I have seen Tunng so often, I was less fussed than normal about securing a good spot, and consequently didn’t have a great view of the right hand part of the stage.
6. Sexytime: 6/10 – a touch of free hippy love in the air.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 10/10 – Tunng have it all. An electronics man wizzing off beats and samples and clicks and grunts. In truth he was a bit off his game/face, and mucked up some of his trigger points. A drummer with an array of obscure olde English percussive instruments, including what I believe is called a faggot. Plus drummer and Becky Jacobs both sported those little keyboard thingies with plastic tubes you put in your mouth.
Overall: 40/70 – perhaps a little low, but I think this reflects my theory that getting stuck in a noisy and unappreciative part of the crowd can really spoil one’s enjoyment. The gig was filmed for Channel 4 – I might review the “at home gig” if I can be bothered and compare the scores.
Optional categories
Merchandise: tremendous. Full range of cds for Tunng and supporting acts (who weren’t very good as it turned out). Tunng have the best range of T shirts of any band anywhere (see visuals below). Three different designs in multiple styles.
Gruff Rhys?: He wasn’t there
Visuals: fantastic. Seemless integration of cover art, t shirts, visuals, website. I have tracked down the artist responsible and will be reporting to you separately about her.
Who: Tunng – one of the most interesting bands in England right now.
What do they sound like: The Wicker Man soundtrack meets Múm with a touch of the Books thrown in for good measure. Bizarrely rated as one of the Jewish Chronicle’s upcoming bands of 2006 due to the presence of Becky “I’ve got a Bar Mitzvah to go to” Jacobs on vocals, but Tunng are very much a Klezmer free zone.
Another gig Robin? Yes, three in five days. Also my third slice (lashing?) of Tunng in under a year. I’m just a bit evangelical about them and keeping dragging people off to see them. But yes aural fatigue was setting in.
Don’t forget the review criteria can be found a few posts below this one.
1. Coolness of crowd: 6/10 – Not very. All a bit studenty. Disappointing lack of facial hair in the audience.
2. Bob quotient: 3/10 – Generally a bit lame in the ladies hair department.
3. Annoyment factor: 3/10 – Much loud talking in my vicinity about, inter alia, accountancy, upcoming exams and where shall we go to play pool. Much smoking of particularly smelly fags. I seem to have received some stick for this category, but then was delighted to pick up a flyer for the Luminaire (my favourite stand up gig venue in London after the Scala) and noticed it says at the bottom “if you like to talk when the bands are on you’re not welcome here”. Bravo!
4. Sound quality: 7/10 – bit fuzzy in the vocals.
5. Comfort: 5/10 – there are some alcoves to sit in, but then you can’t see anything and the sound is not so great. I guess because I have seen Tunng so often, I was less fussed than normal about securing a good spot, and consequently didn’t have a great view of the right hand part of the stage.
6. Sexytime: 6/10 – a touch of free hippy love in the air.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 10/10 – Tunng have it all. An electronics man wizzing off beats and samples and clicks and grunts. In truth he was a bit off his game/face, and mucked up some of his trigger points. A drummer with an array of obscure olde English percussive instruments, including what I believe is called a faggot. Plus drummer and Becky Jacobs both sported those little keyboard thingies with plastic tubes you put in your mouth.
Overall: 40/70 – perhaps a little low, but I think this reflects my theory that getting stuck in a noisy and unappreciative part of the crowd can really spoil one’s enjoyment. The gig was filmed for Channel 4 – I might review the “at home gig” if I can be bothered and compare the scores.
Optional categories
Merchandise: tremendous. Full range of cds for Tunng and supporting acts (who weren’t very good as it turned out). Tunng have the best range of T shirts of any band anywhere (see visuals below). Three different designs in multiple styles.
Gruff Rhys?: He wasn’t there
Visuals: fantastic. Seemless integration of cover art, t shirts, visuals, website. I have tracked down the artist responsible and will be reporting to you separately about her.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Thought for the day
Before you speak, ask yourself:
is it kind ?
is it necessary ?
is it true ?
does it improve on the silence ?
Shirdi Sai Baba 1856 - 1918
is it kind ?
is it necessary ?
is it true ?
does it improve on the silence ?
Shirdi Sai Baba 1856 - 1918
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Gig Review - J Spaceman
Acoustic Mainlines Tour - J Spaceman plays the music of Spacemen 3 and Spiritualized. QEH 23/10/06.
What? J Spaceman, aka Jason Pierce, in a kind of chamber pop meets gospel meets Unplugged melange. Mr Spaceman plus a man on electric piano, a string quartet, and 3 gospel singers.
1. Coolness of crowd: 6/10 - not very, nor was it particularly studenty or hairy. Just kind of normal I guess. But warm and supportive for the band.
2. Bob quotient: 4/10 - very poor, score would have been worse had it not been for a Regina Spektor look alike in a beret and curly ringlet combo picking up a few marks for general "nice hair".
3. Annoyment factor: 7/10 - an appreciative audience let down by consuming too much booze before the gig, leading to constant comings and going to the loo - not very sociable in a seated concert hall.
4. Sound quality: 9/10 - excellent, crystal clear.
5. Comfort: 7/10 - the seats at the QEH are fine, nicely padded, but just a little bit short, leading to extra strain on the hamstrings. Leg room aint great either.
6. Sexytime: 2/10 - songs about Jesus and death. Not really conducive.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 4/10 - none. Not even a drummer. Mr Spaceman did however sport this season's other essential accessory, a string quartet (this being the 4th string quartet I have seen in 3 gigs, and that's not including the full orchestra at the JCV gig).
Overall: 39/70. A poor score. But see below.
Merchandise: About 7 copies of the last Spiritualized album. A T shirt stall that only opened after the gig. But the T shirts were quite cool.
Gruff Rhys?: He wasn't there. But there were plenting of people throughout the night going off for a Gruff, much to my annoyance (see above).
What have we learnt? Well, only the second gig since I established the marking system and my methodology is in doubt. I think the system is essentially sound, but there will be some exceptional occasions when it breaks down and this was one of them. On paper at least, there was much scope for cynicism. Another string quartet. Acoustic guitars and gospel singers. Songs mostly about Jesus and the death of loved ones and the battle with the devil. White boy rips gospel and sells it back to a 99.9% pissed up white atheist audience. Oh Happy Day. And yet. And yet. Though the ingredients are familiar, their combination here was unique. After all, the key to great cooking is good ingredients, correct assemblage and the right seasoning. The strings carried much of the tune, rising above being mere garnish. Does Spaceman believe all the Jesus stuff? Who knows, he doesn't say much, apart from "thanks" at the end. Let the music do the talking.
