Christmas is Coming
The Turkey's getting worried
He knows a week from Christmas day
He's going to end up curried!
So - everyone looking forward to Christmas? Well, everyone looking forward to the non-denominational holiday break we take at this time of year then?
No? Oh...
At our office we have a BIG fireplace. It's empty of fire. But.. what could we put in there to make the space look 'pretty'? We could put all sorts. We could put... a dried flower display (GROAN...) or a .. oh heck, I don't know, what could we put in a bloody great stone fireplace?
Well, one person suggested a lovely statue of Buddah. Well, it would look cool, to be sure. But would it be PC? In a workplace? I guess not. We even discussed it at a team meeting and decided that whatever went in the fireplace had to be by common consent. But - guess what! We ARE putting up Christmas decorations. Nobody has asked me if I accept this Christian tradition. No one has asked anyone if this is acceptable. We have non-Christians in our office, but they don't mind. We have athiests in our office, but I (whoops, gave the game away there) don't mind.
So, are we too polically correct? Or are we making assumptions because it is 'the season of goodwill' and therefore assumptions are acceptable? A good friend once said to me 'Don't assume, it makes an ass out of U and Me'. A better friend once said 'Don't make assumptions, it makes ass ... and umptions.'
So - Christmas is coming and the commercial world is rubbing its greedy paws together. And I will participate as a willing and able victim to both the commerciality and the forced bonhomie of the season. What I believe is, in fact, irrelevant. What my society chooses as acceptable, and my colleagues and friends choose as acceptable, is what is relevant. Because I choose to be part of this society. And guess what? I quite like it (the society that is - not Christmas - I HATE Christmas!).
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Of mud and motivation
Developing your teams is essential in any business, organisation, group or club. Even a band! But this team awayday … this one was for the ‘Sales and Marketing Team’ and it was one of those ‘corporate’ events that involve mud. Lots of mud.
Sales folks from around the country had joined us in the office and we were all staying at a hotel near to our intended destination for the following day’s exercises. But, of course, we went to the pub first – so we were a little late.
A dinner had been scheduled at The Compasses in Pattiswick – a remote village in Essex that is, interestingly, one of four pubs with the same name within a 12 mile radius. Known as ‘The Essex Enigma’. However, that didn’t figure in our evening. Though late, we all made it to the restaurant and had a very pleasant meal. The crew included the Heather the MD, Robin a director, our sales team and me – marketing manager. Harry and Nina only joined the company very recently (I mean days ago), and Gwen and Heidi were also ‘newbies’. It was a new team, a fresh team. This was going to be a unique initiation.
I sat opposite Harry and Keeley. The conversation was such that I almost collapsed with laughter at one point – partly at what Harry was saying, partly at the expression on Heather’s face. Harry told us about how some of the women he dated asked some very stupid questions sometimes… Harry is very dark skinned (family originally from Ghana) and he was describing things quite graphically … “They even arsk what colour me ‘Arry Monk is…’ (poor attempt at Essex accent here). Don’t ask what the Cockney Rhyming slang stands for. I refuse to explain if you can’t work it out for yourself.
The meal was good, though the tables were sort of divided and the conversation could not stretch the whole length (and maybe that was a good thing). The important thing was that everyone was relaxed in each others' company, and though I was in bed by 11.15 (and not drunk, just well and truly relaxed - as a small newt), it was a good evening.
But then … the following day … we arrived at Layer Marney Tower. A magnificent red brick Tudor building boasting the highest Tudor Tower still standing in the UK. Impressive. As I turned into the drive, I saw a field to my right with little yellow tent like shelters in it. Pausing, I threw my hands in the air and gave a silent mental scream. I could see Emma in the car behind me (she’d followed me from the hotel where we stayed) laughing. My trepidation about this kind of thing is due to my own lack of fitness and my lack of confidence when dealing with things ‘unfamiliar’. Yeah, not so much a “change coward”, more an “am I going to make a complete and utter tit of myself?” type coward.
We entered the building to be greeted by Heather and Robin who were there to brief us for the day and introduce us to our hosts, who were running the ‘outdoor’ aspect of our team day. Kurt (tall, dark, South African) introduced himself and his colleagues and told us that we would be doing a short exercise this morning, then after lunch a further ‘game’. All dressed in black, military style, their corporate logo neatly embroidered on caps and shirts. Soldiers stop being soldiers, but they never stop playing soldiers, do they?
We were divided into two teams and I was with Harry, Robin, Heidi and Emma. The other team was Robin, Gwen, Heather, Andrew and Nina. We were each issued with laser rifles and combat coveralls and webbing and hats with sensors … we looked a collective 'sight'. During the briefing with the weapons we were – as a whole – unruly. The instructor commented on this more than once. GUns fired when they shouldn't have been, buttons pressed that we were told not to press, giggling and joking and not listening.
With each team based at opposite ends of the field, we had to get from one base camp to the other and shoot the other team down on the way. The objective being to occupy the opposing camp with all your team members (or as many as were still living). I got killed pretty quick because I’d misunderstood something (should have listened!). Oh well, I just strolled on down (whilst others were running, diving, ducking, slipping in horse and sheep shit as well as mud). Mud, lots of mud. Robin looked happy as Larry playing Action Man, Heather was squeaking with indignation as she tripped over a large tree trunk and her hat fell into some nice smelly horse dung, Nina went wild shooting me repeatedly (though I think I may have already been dead by then). We then repeated the exercise back the other way. I noticed two people running round and round one of the vans parked near the field. It was almost like a stage farce - certainly entertaining to watch from a distance. And when you are dead.
Yes, team dynamic characteristics were demonstrated and strategy implemented to varying degrees of success. But the game generated winners and losers. Our team was not the strongest mix of 'personalities' perhaps, but, to be fair, the other team had Andrew (who is in the TA) so they probably had the march on our team from the start through dint of his experience.
Our team lost both rounds. Never mind. Lots of mud – lots of laughs – lots of running around. Back in the main house, we all sat down and everyone was panting. All this exertion! Of course, being dead, I wasn’t too tired at all. Dead tired? No, I’ll pass on the opportunity for that particular pun.
During a break, Emma and I went exploring. We found the tower stairs – up past Victorian type ‘nursery’ wallpaper (dreadful dolls of the world, but probably as listed as the crooked beams in the training room), up wooden, worm-eaten stairs. We entered forbidden rooms, dusty and unloved but oozing history, and climbed further. We reached the roof. A magnificent vista and the most amazing twisted brick chimneys. We went out on the roof with the camera later. Too good to miss. The Tower's marketing brochure shows lovely rooms, beautiful panelling, and the amazing buildings in the grounds like the Chapel. That's all there too - but what we saw was the true heart of an enormous stately home – too expensive to maintain, too dangerous to open to the public, too precious to change. I would have loved to spend more time in there, exploring, learning about the character of this ancient structure. Oh well, back to training.
Next came the sales planning exercise – how to make as much money as we can from the available marketing budget. That went quite well I thought (which pleased me as I ran the session). Though we were down one colleague - Daine was unable to attend due to injury - a place labelled ‘Diane’ was neatly laid for him at the table come lunchtime. And we kept his dinner too (Andrew ate it). Normally after a big lunch, you go into a nice warm room and let yourself drift - just a little. No chance!
After lunch it was game on for the main ‘mission’. The two teams were dropped off at separate locations about 2.5km from the house and had to navigate their way back to a field where we were going to be set a new task. So, as nominated navigator I took control of map and compass. We didn’t do badly on that part of the exercise, but when it came to the ‘mine field’ (oh no! Scary football markers and plastic tape!) we had a little trouble. But we got through by fair means and foul. I actually stood – deserted by my companions – in the middle of the mine field for about 10 minutes whilst the others came across first. They left me 'safely' there so I chilled out while I had the chance. The weather was pleasant, the birds were singing, all I had to do was stand still. Eyes closed (we wore blindfolds), whilst the others used walkie talkies to get each member across without treading on a plastic marker or hitting the tape. Eventually I was talked across - via a very prickly bush! "Forward! Forward!" came the shouts over the radio. "Ouch, Ouch!" came my reply. We completed this exercise in communication reasonably well. It was very similar to one that we run as a training company in nice comfy offices with a flip chart and some Lego - and no mud whatsoever.
Then we hit the main field and our mission, should we decide to accept it (what, were we given the option? No), was to capture a big blue rucksack from an enemy camp and get it back to ‘base’. Lots of guff about computers, satellites and timescales. Oh well. By now my lugging of the laser gun through fields of mud and through brambles and hedges and mine fields was beginning to wear a little thin. I have to say that if I’d then been presented with a challenge like building a bridge across a river, or getting over some obstacle where I had to use my brain, my willing participation would have been far more enthusiastic. The strategic planning aspect wasn't really focused on. I think the fresh air had cleared my head so that tactical thinking was absent (I was still listening to the birds and looking for wildlife) - and some of the lads were probably running on laser-gun adrenalin rather than cold rational thought too. I now had to shoot my colleagues again. I don’t like shooting people. I don’t mind target shooting (I’m not bad as it happens, but Emma as a past triathlete was most expert amongst us I believe, and Heather has expertise in rat and rabbit shooting), but shooting my colleagues? Yeah, great team building! A little competition goes along way, but succeeding through the failure of others has never been a motivator for me. Oh well!
Emma and Robin went off to recce the "enemy camp" (oh, to be honest, just a few more of those yellow tents with a bit of webbing over them), and then – then we hung around in the bushes. At least it was less embarrassing than walking down the country lanes and passing drivers looking at us and laughing. Hey, maybe we should have tried a carjack and then we’d have got back to base much quicker.
Though Heidi and I were cold and bored, Harry did a great job of rallying us to a small level of enthusiasm. We would complete the task to assist our colleagues but for me – no payoff (whilst I think Heidi was just knackered). OK, so then our team grab their backpack which weighs 30kg – and we have to shoot at a few people (point, pull trigger, wonder if that was one of ours or theirs?), and then get this effing great pack back to a truck in the house car park. Harry shouldered it first and tried to run through the mud but was soon flagging. No reflection on his fitness – it was a heavy pack and the going was not easy. So from there on we took it in turns, each grabbing a strap and hauling it back as fast as we could through very, sticky, horrible mud. As well as carrying these great laser rifles and the back pack, we had about three or four pounds of mud on each foot. And some in other places too, no doubt.
As we got nearer to the car park, we knew it was a race against time. It was getting dark, the sun had gone down and as we got closer Emma took up the rucksack and ran. Amazing! She was off like a rocket and Harry was running alongside her, helping to support the weight of the pack from behind (or using the excuse to put his hand on her backside, I couldn’t tell which from that distance). Emma was determination personified. I walked casually along the path back towards the house and the car but Robin was shouting ‘Come on team! Let’s run in! Show them what we are made of!’ or words to that effect. Oh, alright Robin, jog jog jog… eww, this mud is slippy. Wonder what’s for tea?
We got back to see the other team already there, disrobing and smiling and laughing – they had beaten us again. Oh well. Others are far more competitive than me and were more upset at coming second. But we did the computer thing and had a neat little message saying ‘MISSION COMPLETE’. We had a group hug to celebrate completion, even if we didn’t beat the other team.
Afterwards we had a debrief back in the warm house with photos of the day displayed on a screen (Robin on his backside in the mud, Harry looking like he was taking a whizz against a tree, and a nice one of the group hug - ahhhh). What had we learned about leadership, motivation, delegation, discipline and communication? Well, nothing I didn’t know already about the colleagues I knew well, and a little something about the colleagues who were new to me – but only those on my team. I hadn’t learned a lot about the new members on the other team. Didn’t matter though. Motivators though, that was an interesting one. I was honest and said ‘Yes, I enjoyed myself, I spent a day in a field. But I wasn't motivated to win.'
Kurt took issue with me – telling us how pushing people to their limits could develop qualities and characteristics blah blah... I could hear and understand his words, but they were not for me. In his world, maybe he is right. But in my world I can learn more about my colleagues, their preferred working styles, strengths and weaknesses in many ways other than pointing a gun at them. Oh – have I said that before?
All in all I enjoyed the day. It was something different. Something I can say I have done. What did I learn? I learned how heavy boots get with mud. I learned how nice – without exception – my colleagues are (but I knew that anyway). I learned that unless I am given the right motivator, my performance is affected. Hey, maybe I knew that one anyway too.
But, let’s face it, I got a chapter out of it!
Sales folks from around the country had joined us in the office and we were all staying at a hotel near to our intended destination for the following day’s exercises. But, of course, we went to the pub first – so we were a little late.
A dinner had been scheduled at The Compasses in Pattiswick – a remote village in Essex that is, interestingly, one of four pubs with the same name within a 12 mile radius. Known as ‘The Essex Enigma’. However, that didn’t figure in our evening. Though late, we all made it to the restaurant and had a very pleasant meal. The crew included the Heather the MD, Robin a director, our sales team and me – marketing manager. Harry and Nina only joined the company very recently (I mean days ago), and Gwen and Heidi were also ‘newbies’. It was a new team, a fresh team. This was going to be a unique initiation.
I sat opposite Harry and Keeley. The conversation was such that I almost collapsed with laughter at one point – partly at what Harry was saying, partly at the expression on Heather’s face. Harry told us about how some of the women he dated asked some very stupid questions sometimes… Harry is very dark skinned (family originally from Ghana) and he was describing things quite graphically … “They even arsk what colour me ‘Arry Monk is…’ (poor attempt at Essex accent here). Don’t ask what the Cockney Rhyming slang stands for. I refuse to explain if you can’t work it out for yourself.
The meal was good, though the tables were sort of divided and the conversation could not stretch the whole length (and maybe that was a good thing). The important thing was that everyone was relaxed in each others' company, and though I was in bed by 11.15 (and not drunk, just well and truly relaxed - as a small newt), it was a good evening.