And yet...there was real beauty and power in the songs. Spaceman's virtuoso performance was intense and it was an evening that will linger long in the limbic system where memory lies.
Final thought - J Spaceman has taken rock n roll back to the very moment of its conception, when Robert Johnson stood at the crossroads wrestling with selling his soul to the devil in return for immortality. Spaceman has reimagined a different outcome to that struggle, one where Jesus wins, and the blues and rock n roll lie down with gospel and country.
What? J Spaceman, aka Jason Pierce, in a kind of chamber pop meets gospel meets Unplugged melange. Mr Spaceman plus a man on electric piano, a string quartet, and 3 gospel singers.
1. Coolness of crowd: 6/10 - not very, nor was it particularly studenty or hairy. Just kind of normal I guess. But warm and supportive for the band.
2. Bob quotient: 4/10 - very poor, score would have been worse had it not been for a Regina Spektor look alike in a beret and curly ringlet combo picking up a few marks for general "nice hair".
3. Annoyment factor: 7/10 - an appreciative audience let down by consuming too much booze before the gig, leading to constant comings and going to the loo - not very sociable in a seated concert hall.
4. Sound quality: 9/10 - excellent, crystal clear.
5. Comfort: 7/10 - the seats at the QEH are fine, nicely padded, but just a little bit short, leading to extra strain on the hamstrings. Leg room aint great either.
6. Sexytime: 2/10 - songs about Jesus and death. Not really conducive.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 4/10 - none. Not even a drummer. Mr Spaceman did however sport this season's other essential accessory, a string quartet (this being the 4th string quartet I have seen in 3 gigs, and that's not including the full orchestra at the JCV gig).
Overall: 39/70. A poor score. But see below.
Merchandise: About 7 copies of the last Spiritualized album. A T shirt stall that only opened after the gig. But the T shirts were quite cool.
Gruff Rhys?: He wasn't there. But there were plenting of people throughout the night going off for a Gruff, much to my annoyance (see above).
What have we learnt? Well, only the second gig since I established the marking system and my methodology is in doubt. I think the system is essentially sound, but there will be some exceptional occasions when it breaks down and this was one of them. On paper at least, there was much scope for cynicism. Another string quartet. Acoustic guitars and gospel singers. Songs mostly about Jesus and the death of loved ones and the battle with the devil. White boy rips gospel and sells it back to a 99.9% pissed up white atheist audience. Oh Happy Day. And yet. And yet. Though the ingredients are familiar, their combination here was unique. After all, the key to great cooking is good ingredients, correct assemblage and the right seasoning. The strings carried much of the tune, rising above being mere garnish. Does Spaceman believe all the Jesus stuff? Who knows, he doesn't say much, apart from "thanks" at the end. Let the music do the talking.
And yet...there was real beauty and power in the songs. Spaceman's virtuoso performance was intense and it was an evening that will linger long in the limbic system where memory lies.
Final thought - J Spaceman has taken rock n roll back to the very moment of its conception, when Robert Johnson stood at the crossroads wrestling with selling his soul to the devil in return for immortality. Spaceman has reimagined a different outcome to that struggle, one where Jesus wins, and the blues and rock n roll lie down with gospel and country.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Gig Review : Jean Claude Vannier.
Jean Claude Vannier : L’Enfant Assassins Des Mouches and Histoire de Melody Nelson – Barbican 21/10/2006.
What? First and probably only ever live rendition of two classic soundtrack albums made by JCV and Serge Gainsbourg in the early 1970s. Featuring full orchestra, choir, band, a child string quartet, special guest stars, and a boy on stage. Conducted by JCV.
1. Coolness of crowd: 7/10 – remarkably high. I could easily have worn the Agnes B Hat in this company, but I couldn’t risk it in the rain.
2. Bob quotient: 8/10 – particularly fine slinky shiny black bob next door but one to me.
3. Annoyment factor: 8/10 – the chap next to me (not Oli) was doing a head bop thing in an annoying way, and also seemed to be in some sort of a relationship with the girl with the slinky bob. Minor rustling behind me which stopped when the concert began.
4. Sound quality: 9/10 – lush and creamy.
5. Comfort: 8/10 - nice seats, perhaps a tad too springy. Because the stage was extended forward and we were in the front row, I was looking up a lot which led to slight neck stiffening.
6. Sexytime: 8/10 - it was very French.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 10/10 - this is what I’m talkin’ about. Bravo Michel Musseau. Instruments included electric whisk on hung sauté pans, sewing machine, coffee grinder, slamming door, and Monsieur Musseau marching in a box filled with gravel. All performed with a stern, uniquely French face, even when he nearly fell over during the marching part. Other sound effects performed by the rest of the orchestra included the chorus spraying aerosols, the whole orchestra waving white handkerchiefs, and a young boy lighting giant matches, tearing up pieces of paper, and shutting a giant pair of silver scissors.
Overall: 58/70 - a triumph.
Optional categories:
8. Merchandise: signed posters and a choice of two t shirts. Also a free booklet with lots of useful stuff, including lyrics in English and French. Not bad given this was a one off event. Picked up a T shirt bearing the imprint “l’enfant assassins des mouches” (literally ‘the child killers of the moustache’). Should confuse them on the promenade in Eilat.
9. Gruff Rhys factor: He was there. Singing in Breton. Other notables included a gloriously fucked Brigitte Fontaine, Jarvis “son of Joe” Cocker, Badly Sung Boy, Mick Harvey out of the Bad Seeds and Laetitia Sadier of Sterolab, who I thought looked very dirty (in a good way). The band included Vick Flick who did the original James Bond theme (dang de-dang dang, dang dang dang - dang dedang dang - that one) and Herbie Flowers who played the bass on Walk on the Wild Side.
What? First and probably only ever live rendition of two classic soundtrack albums made by JCV and Serge Gainsbourg in the early 1970s. Featuring full orchestra, choir, band, a child string quartet, special guest stars, and a boy on stage. Conducted by JCV.