But then … the following day … we arrived at Layer Marney Tower. A magnificent red brick Tudor building boasting the highest Tudor Tower still standing in the UK. Impressive. As I turned into the drive, I saw a field to my right with little yellow tent like shelters in it. Pausing, I threw my hands in the air and gave a silent mental scream. I could see Emma in the car behind me (she’d followed me from the hotel where we stayed) laughing. My trepidation about this kind of thing is due to my own lack of fitness and my lack of confidence when dealing with things ‘unfamiliar’. Yeah, not so much a “change coward”, more an “am I going to make a complete and utter tit of myself?” type coward.
We entered the building to be greeted by Heather and Robin who were there to brief us for the day and introduce us to our hosts, who were running the ‘outdoor’ aspect of our team day. Kurt (tall, dark, South African) introduced himself and his colleagues and told us that we would be doing a short exercise this morning, then after lunch a further ‘game’. All dressed in black, military style, their corporate logo neatly embroidered on caps and shirts. Soldiers stop being soldiers, but they never stop playing soldiers, do they?
We were divided into two teams and I was with Harry, Robin, Heidi and Emma. The other team was Robin, Gwen, Heather, Andrew and Nina. We were each issued with laser rifles and combat coveralls and webbing and hats with sensors … we looked a collective 'sight'. During the briefing with the weapons we were – as a whole – unruly. The instructor commented on this more than once. GUns fired when they shouldn't have been, buttons pressed that we were told not to press, giggling and joking and not listening.
With each team based at opposite ends of the field, we had to get from one base camp to the other and shoot the other team down on the way. The objective being to occupy the opposing camp with all your team members (or as many as were still living). I got killed pretty quick because I’d misunderstood something (should have listened!). Oh well, I just strolled on down (whilst others were running, diving, ducking, slipping in horse and sheep shit as well as mud). Mud, lots of mud. Robin looked happy as Larry playing Action Man, Heather was squeaking with indignation as she tripped over a large tree trunk and her hat fell into some nice smelly horse dung, Nina went wild shooting me repeatedly (though I think I may have already been dead by then). We then repeated the exercise back the other way. I noticed two people running round and round one of the vans parked near the field. It was almost like a stage farce - certainly entertaining to watch from a distance. And when you are dead.
Yes, team dynamic characteristics were demonstrated and strategy implemented to varying degrees of success. But the game generated winners and losers. Our team was not the strongest mix of 'personalities' perhaps, but, to be fair, the other team had Andrew (who is in the TA) so they probably had the march on our team from the start through dint of his experience.
Our team lost both rounds. Never mind. Lots of mud – lots of laughs – lots of running around. Back in the main house, we all sat down and everyone was panting. All this exertion! Of course, being dead, I wasn’t too tired at all. Dead tired? No, I’ll pass on the opportunity for that particular pun.
During a break, Emma and I went exploring. We found the tower stairs – up past Victorian type ‘nursery’ wallpaper (dreadful dolls of the world, but probably as listed as the crooked beams in the training room), up wooden, worm-eaten stairs. We entered forbidden rooms, dusty and unloved but oozing history, and climbed further. We reached the roof. A magnificent vista and the most amazing twisted brick chimneys. We went out on the roof with the camera later. Too good to miss. The Tower's marketing brochure shows lovely rooms, beautiful panelling, and the amazing buildings in the grounds like the Chapel. That's all there too - but what we saw was the true heart of an enormous stately home – too expensive to maintain, too dangerous to open to the public, too precious to change. I would have loved to spend more time in there, exploring, learning about the character of this ancient structure. Oh well, back to training.
Next came the sales planning exercise – how to make as much money as we can from the available marketing budget. That went quite well I thought (which pleased me as I ran the session). Though we were down one colleague - Daine was unable to attend due to injury - a place labelled ‘Diane’ was neatly laid for him at the table come lunchtime. And we kept his dinner too (Andrew ate it). Normally after a big lunch, you go into a nice warm room and let yourself drift - just a little. No chance!
After lunch it was game on for the main ‘mission’. The two teams were dropped off at separate locations about 2.5km from the house and had to navigate their way back to a field where we were going to be set a new task. So, as nominated navigator I took control of map and compass. We didn’t do badly on that part of the exercise, but when it came to the ‘mine field’ (oh no! Scary football markers and plastic tape!) we had a little trouble. But we got through by fair means and foul. I actually stood – deserted by my companions – in the middle of the mine field for about 10 minutes whilst the others came across first. They left me 'safely' there so I chilled out while I had the chance. The weather was pleasant, the birds were singing, all I had to do was stand still. Eyes closed (we wore blindfolds), whilst the others used walkie talkies to get each member across without treading on a plastic marker or hitting the tape. Eventually I was talked across - via a very prickly bush! "Forward! Forward!" came the shouts over the radio. "Ouch, Ouch!" came my reply. We completed this exercise in communication reasonably well. It was very similar to one that we run as a training company in nice comfy offices with a flip chart and some Lego - and no mud whatsoever.
Then we hit the main field and our mission, should we decide to accept it (what, were we given the option? No), was to capture a big blue rucksack from an enemy camp and get it back to ‘base’. Lots of guff about computers, satellites and timescales. Oh well. By now my lugging of the laser gun through fields of mud and through brambles and hedges and mine fields was beginning to wear a little thin. I have to say that if I’d then been presented with a challenge like building a bridge across a river, or getting over some obstacle where I had to use my brain, my willing participation would have been far more enthusiastic. The strategic planning aspect wasn't really focused on. I think the fresh air had cleared my head so that tactical thinking was absent (I was still listening to the birds and looking for wildlife) - and some of the lads were probably running on laser-gun adrenalin rather than cold rational thought too. I now had to shoot my colleagues again. I don’t like shooting people. I don’t mind target shooting (I’m not bad as it happens, but Emma as a past triathlete was most expert amongst us I believe, and Heather has expertise in rat and rabbit shooting), but shooting my colleagues? Yeah, great team building! A little competition goes along way, but succeeding through the failure of others has never been a motivator for me. Oh well!
Emma and Robin went off to recce the "enemy camp" (oh, to be honest, just a few more of those yellow tents with a bit of webbing over them), and then – then we hung around in the bushes. At least it was less embarrassing than walking down the country lanes and passing drivers looking at us and laughing. Hey, maybe we should have tried a carjack and then we’d have got back to base much quicker.
Though Heidi and I were cold and bored, Harry did a great job of rallying us to a small level of enthusiasm. We would complete the task to assist our colleagues but for me – no payoff (whilst I think Heidi was just knackered). OK, so then our team grab their backpack which weighs 30kg – and we have to shoot at a few people (point, pull trigger, wonder if that was one of ours or theirs?), and then get this effing great pack back to a truck in the house car park. Harry shouldered it first and tried to run through the mud but was soon flagging. No reflection on his fitness – it was a heavy pack and the going was not easy. So from there on we took it in turns, each grabbing a strap and hauling it back as fast as we could through very, sticky, horrible mud. As well as carrying these great laser rifles and the back pack, we had about three or four pounds of mud on each foot. And some in other places too, no doubt.
As we got nearer to the car park, we knew it was a race against time. It was getting dark, the sun had gone down and as we got closer Emma took up the rucksack and ran. Amazing! She was off like a rocket and Harry was running alongside her, helping to support the weight of the pack from behind (or using the excuse to put his hand on her backside, I couldn’t tell which from that distance). Emma was determination personified. I walked casually along the path back towards the house and the car but Robin was shouting ‘Come on team! Let’s run in! Show them what we are made of!’ or words to that effect. Oh, alright Robin, jog jog jog… eww, this mud is slippy. Wonder what’s for tea?
We got back to see the other team already there, disrobing and smiling and laughing – they had beaten us again. Oh well. Others are far more competitive than me and were more upset at coming second. But we did the computer thing and had a neat little message saying ‘MISSION COMPLETE’. We had a group hug to celebrate completion, even if we didn’t beat the other team.
Afterwards we had a debrief back in the warm house with photos of the day displayed on a screen (Robin on his backside in the mud, Harry looking like he was taking a whizz against a tree, and a nice one of the group hug - ahhhh). What had we learned about leadership, motivation, delegation, discipline and communication? Well, nothing I didn’t know already about the colleagues I knew well, and a little something about the colleagues who were new to me – but only those on my team. I hadn’t learned a lot about the new members on the other team. Didn’t matter though. Motivators though, that was an interesting one. I was honest and said ‘Yes, I enjoyed myself, I spent a day in a field. But I wasn't motivated to win.'
Kurt took issue with me – telling us how pushing people to their limits could develop qualities and characteristics blah blah... I could hear and understand his words, but they were not for me. In his world, maybe he is right. But in my world I can learn more about my colleagues, their preferred working styles, strengths and weaknesses in many ways other than pointing a gun at them. Oh – have I said that before?
All in all I enjoyed the day. It was something different. Something I can say I have done. What did I learn? I learned how heavy boots get with mud. I learned how nice – without exception – my colleagues are (but I knew that anyway). I learned that unless I am given the right motivator, my performance is affected. Hey, maybe I knew that one anyway too.
But, let’s face it, I got a chapter out of it!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
An evening at the folk club
So, last night, I go to the pub with S and N. They are late (as ever) so we don't have time to rehearse. We squeeze all the gear into their car (with N squashed under my hard-case bass in the front) and head off. Left B playing on the computer - writing music (turns out he used Queen's 'another one bites the dust' bass theme and a traditional folk tune to create - a musical - hysterical - Frankenstein).
The conversation in the car was - bizarre. It went from TV personalities through to subjects I just can't write down in a very short time. Ended in laughter, of course.
Get to the pub, D is running the evening. D is 6' 4" - big, cuddly, lovely. He looks like my brother, does things like my brother, which is often disconcerting. But he's good for a hug or three.
Dan puts together the running order - he's left us till last. Which, complementary as it is, means we have the whole evening to wait through. But first, the evening starts with tunes. S and N eat their food (ordered on arrival), I play bass whilst Dan starts off some tunes with a recorder player. Pleasant, easy start. Then the individuals go on, one by one. A trio with fiddle, mandolin and guitar, singer/songwriters with their guitars and angst, tune palyers, singers, a pleasant evening. Oh, yes, and the awful saxophonist (well, her playing), but its a free country.
Richard plays his usual sixties type stuff, his body swinging and rocking whilst he plays like he is in the hands of a mad puppeteer. But he's a nice chap. He was good for plenty of hugs too - even with his wife there.
The evening goes on - with us chatting in the bar or back room (very smoky in the pub, does me in). Relaxed, fun. I had two pints of cider - relaxed, fun. Not pissed.
Then we played our two numbers - one of mine and one of Shani's. In between I mentioned that I'd written a new song 'The Spanish Lady' and got the audience to guess the subject. "The flu" piped up one chap. Correct! It's my first pandemic song! Knowing me well, and my penchant for death, doom and destruction, everyone laughed.
Then we finished the evening with tunes again - and this is where my sense of mischief took over. S played guitar, Dan played guitar, Mel on flute, me on bass, Ted on melodeon.. a few other guitars and whistles and bodhrans and the like. We were all squeezed up together, so I started to push D with my back. He pushed back. I talked to S - lots of musicians can't talk while they play. I started to tell jokes, putting S right off. D joined in the joke telling. All this whilst playing. I undid his guitar strap, he shoved me a little, I twisted a peg on S's guitar so it went out of tune. Her look of horror! D did the same to my bass - laughter all round. Then I just carried on playing - but one semi-tone out from everyone else. Dan, Shani and I were collapsing with laughter (it sounded horrendous) but Ted, bless (76) thought his melodeon was out of tune.
Anyway, needless to say the evening ended very happily and when I came home, B had written his masterpiece.
The conversation in the car was - bizarre. It went from TV personalities through to subjects I just can't write down in a very short time. Ended in laughter, of course.
Get to the pub, D is running the evening. D is 6' 4" - big, cuddly, lovely. He looks like my brother, does things like my brother, which is often disconcerting. But he's good for a hug or three.
Dan puts together the running order - he's left us till last. Which, complementary as it is, means we have the whole evening to wait through. But first, the evening starts with tunes. S and N eat their food (ordered on arrival), I play bass whilst Dan starts off some tunes with a recorder player. Pleasant, easy start. Then the individuals go on, one by one. A trio with fiddle, mandolin and guitar, singer/songwriters with their guitars and angst, tune palyers, singers, a pleasant evening. Oh, yes, and the awful saxophonist (well, her playing), but its a free country.
Richard plays his usual sixties type stuff, his body swinging and rocking whilst he plays like he is in the hands of a mad puppeteer. But he's a nice chap. He was good for plenty of hugs too - even with his wife there.
The evening goes on - with us chatting in the bar or back room (very smoky in the pub, does me in). Relaxed, fun. I had two pints of cider - relaxed, fun. Not pissed.
Then we played our two numbers - one of mine and one of Shani's. In between I mentioned that I'd written a new song 'The Spanish Lady' and got the audience to guess the subject. "The flu" piped up one chap. Correct! It's my first pandemic song! Knowing me well, and my penchant for death, doom and destruction, everyone laughed.
Then we finished the evening with tunes again - and this is where my sense of mischief took over. S played guitar, Dan played guitar, Mel on flute, me on bass, Ted on melodeon.. a few other guitars and whistles and bodhrans and the like. We were all squeezed up together, so I started to push D with my back. He pushed back. I talked to S - lots of musicians can't talk while they play. I started to tell jokes, putting S right off. D joined in the joke telling. All this whilst playing. I undid his guitar strap, he shoved me a little, I twisted a peg on S's guitar so it went out of tune. Her look of horror! D did the same to my bass - laughter all round. Then I just carried on playing - but one semi-tone out from everyone else. Dan, Shani and I were collapsing with laughter (it sounded horrendous) but Ted, bless (76) thought his melodeon was out of tune.
Anyway, needless to say the evening ended very happily and when I came home, B had written his masterpiece.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Watch out pagans, here come the....
Well, here come the what? The almost pagans? The killer gerbils? No - the two musicans known as TU! S and I played our first proper gig this weekend at a Pagan Halloween Festival in London.