1. Coolness of crowd: 7/10 – remarkably high. I could easily have worn the Agnes B Hat in this company, but I couldn’t risk it in the rain.
2. Bob quotient: 8/10 – particularly fine slinky shiny black bob next door but one to me.
3. Annoyment factor: 8/10 – the chap next to me (not Oli) was doing a head bop thing in an annoying way, and also seemed to be in some sort of a relationship with the girl with the slinky bob. Minor rustling behind me which stopped when the concert began.
4. Sound quality: 9/10 – lush and creamy.
5. Comfort: 8/10 - nice seats, perhaps a tad too springy. Because the stage was extended forward and we were in the front row, I was looking up a lot which led to slight neck stiffening.
6. Sexytime: 8/10 - it was very French.
7. Percussion / sound effect function: 10/10 - this is what I’m talkin’ about. Bravo Michel Musseau. Instruments included electric whisk on hung sauté pans, sewing machine, coffee grinder, slamming door, and Monsieur Musseau marching in a box filled with gravel. All performed with a stern, uniquely French face, even when he nearly fell over during the marching part. Other sound effects performed by the rest of the orchestra included the chorus spraying aerosols, the whole orchestra waving white handkerchiefs, and a young boy lighting giant matches, tearing up pieces of paper, and shutting a giant pair of silver scissors.
Overall: 58/70 - a triumph.
Optional categories:
8. Merchandise: signed posters and a choice of two t shirts. Also a free booklet with lots of useful stuff, including lyrics in English and French. Not bad given this was a one off event. Picked up a T shirt bearing the imprint “l’enfant assassins des mouches” (literally ‘the child killers of the moustache’). Should confuse them on the promenade in Eilat.
9. Gruff Rhys factor: He was there. Singing in Breton. Other notables included a gloriously fucked Brigitte Fontaine, Jarvis “son of Joe” Cocker, Badly Sung Boy, Mick Harvey out of the Bad Seeds and Laetitia Sadier of Sterolab, who I thought looked very dirty (in a good way). The band included Vick Flick who did the original James Bond theme (dang de-dang dang, dang dang dang - dang dedang dang - that one) and Herbie Flowers who played the bass on Walk on the Wild Side.
Gig Reviews - marking system
Having been to many gigs in recent months, I have devised a unique system for scoring/reviewing purposes.
In almost all cases, the quality of the performers and my interest in their music is a given; I have realised that what really affects my enjoyment of a gig, and elevates one to the status of supergig (CocoRosie at the Scala late last year) and another to that of a turkey (Stereolab at Koko a few months back) are factors to do with the venue and the crowd.
I have included one performance related category; the sound effects performer. Almost every great act I have seen in recent times has featured a table laden with bizarre items or unusual percussion instruments or some electronic sound production box, which greatly enhance the vibe, the depth of sound and the visual spectacle. If the percussionist can bring a touch or Tommy Cooper / Eric Morecambe to proceedings then so much the better.
The system is as follows:
1. Coolness of crowd.
2. Bob quotient – important enough to warrant a category of its own. Needless to say the more bebobbed girls, the better. I don't want to open up a whole Pandora's Box about hair colour, but without doubt when it comes to the bob, black is best. Similarly the sharpness of the cut, and the shape of the wearer's neck, are key ingredients.
3. Annoyment factor – coughing, rustling, camera activity, phone activity, generally annoying behaviour (sitting on the floor, talking rubbish, smoking, smelliness). In this category, marks are deducted for annoyance - 10/10 is a stress free evening, 0/10 is an evening at the Hampstead Theatre.
4. Sound quality.
5. Comfort.
6. Sexytime – an entirely subjective vibeometer reading.
7. Percussion / sound effect function.
I will also include a number of optional categories which may or not be appropriate on any given occasion. These will not bear a score for the sake of consistency. They might include:
8. Merchandise – its nice to take home a souvenir.
9 Gruff Rhys - any portmanteau concert at the Barbican where an obscure non- English language album is recreated for the first and only time would not be complete without a guest appearance from Super Furry Animals lead singer Gruff Rhys, preferably singing in a tongue other then Welsh or English (eg Portugese, as he did at the Tropicalia gig earlier this year). Also rhyming slang, as in “I’m bursting for a Gruff”. Not to be confused with Griff Rhys Jones.
In almost all cases, the quality of the performers and my interest in their music is a given; I have realised that what really affects my enjoyment of a gig, and elevates one to the status of supergig (CocoRosie at the Scala late last year) and another to that of a turkey (Stereolab at Koko a few months back) are factors to do with the venue and the crowd.
I have included one performance related category; the sound effects performer. Almost every great act I have seen in recent times has featured a table laden with bizarre items or unusual percussion instruments or some electronic sound production box, which greatly enhance the vibe, the depth of sound and the visual spectacle. If the percussionist can bring a touch or Tommy Cooper / Eric Morecambe to proceedings then so much the better.
The system is as follows:
1. Coolness of crowd.
2. Bob quotient – important enough to warrant a category of its own. Needless to say the more bebobbed girls, the better. I don't want to open up a whole Pandora's Box about hair colour, but without doubt when it comes to the bob, black is best. Similarly the sharpness of the cut, and the shape of the wearer's neck, are key ingredients.
3. Annoyment factor – coughing, rustling, camera activity, phone activity, generally annoying behaviour (sitting on the floor, talking rubbish, smoking, smelliness). In this category, marks are deducted for annoyance - 10/10 is a stress free evening, 0/10 is an evening at the Hampstead Theatre.
4. Sound quality.
5. Comfort.
6. Sexytime – an entirely subjective vibeometer reading.
7. Percussion / sound effect function.
I will also include a number of optional categories which may or not be appropriate on any given occasion. These will not bear a score for the sake of consistency. They might include:
8. Merchandise – its nice to take home a souvenir.
9 Gruff Rhys - any portmanteau concert at the Barbican where an obscure non- English language album is recreated for the first and only time would not be complete without a guest appearance from Super Furry Animals lead singer Gruff Rhys, preferably singing in a tongue other then Welsh or English (eg Portugese, as he did at the Tropicalia gig earlier this year). Also rhyming slang, as in “I’m bursting for a Gruff”. Not to be confused with Griff Rhys Jones.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Tubano Bop
Quite why over 10 million people have tuned in to see this vid of two Israeli (her left eye is lazy) girls dancing is a little beyond me, but at least it's nice to have some positivity for a change : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_CSo1gOd48
Personally the following clip does it for me much more : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIXs6Sh0DKs
Personally the following clip does it for me much more : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIXs6Sh0DKs
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Secret Squirrel
I'm sorry to have to report a major security breach.An intruder managed to evade tight security and make it all the way into the grounds of the Finchley Love Palace.