Now I'd been to a few Pagan gigs before (having played with other bands in the past) and knew what to expect. S said she had been a 'virtual pagan' - ie an on-line pagan. Not sure how that works, but I guess it's just getting into the spirit of things without having to turn up and meet with anyone else actually face to face. I understand the Paganism thing - in fact if any religion actually 'attracted' me, that would be it. However, when I read Pete Jennings' 'The Pagan Path' I threw it out when it got to Gods and Goddesses. Not into that sort of thing - don't like the idea of 'worship'.
Anyway, off the point. Back to the gig! We were booked through serendipity - I just happened to email the organiser the day after someone had dropped out. 'Any gigs going?' - 'Yeah, what you doing on 21st October?' and it was a done deal. No dosh, but we wanted the opportunity to play a longer set (than the few we'd played at some folk events), so we were happy.
S and I were booked to play, B could not come with us, and S's partner was of course more than happy to come along. I asked a colleague, Z, to come too. So - four women, off on an adventure. Z aparrently didn't tell her children she was off to a Pagan feestival with us, just that she was going to a 'music thing'. Very wise.
Down the M11, then onto the A12 - and the car decided to behave very oddly. I was in B's car. We pulled over and discovered a nicely punctured front tyre. Now, four women, one tyre, TEN MINUTES! It was a record wheel change. We were already a finely honed pit stop crew thanks to the arrival of lots of flat pack furniture at the office we all worked in. So changing a tyre was easy. We had all the parts, all the tools and didn't need a translator for the instructions.
When we got to the venue, outside there were lots of people in strange costume - it was fancy dress after all. Though at some of these gigs I can never tell who's in fancy dress or who just fancies dressing up. That's the fun of these things - just be yourself, or the self you aren't allowed to be when you are a teacher, or bank manager, or whatever else you do when you are not being 'publicly Pagan'. I was wearing a long leather coat and I had my hat. Our dress style for the day was 'black'. Nothing wrong with the easy option, it's classy and slimming. Suits me. When we got there Z - who'd been a little worried about what to expect I guess - said "Oh, if you'd just said 'Goth' I'd have known exactly what you meant. Been there, done that."
The festival was not a large one, but there were plenty of people (including one large fairy in pink called Dave), lots of leather, lots of corsets (a woman at the bar told us that there was no cider because the barman had forgotten it, but he was in bigger trouble because he'd not told his wife her corset was on upside down), plenty of makeup and pointy hats. Red Indian, Goth, medieval - be what you want to be. All good fun.
We were set to play a half hour set in the afternoon. I was a little concerned our mixture of material might not be right, but I had nothing to worry about. We heard some of the other acts and knew we'd fit in just fine. We whiled away the time, wandering round the stands (me spending money on the silver stand), and had a chat to the backstage crew about our requirements: two guitar inputs, two vocals, one bass (amp supplied). One act didn't turn up, so we could play longer if we wanted. No worries. Before us were the 'Pagan Choir' - so an easy set up. We went back stage about 15 minutes before we were due to go on and heard the Pagan choir enticing the audience to join in. They had a bit of a battle on their hands, it seemed. Also, of their two sopranos (the group was only about 8 people), one of them had a little difficulty with the high notes. The choir went off and we set up - two mics ready, the bass had a line out to the PA. "What about guitar inputs?" And we got an "Oh yeah," from the engineer. He'd forgotten! Lines hurriedly put in, and we were, eventually, plugged in, live and ready to rock! Well, to pagan, or whatever.
Up go the curtains - semi-busy hall, loud, LOUD, PA. Off we go with our first number - not a whit of the guitar in the monitors. But we did OK. "More guitar in the monitor please?" Oh yeah.. And that's kind of how the set went. With frequent requests to the engineer so that we could hear what we were doing. But the voices were loud, we played well, and the audience seemed to like us (especially those two on the right - oh yeah, S's friends!).
After we actually sold a CD each! We've nothing recorded together yet, but were not averse to punting our existing material out. No enquiries for further gigs or desperate groupies asking for autographs - but give us time.
We were going to stay for the main act in the evening, Blue Horses. I'd heard they were good. So we wandered off around 5pm for something to eat. Walking down Mile End Road we came across a nice looking Chinese and went in. Table for four. We all had really nice meals, and the company and the craic were good. I felt more relaxed out and about at a gig, or festival, than I had in years. And no drink, either!
We had fortune cookies. Mine said you don't stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing. I like to laugh. I like to be happy. Though I can be a little extrovert, I felt completely fine in this environment - and not just the dressed up pagans. I felt comfortable with who I am, and what I was doing, and who I was with.
Afterwards we went back to the festival to catch Blue Horses. But before them was the Drum Workshop performance. A load of people who'd been practicing with a most wonderful conductor. The drums thumped, thrummed and hummed through the venue. I felt them deep in my chest, and at one point I heard what was almost like a 'voice' - the voice of the drums. Interesting. The conductor of this rag-tag drum orchestra was a skinnyoung black guy in suit, with hat. Voodoo drumming? I don' t know, but the obvious delight of the performers and the audience was wonderful. One chap at the back had a big floor tom strung round his neck, which also sported a small bow tie. Another very goth bloke with long hair and painted leather jacket had a snare - and these two very diverse looking youngsters - like the 20 or so others - were joined together in the joy of sound.
When Blue Horses started, they had to stop as the PA was compeltely awful. I felt very sorry for them. Then they started and they were good - not brilliant, but good. I knew that in their heydey, the band I'd been with was easily as good, if not better. I knew that it could have been me up there (and in the past frequently had been) with the big band sound and the lights and all. I felt frustrated. But determined. It would be me again - me with the right musicians, in the right combination, making the big sound and enjoying the musicality and - I must confess - the attention. Ego, moi?? Its one of the few places I feel I have impact - on stage. I feel right on stage, playing, performing - entertaining.
On the journey home we nattered away as women do. S told me a story about embarassment that had me laughing loudly, and I thought just how uncomfortable some of my previous band colleagues would have been in such a situation. She also helped me drive, carefully pointing out red lights, cars in front, and which lane to be in.
I dropped S and N off home, then Z, and then went back home to my family. "Good gig?" Yeah, it was. A good day altogether. B was surprised I was home so early, and he was planning to watch "Match of the Day", so I sloped off to go chat to pals around the world on the computer. Back to the real world? No, not just yet, please, not just yet.
Now I'd been to a few Pagan gigs before (having played with other bands in the past) and knew what to expect. S said she had been a 'virtual pagan' - ie an on-line pagan. Not sure how that works, but I guess it's just getting into the spirit of things without having to turn up and meet with anyone else actually face to face. I understand the Paganism thing - in fact if any religion actually 'attracted' me, that would be it. However, when I read Pete Jennings' 'The Pagan Path' I threw it out when it got to Gods and Goddesses. Not into that sort of thing - don't like the idea of 'worship'.
Anyway, off the point. Back to the gig! We were booked through serendipity - I just happened to email the organiser the day after someone had dropped out. 'Any gigs going?' - 'Yeah, what you doing on 21st October?' and it was a done deal. No dosh, but we wanted the opportunity to play a longer set (than the few we'd played at some folk events), so we were happy.
S and I were booked to play, B could not come with us, and S's partner was of course more than happy to come along. I asked a colleague, Z, to come too. So - four women, off on an adventure. Z aparrently didn't tell her children she was off to a Pagan feestival with us, just that she was going to a 'music thing'. Very wise.
Down the M11, then onto the A12 - and the car decided to behave very oddly. I was in B's car. We pulled over and discovered a nicely punctured front tyre. Now, four women, one tyre, TEN MINUTES! It was a record wheel change. We were already a finely honed pit stop crew thanks to the arrival of lots of flat pack furniture at the office we all worked in. So changing a tyre was easy. We had all the parts, all the tools and didn't need a translator for the instructions.
When we got to the venue, outside there were lots of people in strange costume - it was fancy dress after all. Though at some of these gigs I can never tell who's in fancy dress or who just fancies dressing up. That's the fun of these things - just be yourself, or the self you aren't allowed to be when you are a teacher, or bank manager, or whatever else you do when you are not being 'publicly Pagan'. I was wearing a long leather coat and I had my hat. Our dress style for the day was 'black'. Nothing wrong with the easy option, it's classy and slimming. Suits me. When we got there Z - who'd been a little worried about what to expect I guess - said "Oh, if you'd just said 'Goth' I'd have known exactly what you meant. Been there, done that."
The festival was not a large one, but there were plenty of people (including one large fairy in pink called Dave), lots of leather, lots of corsets (a woman at the bar told us that there was no cider because the barman had forgotten it, but he was in bigger trouble because he'd not told his wife her corset was on upside down), plenty of makeup and pointy hats. Red Indian, Goth, medieval - be what you want to be. All good fun.
We were set to play a half hour set in the afternoon. I was a little concerned our mixture of material might not be right, but I had nothing to worry about. We heard some of the other acts and knew we'd fit in just fine. We whiled away the time, wandering round the stands (me spending money on the silver stand), and had a chat to the backstage crew about our requirements: two guitar inputs, two vocals, one bass (amp supplied). One act didn't turn up, so we could play longer if we wanted. No worries. Before us were the 'Pagan Choir' - so an easy set up. We went back stage about 15 minutes before we were due to go on and heard the Pagan choir enticing the audience to join in. They had a bit of a battle on their hands, it seemed. Also, of their two sopranos (the group was only about 8 people), one of them had a little difficulty with the high notes. The choir went off and we set up - two mics ready, the bass had a line out to the PA. "What about guitar inputs?" And we got an "Oh yeah," from the engineer. He'd forgotten! Lines hurriedly put in, and we were, eventually, plugged in, live and ready to rock! Well, to pagan, or whatever.
Up go the curtains - semi-busy hall, loud, LOUD, PA. Off we go with our first number - not a whit of the guitar in the monitors. But we did OK. "More guitar in the monitor please?" Oh yeah.. And that's kind of how the set went. With frequent requests to the engineer so that we could hear what we were doing. But the voices were loud, we played well, and the audience seemed to like us (especially those two on the right - oh yeah, S's friends!).
After we actually sold a CD each! We've nothing recorded together yet, but were not averse to punting our existing material out. No enquiries for further gigs or desperate groupies asking for autographs - but give us time.
We were going to stay for the main act in the evening, Blue Horses. I'd heard they were good. So we wandered off around 5pm for something to eat. Walking down Mile End Road we came across a nice looking Chinese and went in. Table for four. We all had really nice meals, and the company and the craic were good. I felt more relaxed out and about at a gig, or festival, than I had in years. And no drink, either!
We had fortune cookies. Mine said you don't stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing. I like to laugh. I like to be happy. Though I can be a little extrovert, I felt completely fine in this environment - and not just the dressed up pagans. I felt comfortable with who I am, and what I was doing, and who I was with.
Afterwards we went back to the festival to catch Blue Horses. But before them was the Drum Workshop performance. A load of people who'd been practicing with a most wonderful conductor. The drums thumped, thrummed and hummed through the venue. I felt them deep in my chest, and at one point I heard what was almost like a 'voice' - the voice of the drums. Interesting. The conductor of this rag-tag drum orchestra was a skinnyoung black guy in suit, with hat. Voodoo drumming? I don' t know, but the obvious delight of the performers and the audience was wonderful. One chap at the back had a big floor tom strung round his neck, which also sported a small bow tie. Another very goth bloke with long hair and painted leather jacket had a snare - and these two very diverse looking youngsters - like the 20 or so others - were joined together in the joy of sound.
When Blue Horses started, they had to stop as the PA was compeltely awful. I felt very sorry for them. Then they started and they were good - not brilliant, but good. I knew that in their heydey, the band I'd been with was easily as good, if not better. I knew that it could have been me up there (and in the past frequently had been) with the big band sound and the lights and all. I felt frustrated. But determined. It would be me again - me with the right musicians, in the right combination, making the big sound and enjoying the musicality and - I must confess - the attention. Ego, moi?? Its one of the few places I feel I have impact - on stage. I feel right on stage, playing, performing - entertaining.
On the journey home we nattered away as women do. S told me a story about embarassment that had me laughing loudly, and I thought just how uncomfortable some of my previous band colleagues would have been in such a situation. She also helped me drive, carefully pointing out red lights, cars in front, and which lane to be in.
I dropped S and N off home, then Z, and then went back home to my family. "Good gig?" Yeah, it was. A good day altogether. B was surprised I was home so early, and he was planning to watch "Match of the Day", so I sloped off to go chat to pals around the world on the computer. Back to the real world? No, not just yet, please, not just yet.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Horse of the Year ...
Well, due to my wonderful husband double-booking himself, it fell to me to accompany my daugther to the Horse of the Year Show yesterday. What's to complain about? Well, I'm allergic to horses and crowd phobic... so I wasn't exactly looking forward to it.
The journey was about two hours, through driving rain (hate the M6 in the rain - actually, hate it any time). I was taking my daughter and her friend, and our spare adult ticket (due to last minute changes) meant I was the only grown-up. So, if I ended up requiring medical attention, we had no back up driver.
Just as well really that I was fine! The NEC arena was big and there was enough air space for the horse fumes not to affect me (just a bit of sneezing). And the crowds? The crowds were calm, 90% female (and 70% aged between 10-14 too I'd say) and because of the way the day was run, there were no great crushes of people. That's what I hate (ever since going to a Pink Floyd concert in about 1979 when I completely freaked out) - crowds that squish and mill without a seeming purpose. These were well behaved, spaced out (physically) crowds and I could cope. And - after all - there was SHOPPING! One whole hall dedicated to the delights of shopping.
OK, so I'm at a horse show (but I don't have a horse and neither does my daughter, though she asks regularly). What will I buy? One of those trendy pink leather stetsons all the little girls are wearing? Some smart waxed jacket for my contry jaunts? Some of that fantastic silver jewelery that is right up my street? Nope! I bought (for me, no one else) a lovely set of ratchet secateurs. That was my extravagance. For my daughter she got a new padded jacket thingy (very horsey, very smart, very pink), a new PE kit bag (very horsey, very pink - you get the picture) and of course lots of food and drinks (all at extortionate prices). I even bought a mug for the adult who couldn't come. It has a cute little horse (of course!) on it, and her name engraved. Cheap and tacky - it will make her laugh.