I mean what if the little fucker had had a gun?
A full investigation is under way.
Meanwhile here are stills taken from the FLP close circuit surveillance camera network.
I'm just a Chi Machine
After my pilates session, they kindly let me have a go on their latest gizmo, the Zen Chi Machine. It looks like a little cushion perched on top of an upside down washing up bowl – I found a picture on the net, but in the one I tried the leg supports were covered by the cushion. You lie on your back with your feet in the slots and the contraption then vibrates. Quite strongly. It feels a bit like when you give your duvet a good shake in the morning – here you are the duvet and the motion is lateral rather than vertical.
Anyway it was set to give me five minutes of shaking all over. When it stopped I was advised not to try moving for a bit. I felt a buzzy tingling on my skin over the whole of my body. My pilates instructor said something about my aura but I was astral travelling at the time and so unable to comprehend what she said.
I was certainly spaced out and feeling quite mellow and happy. My sinuses seemed particularly clear. The good feeling lasted all the way home and after dinner I fell into a deep sleep in front of the telly, although this might have been something to do with the tedium of the Chelsea – Barcelona game.
The science: – according to one website selling it, “the Zen Chi Machine is a unique non-impact exercise movement that stimulates venous and lymphatic return, as well as the digestive tract, all whilst lying down. Making it the easiest exercise routine. Just 15 minutes exercise a day will improve energy levels, body appearance and create an overwhelming sensation of well being.”
Chi of course is “life force energy” and as William Blake said (and something of a new motto for me) Energy is Delight.
Not sure I would buy one (at £150) but would certainly try it again.
17th October 2006.
I read in the newspaper that History Matters, a quango comprising a load of other quangos like English Heritage and the National Trust, were running a "blog in" at www.historymatters.org.uk, the intention being to collect as many blogs as possible for the day of 17th October 2006, which then would be stored at the British Library. Well I couldn't resist, and inspired partly by a nostalgia that has arisen from hours of fiddling about on my space tracking down artists I haven't heard of for years, and partly by a growing existential dispair at the world we live in, I decided to write a serious piece. Not like me I know, but it happens sometimes.
This is what I wrote:
"“We need to get the balance right between integration and multi-culturalism” said Prime Minister Tony Blair today. Multi-culturalism is the word du jour.
I remember when I first heard the phrase back in the 1980s. Actually what I first heard was “Multi-Kulti”, the name of an album by Jazz trumpeter Don Cherry. Back then multi-culturalism meant something completely different. It was all about sharing and exploring people’s identities, roots and culture. England was drab and grey in the 1970. To be young in the 1980s gave you the hope that the future would be better. Music, clubs, magazines, nightlife, food – everyone seemed to be exploring and mixing it up. Going to clubs like Dingwalls on a Sunday afternoon, you would see old white jazz beards mixing with sharp suited young black jazz dancers, united in a love of music. “Youth” culture was specialised – you chose your clubs, your clothes, your diet, according to which tribe you aspired to, but you were free to choose any you wanted, and to chop and change. In the late 1980s came the “acid house scene”. Again all sorts of unlikely people united in revelry. The music itself was an extraordinary hybrid; growing out of a US scene which was largely black and for the most part gay, it fused with the British working class “scally” culture of the terrace “casuals” to become something new, something for everyone, even for nice middle class educated white boys like me. That was multi-culturalism; a pick and mix and remix culture. Everyone getting along just fine. I’ll swap you some jerk chicken for a slice of kugel. It may seem superficial, but actually what makes us human more than food and music?
We thought we would grow up like this, and that our fundamental belief that everyone was equal, and that diversity was a good thing and a thing to be shared, would change the world.
Fast forward to 17th October 2006 and the world is a very different place and multi-culturalism has a very different meaning. In the age of spin, there is nothing that the media and politicians like better than to adopt slogans and phrases whose meaning is apparently indisputable, thereby avoiding any real discussion of the issue. But the words and phrases come ready loaded with emotion and prejudgment. “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” “Disproportionate.” “Islamic.” “Militant.” “Insurgent.” “Apartheid.” “George W Bush.” “Zionist.” They are designed to stifle debate and to hide underlying meaning; often you can best define their meaning by asking yourself what word the user is seeking to avoid using.
So today’s word is multi-culturalism. It is used to mean the opposite of integration, even its enemy. That it means nothing of the sort will not worry the media or the MPs. What they want it to mean is uni-culturalism, or isolationism, in the specific context of Muslims in Britain. But they will not say this. To use clear and specific language in this day and age is a dangerous and unfashionable thing."
Well, try as I may, the site just wouldn't accept my entry. I was well within the character count limit, but I reduced the piece to a single paragraph, took out contentious words like "Muslim" but still no joy. I tried different, how might I put it, more authentic identities, but still no joy. The speed of rejection was quite something. I began to suspect foul play. Some censorship bug or other.
Out of despair, I tried a different tact. I submitted this:
"Had a lazy day."
And it sailed through, no problem.
So there it is. That is my contribution to history. Had a lazy day.
If you want to post, you have until 1st November.
This is what I wrote:
"“We need to get the balance right between integration and multi-culturalism” said Prime Minister Tony Blair today. Multi-culturalism is the word du jour.
I remember when I first heard the phrase back in the 1980s. Actually what I first heard was “Multi-Kulti”, the name of an album by Jazz trumpeter Don Cherry. Back then multi-culturalism meant something completely different. It was all about sharing and exploring people’s identities, roots and culture. England was drab and grey in the 1970. To be young in the 1980s gave you the hope that the future would be better. Music, clubs, magazines, nightlife, food – everyone seemed to be exploring and mixing it up. Going to clubs like Dingwalls on a Sunday afternoon, you would see old white jazz beards mixing with sharp suited young black jazz dancers, united in a love of music. “Youth” culture was specialised – you chose your clubs, your clothes, your diet, according to which tribe you aspired to, but you were free to choose any you wanted, and to chop and change. In the late 1980s came the “acid house scene”. Again all sorts of unlikely people united in revelry. The music itself was an extraordinary hybrid; growing out of a US scene which was largely black and for the most part gay, it fused with the British working class “scally” culture of the terrace “casuals” to become something new, something for everyone, even for nice middle class educated white boys like me. That was multi-culturalism; a pick and mix and remix culture. Everyone getting along just fine. I’ll swap you some jerk chicken for a slice of kugel. It may seem superficial, but actually what makes us human more than food and music?
We thought we would grow up like this, and that our fundamental belief that everyone was equal, and that diversity was a good thing and a thing to be shared, would change the world.
Fast forward to 17th October 2006 and the world is a very different place and multi-culturalism has a very different meaning. In the age of spin, there is nothing that the media and politicians like better than to adopt slogans and phrases whose meaning is apparently indisputable, thereby avoiding any real discussion of the issue. But the words and phrases come ready loaded with emotion and prejudgment. “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” “Disproportionate.” “Islamic.” “Militant.” “Insurgent.” “Apartheid.” “George W Bush.” “Zionist.” They are designed to stifle debate and to hide underlying meaning; often you can best define their meaning by asking yourself what word the user is seeking to avoid using.
So today’s word is multi-culturalism. It is used to mean the opposite of integration, even its enemy. That it means nothing of the sort will not worry the media or the MPs. What they want it to mean is uni-culturalism, or isolationism, in the specific context of Muslims in Britain. But they will not say this. To use clear and specific language in this day and age is a dangerous and unfashionable thing."
Well, try as I may, the site just wouldn't accept my entry. I was well within the character count limit, but I reduced the piece to a single paragraph, took out contentious words like "Muslim" but still no joy. I tried different, how might I put it, more authentic identities, but still no joy. The speed of rejection was quite something. I began to suspect foul play. Some censorship bug or other.
Out of despair, I tried a different tact. I submitted this:
"Had a lazy day."
And it sailed through, no problem.
So there it is. That is my contribution to history. Had a lazy day.
If you want to post, you have until 1st November.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Scanner
Ever since I was a young boy, I could hear sounds in my head. The crackling of static. Drones. Pure sine waves. Dull thuds.
Over time, I came to realise that in the density of the hum, I could make out voices. Voices of my ancestors. Voices of my future. Voices of my past. Random voices. Voices without names or faces. Voices of me.
“Destroy -nothing -the most important thing.”
I felt that there was a compass in my head, and it always pointed north.
The colder the better. The air is pure. The ice clean. The sound of glaciers cracking mirrored my internal frenzy, but out there, on the tundra, I felt able to think, to attune to the landscape.
Amplification.
The sun on the ice; the frozen blood glistening like a jam-red gemstone.
The smell of carcass skins. Fat sizzling and jumping on the wood fire. Dogs howling, shaking off coats of ice. A lone black bird swooping on the horizon.
Around the camp, we have erected wind chimes made of ice. The husky wind pants as it rushes around the chimes.
In the centre of the clearing, we have dug a well, and a channel to let the meltwater drain into an underground chamber, which we have lined with thin metal strips and spikes. The top of the chamber is covered with grit and debris from the lip of the glacier, and a large ice trumpet looms out, projecting and distorting the sound of the water as it drips into the chamber and freezes.
A little distance away from the camp, we have made a large dish – it must be twenty foot in diameter – again from pure ice. The compacted ice has been polished to pure smooth perfection. In the centre of the dish is a large spike, pointing towards the sky. The spike is designed to focus the dish.
The purpose of the dish is simple, but the task is hard.
To capture the sound of the aurora.
100 million solar particles sizzle into the Earth’s atmosphere. Born in eruption on the surface of the sun, clouds of plasma travel at speeds of over a million kilometres an hour. Hooked in by the Earth’s magnetic field, they collide with our atmospheric gases. Energy is released by the collisions in the form of dancing photons; particles of light, pellets of love. Energy is delight.
The electrically charged particles excite the atmospheric gases; the excited particle is unstable and gives up its excess energy by emitting light. This is the aurora. Energy as delight.
The aurora occurs at altitudes between 80 and 500 kilometres, where there is a near-vacuum. Scientists will tell you that it is not possible for sound waves to propagate in such conditions.
I am no scientist. But I have heard the sound of the vacuum.
Over time, I came to realise that in the density of the hum, I could make out voices. Voices of my ancestors. Voices of my future. Voices of my past. Random voices. Voices without names or faces. Voices of me.
“Destroy -nothing -the most important thing.”
I felt that there was a compass in my head, and it always pointed north.
The colder the better. The air is pure. The ice clean. The sound of glaciers cracking mirrored my internal frenzy, but out there, on the tundra, I felt able to think, to attune to the landscape.
Amplification.
The sun on the ice; the frozen blood glistening like a jam-red gemstone.
The smell of carcass skins. Fat sizzling and jumping on the wood fire. Dogs howling, shaking off coats of ice. A lone black bird swooping on the horizon.
Around the camp, we have erected wind chimes made of ice. The husky wind pants as it rushes around the chimes.
In the centre of the clearing, we have dug a well, and a channel to let the meltwater drain into an underground chamber, which we have lined with thin metal strips and spikes. The top of the chamber is covered with grit and debris from the lip of the glacier, and a large ice trumpet looms out, projecting and distorting the sound of the water as it drips into the chamber and freezes.
A little distance away from the camp, we have made a large dish – it must be twenty foot in diameter – again from pure ice. The compacted ice has been polished to pure smooth perfection. In the centre of the dish is a large spike, pointing towards the sky. The spike is designed to focus the dish.
The purpose of the dish is simple, but the task is hard.
To capture the sound of the aurora.
100 million solar particles sizzle into the Earth’s atmosphere. Born in eruption on the surface of the sun, clouds of plasma travel at speeds of over a million kilometres an hour. Hooked in by the Earth’s magnetic field, they collide with our atmospheric gases. Energy is released by the collisions in the form of dancing photons; particles of light, pellets of love. Energy is delight.
The electrically charged particles excite the atmospheric gases; the excited particle is unstable and gives up its excess energy by emitting light. This is the aurora. Energy as delight.