The show itself was very slick - with excellent set up and take down between events. The local TA were running round in camouflage trousers and blue tee shirts (perhaps so they didn't lose their heads) and very efficiently moving jumps, flower stands and all sorts of area acoutrements. It was a new world to me. Though I'd seen it on TV, I didn't realise just how exciting it was going to be. My heart went over every jump with every rider - it was exhausting! The whole arena took to a new young rider, an Egyptian lad of just 17. He was wonderful, no two ways about it. The jumping was my daughter's favourite, but there was also 'Pony Club' events with children on incredibly small ponies who had trademarked 'cute' all over them, plus the most wondrous display from the Household Cavalry's musical ride. I love a man in uniform - and a man in uniform on a horse? Well, I certainly enjoyed that bit.
In the display area I'd been talking to one of the Household Cavalry lads, saying how I liked the uniform. He explained how each bit of it had originally had a practical use - the wide belt was a spare girth, the small rope a spare musket fuse, the metal 'dangle' on the end of the braid was used to stopper cannons, and the box on the back for powder and shot. I wonder what they keep in it now? "It's a bugger to clean, though." he said.
One of the TA lads running around the arena caught my eye. Bright ginger hair - black eye. There was a story there, that's for sure. And at all the military stands (in the retail area) the young soldiers were kept very busy - mostly by the 14+ girl visitors I noticed (and smiled to myself - in just a year or two that would be my daughter too - dumping me and off to visit the 'fit' blokes.)
It was a good day and I was glad I went. But today - the day after - I am sniffing and sneezing and my eyes are puffy and red. How come I get an allergic reaction the day after?? Oh well, I put a happy girl to bed last night (well, this morning at 1.30 am to be accurate) and despite her extreme grumpiness this morning ("I'm NOT TIRED" stomp stomp), it was all worthwhile.
The journey was about two hours, through driving rain (hate the M6 in the rain - actually, hate it any time). I was taking my daughter and her friend, and our spare adult ticket (due to last minute changes) meant I was the only grown-up. So, if I ended up requiring medical attention, we had no back up driver.
Just as well really that I was fine! The NEC arena was big and there was enough air space for the horse fumes not to affect me (just a bit of sneezing). And the crowds? The crowds were calm, 90% female (and 70% aged between 10-14 too I'd say) and because of the way the day was run, there were no great crushes of people. That's what I hate (ever since going to a Pink Floyd concert in about 1979 when I completely freaked out) - crowds that squish and mill without a seeming purpose. These were well behaved, spaced out (physically) crowds and I could cope. And - after all - there was SHOPPING! One whole hall dedicated to the delights of shopping.
OK, so I'm at a horse show (but I don't have a horse and neither does my daughter, though she asks regularly). What will I buy? One of those trendy pink leather stetsons all the little girls are wearing? Some smart waxed jacket for my contry jaunts? Some of that fantastic silver jewelery that is right up my street? Nope! I bought (for me, no one else) a lovely set of ratchet secateurs. That was my extravagance. For my daughter she got a new padded jacket thingy (very horsey, very smart, very pink), a new PE kit bag (very horsey, very pink - you get the picture) and of course lots of food and drinks (all at extortionate prices). I even bought a mug for the adult who couldn't come. It has a cute little horse (of course!) on it, and her name engraved. Cheap and tacky - it will make her laugh.
The show itself was very slick - with excellent set up and take down between events. The local TA were running round in camouflage trousers and blue tee shirts (perhaps so they didn't lose their heads) and very efficiently moving jumps, flower stands and all sorts of area acoutrements. It was a new world to me. Though I'd seen it on TV, I didn't realise just how exciting it was going to be. My heart went over every jump with every rider - it was exhausting! The whole arena took to a new young rider, an Egyptian lad of just 17. He was wonderful, no two ways about it. The jumping was my daughter's favourite, but there was also 'Pony Club' events with children on incredibly small ponies who had trademarked 'cute' all over them, plus the most wondrous display from the Household Cavalry's musical ride. I love a man in uniform - and a man in uniform on a horse? Well, I certainly enjoyed that bit.
In the display area I'd been talking to one of the Household Cavalry lads, saying how I liked the uniform. He explained how each bit of it had originally had a practical use - the wide belt was a spare girth, the small rope a spare musket fuse, the metal 'dangle' on the end of the braid was used to stopper cannons, and the box on the back for powder and shot. I wonder what they keep in it now? "It's a bugger to clean, though." he said.
One of the TA lads running around the arena caught my eye. Bright ginger hair - black eye. There was a story there, that's for sure. And at all the military stands (in the retail area) the young soldiers were kept very busy - mostly by the 14+ girl visitors I noticed (and smiled to myself - in just a year or two that would be my daughter too - dumping me and off to visit the 'fit' blokes.)
It was a good day and I was glad I went. But today - the day after - I am sniffing and sneezing and my eyes are puffy and red. How come I get an allergic reaction the day after?? Oh well, I put a happy girl to bed last night (well, this morning at 1.30 am to be accurate) and despite her extreme grumpiness this morning ("I'm NOT TIRED" stomp stomp), it was all worthwhile.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
From the ridiculous to the sublime - switcheroo!
This time it went the other way round - the first gig was the barmy one. Well, not that crazy I guess, but nothing like the next one I did.
This was a barn dance and I was depping on bass for a friend. She's a lovely lady, but the band she runs drives me crazy. The melodeon player is the sort of guy you quite like, but are ready to deck after about 20 minutes. He took his melodeon off, and got up to walk across the stage at one point. "NO!" I shouted. Too late. He'd taken his melodeon off, but not unplugged all the wiring that amplified it - so - with that still connected to his belt and to his melodeon, result was a big crash and the instrument tumbling to the floor, taking with it a glass of water (great on a stage full of electrical gizmatronomy).
We were on a small stage in a Church - a Baptist church. Unlucky for me - I wasn't driving for a change but this was a 'no booze' gig, so I had to put my cider tins away for the duration. We played, they danced and smiled (really, really smiled - all night long - it was scary!). £70 thank you very much and goodnight.
The PA didn't work properly (home made monitors with teak veneer front-room speakers and bell wire), the violin was out of tune (well, no friggin, monitors, what do you expect?), and no booze. Not my perfect gig, I admit.
Then - the following night! The Poozies! Ohh, yes, what a band! Two harps, guitar, accordion (well, you can't have it all), and four voices. They were sublime. And I was support act (all on my own, just me, no one else).
I did a good set I think (well, I was complimented at least thrice), and then they played fantastically. What a contrast.
Next? Next come my adventures with S - a lady from Israel who is young enough to be my daughter (I'm not ageist), a very fine guitarist, bassist and songwriter. But that's another post for another day.