The aurora occurs at altitudes between 80 and 500 kilometres, where there is a near-vacuum. Scientists will tell you that it is not possible for sound waves to propagate in such conditions.
I am no scientist. But I have heard the sound of the vacuum.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Naked Lady
My my that Wikipedia is a marvellous thing. I've always wanted to get closer to the Naked Lady; well here is what Wikipedia has to say:
"La Delivrance locally known as The Naked Lady.
La Delivrance is a 16-foot statue in bronze of a naked women holding a sword aloft, and is the work of the French sculptor Emile Guillaume. It is located at the southern edge of Finchley at Henley’s Corner, at the bottom of Regents Park Road.
The statue has a number of local names including “Dirty Gertie”, “The Wicked Woman”, and most popular (to the exclusion of its real name) “The Naked Lady”.
The statue was created as a celebration of the First Battle of the Marne when the German army was stopped from capturing Paris in August 1914. In 1920 Emile Guillaume exhibited the statue at the Paris Salon, where it was bought by Lord Rothermere (Harold Sidney Harmsworth, 1st Viscount Rothermere). Lord Rothermere presented the statue to the Urban District of Finchley. However Finchley Council needed a war memorial, and intended placing the new statue at the main entrance of Finchley’s recreation ground Victoria Park. Lord Rothermere, incensed by this, informed Finchley that the statue was to be placed at its present location, so that he might see it when driving to see his mother, who lived at Totteridge, or the council couldn’t have it at all. The statue was unveiled on October 20, 1927, in front of a crowd, believed to have been around 8,000 people, by the then Prime Minister Lloyd George (picture).
It is considered to be one of the most interesting pieces of public art in England."
Vive La Delivrance!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Product Review: Kiehl's Ultra Facial Cream.
It was alright.
What, I have to say more than that? OK then.
Smell: Nice and clean.
Texture: Smooth. Not too oily, but viscous enough to get a good spread.
Initial thoughts: Not bad, definitely a winter and not a summer product.
I accompanied the application with a light spray of Decleor Original eu de toilette. I was concerned that any heavier scent might interact with the smell of the cream in a way that would produce something a little bit too funky (not in the good sense of the word).
Final thoughts: You know, not bad at all. Skin felt soft and happy. Not sure I would buy it myself, althoughI may revisit this later in the winter. Could be useful as an emergency 'comfort cream'; it reminded me of a lighter version of Decleor's "Keep Comfort Calming Nourishing Cream". One to put on my chanukah wish list.
7/10
What, I have to say more than that? OK then.
Smell: Nice and clean.
Texture: Smooth. Not too oily, but viscous enough to get a good spread.
Initial thoughts: Not bad, definitely a winter and not a summer product.
I accompanied the application with a light spray of Decleor Original eu de toilette. I was concerned that any heavier scent might interact with the smell of the cream in a way that would produce something a little bit too funky (not in the good sense of the word).
Final thoughts: You know, not bad at all. Skin felt soft and happy. Not sure I would buy it myself, althoughI may revisit this later in the winter. Could be useful as an emergency 'comfort cream'; it reminded me of a lighter version of Decleor's "Keep Comfort Calming Nourishing Cream". One to put on my chanukah wish list.
7/10
Friday, October 13, 2006
Ultra Facile Cream
So I got this flyer in the post today from Kiehl's, launching their new ULTRA FACIAL CREAM.
What they say:
"Inspired by our original, beloved Ultra Facial Moisturizer, this 24-hour, light-textured daily hydrator leaves skin comfortable and visibly well-balanced, particularly in harsh weather conditions. Our formula is made is Antarcticine–a Glycoprotein extracted from microorganisms sourced from sea glaciers and notable for an ability to protect skin from cold temperatures–as well as Imperata Cylindrica, a plant indigenous to the Australian desert which possesses superb water retention properties in dry conditions. Our unique combination of ingredients helps reduce moisture loss while drawing and absorbing moisture from the air. With continuous water replenishment throughout the day, skin is smooth, healthy-looking, and "moisture-even.""
It came with a nice map of Greenland and a statement that Kiehl's were supporting efforts to stem the effect of global warming on Greenland.
Now let's look at this in more detail.
A glycoprotein extracted from...sea glaciers. Now pardon me, but aren't glaciers made from erm water? And pretty much nowt else. I know, I've been to the Arctic, I've drunk glacial meltwater, it's about as pure as pure can be.
So I googled Antarticine and found that [apparently] it is derived from a new bacterial strain, Pseudoalteromonas antarctica NF, isolated from a sample collected at the bottom of a glacier in the region of Inlet Admiralty Bay (King George Island, South Shetland Island, Antarctica). So it was some gunk at the bottom of the glacier?
And isn't the problem with global warming like that the glaciers are melting? So is it really such a good idea to be using glaciers for cosmetic products, I ask you? Maybe having discovered the bacteria they now grow it in the lab, although does it then count as "sourced" from sea glaciers?
Next I googled Imperata cylindrica. Also known as cogongrass. In the US it is classified as a "noxious weed". Nice. And it possesses "superb water retention properties". I don't know, but lady friends of mine are always complaining about too much water retention.
Kiehl's tell me that their product is an "extraordinary moisturizer...particularly effective in very cold and dry conditions." Well I'm off for dinner in my neighbour's succah, which should provide the requisite cold and dryness, so I'll be testing the sample they gave me and letting you know.
What they say:
"Inspired by our original, beloved Ultra Facial Moisturizer, this 24-hour, light-textured daily hydrator leaves skin comfortable and visibly well-balanced, particularly in harsh weather conditions. Our formula is made is Antarcticine–a Glycoprotein extracted from microorganisms sourced from sea glaciers and notable for an ability to protect skin from cold temperatures–as well as Imperata Cylindrica, a plant indigenous to the Australian desert which possesses superb water retention properties in dry conditions. Our unique combination of ingredients helps reduce moisture loss while drawing and absorbing moisture from the air. With continuous water replenishment throughout the day, skin is smooth, healthy-looking, and "moisture-even.""
It came with a nice map of Greenland and a statement that Kiehl's were supporting efforts to stem the effect of global warming on Greenland.
Now let's look at this in more detail.
A glycoprotein extracted from...sea glaciers. Now pardon me, but aren't glaciers made from erm water? And pretty much nowt else. I know, I've been to the Arctic, I've drunk glacial meltwater, it's about as pure as pure can be.
So I googled Antarticine and found that [apparently] it is derived from a new bacterial strain, Pseudoalteromonas antarctica NF, isolated from a sample collected at the bottom of a glacier in the region of Inlet Admiralty Bay (King George Island, South Shetland Island, Antarctica). So it was some gunk at the bottom of the glacier?
And isn't the problem with global warming like that the glaciers are melting? So is it really such a good idea to be using glaciers for cosmetic products, I ask you? Maybe having discovered the bacteria they now grow it in the lab, although does it then count as "sourced" from sea glaciers?
Next I googled Imperata cylindrica. Also known as cogongrass. In the US it is classified as a "noxious weed". Nice. And it possesses "superb water retention properties". I don't know, but lady friends of mine are always complaining about too much water retention.
Kiehl's tell me that their product is an "extraordinary moisturizer...particularly effective in very cold and dry conditions." Well I'm off for dinner in my neighbour's succah, which should provide the requisite cold and dryness, so I'll be testing the sample they gave me and letting you know.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Not So Illuminated
When the Family left to go to the Hampstead Theatre, were they already late? At what time did they realise that they were going to be late? Are they the sort of people who are always late for everything? Does it bother them that they are late?
When did the Family realise that they were going to be sitting in the second row, and that therefore their arrival, some ten minutes after the play had begun, would be disturbing for the rest of the audience?
At what point during the Grandmother’s preparations for the evening did she decide to adorn her arms with large clanking metallic bangles? Does she always wear these bangles, or did she wear them especially because they were going to the theatre?
Does the Grandmother hear the noise of the bangles? Is it like when you go into a room where there is an unexpected noxious smell, and before long you no longer smell the smell?
Did the Mother remember to pack lots of sweets for her children to suck on during the play? Were they the kind of sweets that have crinkly wrappers and which are difficult to open?
Did the Mother know anything about Everything is Illuminated, the play she was going to see, based on the book of the same name? Did she attempt to ascertain whether the play was suitable for children?
How long has the Grandmother owned her handbag? What creature donated its skin to make her handbag? Is that creature dead yet? If the creature is dead, then why does the handbag groan and rumble every time the Grandmother touches it?
What does the Grandmother keep in the bag?
Does the Mother decide during the interval to buy her children cokes? Are the cokes poured into large plastic cups filled with ice? After they have drunk the coke, do the children discard the cups, or do they continue to hold onto them, rattling the ice, sucking at the cold icewater, biting into the plastic, crushing and crinkling the plastic in their hands?
Is the Grandmother surgically attached to the handbag? Are the children surgically attached to the plastic cups? Is there some form of genetic predisposition to surgical attachment that has been passed down from Grandmother to Grandchild? Does this mirror any of the themes of the play?
What is the Grandmother’s reaction when the nasty man sitting in front of her thanks her for almost ruining the play for him? Is her argument, that she was disturbed by a man who kept falling asleep and waking himself up with a snore, a valid defence?
Is the man who fell asleep the same man who kept felling asleep during a performance of the Rubinstein Kiss at the Hampstead Theatre earlier that year, and who would wake himself up with a snore, and would then mumble to himself until he realised where he was?
Are Jewish people more or less likely then any other social group to fall asleep at the theatre? Does this answer depend on whether or not there is any Jewish theme associated with the play?
Is the Mother aware of the disturbance caused to the other people in the audience when one of her children cries out “oh no” several times during a scene at the climax of the play where an old lady chastely kissed the hero on the mouth? Or when the child giggles and shuffles nervously during a rape scene?
If she is not, is it because she is concentrating hard on the play, because she is blinded by her love for her children, or because she herself spends most of the play talking to the children?
Did the Family learn anything from their visit to the theatre? Were they uplifted, or moved by the play? In a week’s time, will they remember that they went to see the play? The next time they go to see a play, will any of them behave in a way that is different?
When did the Family realise that they were going to be sitting in the second row, and that therefore their arrival, some ten minutes after the play had begun, would be disturbing for the rest of the audience?
At what point during the Grandmother’s preparations for the evening did she decide to adorn her arms with large clanking metallic bangles? Does she always wear these bangles, or did she wear them especially because they were going to the theatre?
Does the Grandmother hear the noise of the bangles? Is it like when you go into a room where there is an unexpected noxious smell, and before long you no longer smell the smell?
Did the Mother remember to pack lots of sweets for her children to suck on during the play? Were they the kind of sweets that have crinkly wrappers and which are difficult to open?
Did the Mother know anything about Everything is Illuminated, the play she was going to see, based on the book of the same name? Did she attempt to ascertain whether the play was suitable for children?
How long has the Grandmother owned her handbag? What creature donated its skin to make her handbag? Is that creature dead yet? If the creature is dead, then why does the handbag groan and rumble every time the Grandmother touches it?
What does the Grandmother keep in the bag?
Does the Mother decide during the interval to buy her children cokes? Are the cokes poured into large plastic cups filled with ice? After they have drunk the coke, do the children discard the cups, or do they continue to hold onto them, rattling the ice, sucking at the cold icewater, biting into the plastic, crushing and crinkling the plastic in their hands?
Is the Grandmother surgically attached to the handbag? Are the children surgically attached to the plastic cups? Is there some form of genetic predisposition to surgical attachment that has been passed down from Grandmother to Grandchild? Does this mirror any of the themes of the play?
What is the Grandmother’s reaction when the nasty man sitting in front of her thanks her for almost ruining the play for him? Is her argument, that she was disturbed by a man who kept falling asleep and waking himself up with a snore, a valid defence?
Is the man who fell asleep the same man who kept felling asleep during a performance of the Rubinstein Kiss at the Hampstead Theatre earlier that year, and who would wake himself up with a snore, and would then mumble to himself until he realised where he was?
Are Jewish people more or less likely then any other social group to fall asleep at the theatre? Does this answer depend on whether or not there is any Jewish theme associated with the play?
Is the Mother aware of the disturbance caused to the other people in the audience when one of her children cries out “oh no” several times during a scene at the climax of the play where an old lady chastely kissed the hero on the mouth? Or when the child giggles and shuffles nervously during a rape scene?
If she is not, is it because she is concentrating hard on the play, because she is blinded by her love for her children, or because she herself spends most of the play talking to the children?
Did the Family learn anything from their visit to the theatre? Were they uplifted, or moved by the play? In a week’s time, will they remember that they went to see the play? The next time they go to see a play, will any of them behave in a way that is different?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
Tabernackered
When it rains like this, all night and all day, you wonder if it is ever going to stop. The damp gets into your bones, into your vulnerable spots; legs, back, neck. In such weather you can believe in the supernatural.
Looking out of my window at the neat rows of back gardens meandering into the near distance, every second or so house has a temporary appendage. A little hut. Some of the booths are made in the traditional style, from sections of wood nailed together. Most now are made from plastic sheeting drawn across metal frames.
The wind lashes the tarpaulin, tugs at the guy ropes. Plastic fruit - apples, oranges, bananas, lemons - dance on the end of tattered lengths of string. Children’s drawings of fruit and tress and flowers turn to slush in the wet, the colours seeping down the translucent paper.
The roofs are made from a chaotic array of plant life thrown over the top of the hut. The winds catch the branches, tossing them over the side, where they swirl in the storm.
The hut attached to the house about 5 or 6 down from mine is the first to go. The ropes give way, the nails come loose, and the whole thing flies into the air and circles above like a plane waiting to land.
Another hut joins it, the tarpaulin dangling below the main structure like a long dress on a headless body.
Soon there are a dozen or so huts in the sky, circling and rising and falling in the ebb and flow of the currents.
From the top floor of my house, I have a good view over the rooftops of Golders Green and Finchley, even Hendon in the distance. As I watch, the sky fills up with these strange flying creatures. There must be hundreds now, a bizarre migration of exotic and frenetic birds, like a plague, almost, you might say.
One comes in close over head, and I see a little figure clutching to one of the ropes. Is it a silhouette, or an illusion? A little man, clutching to one of the ropes. His long black coat flaps around him, rising like a Dervish’s frock coat, carries on upwards, slapping him around his face. He kicks and jerks his body to try and force the coat down. I can see his long beard, grey-white; the same tones as the clouds above him.
The wind swings him closer to my window and I can see that his eyes are tight shut, his lips moving, echoing the incantations that he is reciting inside his mind.
Before I can do anything, not that I can think of what I might do, a powerful gust pushes him, and the other huts, higher into the sky. Up and up they go, until they are just tiny spots.
Far away birds, flying far far away.
The little man clings on for dear life. He is up with the clouds now, looking down on creation. He never stops praying. He finds himself beginning to enjoy the experience. Maybe enjoy is not the right word. Appreciate. He never ceases to surprise himself; how much there is to be thankful for.
Looking out of my window at the neat rows of back gardens meandering into the near distance, every second or so house has a temporary appendage. A little hut. Some of the booths are made in the traditional style, from sections of wood nailed together. Most now are made from plastic sheeting drawn across metal frames.
The wind lashes the tarpaulin, tugs at the guy ropes. Plastic fruit - apples, oranges, bananas, lemons - dance on the end of tattered lengths of string. Children’s drawings of fruit and tress and flowers turn to slush in the wet, the colours seeping down the translucent paper.
The roofs are made from a chaotic array of plant life thrown over the top of the hut. The winds catch the branches, tossing them over the side, where they swirl in the storm.
The hut attached to the house about 5 or 6 down from mine is the first to go. The ropes give way, the nails come loose, and the whole thing flies into the air and circles above like a plane waiting to land.
Another hut joins it, the tarpaulin dangling below the main structure like a long dress on a headless body.
Soon there are a dozen or so huts in the sky, circling and rising and falling in the ebb and flow of the currents.
From the top floor of my house, I have a good view over the rooftops of Golders Green and Finchley, even Hendon in the distance. As I watch, the sky fills up with these strange flying creatures. There must be hundreds now, a bizarre migration of exotic and frenetic birds, like a plague, almost, you might say.
One comes in close over head, and I see a little figure clutching to one of the ropes. Is it a silhouette, or an illusion? A little man, clutching to one of the ropes. His long black coat flaps around him, rising like a Dervish’s frock coat, carries on upwards, slapping him around his face. He kicks and jerks his body to try and force the coat down. I can see his long beard, grey-white; the same tones as the clouds above him.
The wind swings him closer to my window and I can see that his eyes are tight shut, his lips moving, echoing the incantations that he is reciting inside his mind.
Before I can do anything, not that I can think of what I might do, a powerful gust pushes him, and the other huts, higher into the sky. Up and up they go, until they are just tiny spots.
Far away birds, flying far far away.
The little man clings on for dear life. He is up with the clouds now, looking down on creation. He never stops praying. He finds himself beginning to enjoy the experience. Maybe enjoy is not the right word. Appreciate. He never ceases to surprise himself; how much there is to be thankful for.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
on boredom
He really didn’t feel all that well. He felt as though he’d been shot, no, yes, shot, by a poison dart. He was weakened but not out. It was the boredom he told himself. Boredom was the enemy. He had to find a way to embrace the boredom; take its energy and use it back against the enemy. Yes that sounded like a plan.
Would collapsing on the bed be a start?
The sun appears below the clouds. I slip on my sandals and step into the garden.
The air is still and thin, until broken by a glass bottle falling over and rolling. A squirrel starts, jumps onto the fence, then runs along it, up the bramble, onto the neighbour’s drainpipe and away. The squirrel must have strong paws; it was traversing sharp terrain. A police siren cries, then another. A man shouts. Someone fires up a drill. The wind distorts the sound; to something more like the throaty rattle of a mechanical frog. I feel jumpy. I retreat indoors. Brakes squeal and lorries rumble.
Would collapsing on the bed be a start?
The sun appears below the clouds. I slip on my sandals and step into the garden.
The air is still and thin, until broken by a glass bottle falling over and rolling. A squirrel starts, jumps onto the fence, then runs along it, up the bramble, onto the neighbour’s drainpipe and away. The squirrel must have strong paws; it was traversing sharp terrain. A police siren cries, then another. A man shouts. Someone fires up a drill. The wind distorts the sound; to something more like the throaty rattle of a mechanical frog. I feel jumpy. I retreat indoors. Brakes squeal and lorries rumble.
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