This was a barn dance and I was depping on bass for a friend. She's a lovely lady, but the band she runs drives me crazy. The melodeon player is the sort of guy you quite like, but are ready to deck after about 20 minutes. He took his melodeon off, and got up to walk across the stage at one point. "NO!" I shouted. Too late. He'd taken his melodeon off, but not unplugged all the wiring that amplified it - so - with that still connected to his belt and to his melodeon, result was a big crash and the instrument tumbling to the floor, taking with it a glass of water (great on a stage full of electrical gizmatronomy).
We were on a small stage in a Church - a Baptist church. Unlucky for me - I wasn't driving for a change but this was a 'no booze' gig, so I had to put my cider tins away for the duration. We played, they danced and smiled (really, really smiled - all night long - it was scary!). £70 thank you very much and goodnight.
The PA didn't work properly (home made monitors with teak veneer front-room speakers and bell wire), the violin was out of tune (well, no friggin, monitors, what do you expect?), and no booze. Not my perfect gig, I admit.
Then - the following night! The Poozies! Ohh, yes, what a band! Two harps, guitar, accordion (well, you can't have it all), and four voices. They were sublime. And I was support act (all on my own, just me, no one else).
I did a good set I think (well, I was complimented at least thrice), and then they played fantastically. What a contrast.
Next? Next come my adventures with S - a lady from Israel who is young enough to be my daughter (I'm not ageist), a very fine guitarist, bassist and songwriter. But that's another post for another day.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
From a discussion on grief
My firend and I were discussing why multiple deaths in places far away are reported so differently to those closer to home. I mulled this over, and replied as follows. She said I should say this 'out loud'. Here I am, on my blog, out loud.
We are inured to death. When we hear of two children near our town (we live near Soham), then we are devastated. When we hear of 40 children on a bus in Palestine, we are hurt, but immune. Two children taken and murdered by one man - a different set of emotions are employed. We can blame that man, we can hate that man, we can see and direct our fear and anger towards that man. He was one of us, he is the ultimate evil, a traitor.When we hear of those children far away, we understand there is a war, their country is like that, it must be awful, no one will ever be caught, and we cannot direct our emotion because we have no empathy with a Palestinian family in the way we do with someone closer to home.
It is right? No. But we do become immune to continued exposure to things that are bad. The soldier home from the war is always changed. The surgeon is used to blood. The undertaker used to death. As mothers, as people, we are made to care so that we can survive - we look out for our own and continue our bloodlines. It's as basic and primal as that, and intellect can't overcome it because it cannot cope with the extremity of the reality. If I were to cry for every soul, my eyes would be blinded by such sadness.
But my brain knows, and my soul understands. It's just that my heart is so full - it has no room for any more. One of my friends doesn't talk much about her home country, Israel. She is a strange fish, only 27 but in some ways she seems older than me. She tells us that the news in the UK is biased against Israel, and I'm sure it is. All news is biased in one way or another. Do you think I understand the Ireland situation from every point of view? Of course not, I doubt if anyone can.
There was more - but this will do for now. Comments welcome people (person? Anyone?).
We are inured to death. When we hear of two children near our town (we live near Soham), then we are devastated. When we hear of 40 children on a bus in Palestine, we are hurt, but immune. Two children taken and murdered by one man - a different set of emotions are employed. We can blame that man, we can hate that man, we can see and direct our fear and anger towards that man. He was one of us, he is the ultimate evil, a traitor.When we hear of those children far away, we understand there is a war, their country is like that, it must be awful, no one will ever be caught, and we cannot direct our emotion because we have no empathy with a Palestinian family in the way we do with someone closer to home.
It is right? No. But we do become immune to continued exposure to things that are bad. The soldier home from the war is always changed. The surgeon is used to blood. The undertaker used to death. As mothers, as people, we are made to care so that we can survive - we look out for our own and continue our bloodlines. It's as basic and primal as that, and intellect can't overcome it because it cannot cope with the extremity of the reality. If I were to cry for every soul, my eyes would be blinded by such sadness.
But my brain knows, and my soul understands. It's just that my heart is so full - it has no room for any more. One of my friends doesn't talk much about her home country, Israel. She is a strange fish, only 27 but in some ways she seems older than me. She tells us that the news in the UK is biased against Israel, and I'm sure it is. All news is biased in one way or another. Do you think I understand the Ireland situation from every point of view? Of course not, I doubt if anyone can.
There was more - but this will do for now. Comments welcome people (person? Anyone?).
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Here come the women in black...
Today did my first mini-gigette with a new line up - just a duo. Shani and I have been rehearsing for a few weeks to get some stuff together for the 'free folk day' - and tonight we played and did our first live performance together.
The set we did was just 15 minutes in the middle of the barn dance and though there was some faffing around with set up, we did our set and seemed to go down well.
Shani plays acoustic rock really, and with my folky/country type stuff as well, it was an interesting mix.
I like Shani's songs, and enjoy playing bass on them, and it seems to work vice versa too. It was - oh my goodness! - a normal gig. Well, apart from the power going in the middle of once dance (and the whole marquee being plunged into darkness).
And then on the way home as we crossed the M11, about 8 police cars and vans on the Duxford roundabout. And another 7 incident vans zooming past once we were on the A505. Phew! Didn't realise folk music would cause such a stir!
Now I'm home, tired, and checking my emails, forum and blog of course. My feet hurt. My shoes were gig shoes, not dancing shoes, but I danced anyway. I am a terrible dancer, but who cares!
I had a fun night, I think Shani enjoyed it too, and we will probably do some more music together. Shani introduced the set in Hebrew, but I don't think anyone actually noticed.. ..
The set we did was just 15 minutes in the middle of the barn dance and though there was some faffing around with set up, we did our set and seemed to go down well.
Shani plays acoustic rock really, and with my folky/country type stuff as well, it was an interesting mix.
I like Shani's songs, and enjoy playing bass on them, and it seems to work vice versa too. It was - oh my goodness! - a normal gig. Well, apart from the power going in the middle of once dance (and the whole marquee being plunged into darkness).
And then on the way home as we crossed the M11, about 8 police cars and vans on the Duxford roundabout. And another 7 incident vans zooming past once we were on the A505. Phew! Didn't realise folk music would cause such a stir!
Now I'm home, tired, and checking my emails, forum and blog of course. My feet hurt. My shoes were gig shoes, not dancing shoes, but I danced anyway. I am a terrible dancer, but who cares!
I had a fun night, I think Shani enjoyed it too, and we will probably do some more music together. Shani introduced the set in Hebrew, but I don't think anyone actually noticed.. ..
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Yet ANOTHER strange gig...
This time, a private party in Norfolk. The hosts had seen us playing at one of the Rougham Air Field Events (hidden inside a tent that you couldn't lift the sides of, so most people peeked through and saw our fee!). Were we free to do a private birthday party? Well, the price was right so we said yes.
Now, on a lovely August day you'd expect a garden party to go well. But, being UK August, the height of summer, it peed down! Torrential rain! Half the guests cancelled and the lovely laid out lawn with small marquees etc was a muddly swamp with the strong wind sending the B&Q special marquees flying.
So, we were moved indoors (as we couldn't play outside in the summer house as originally intended. By they way, their summerhouse would have done as a complete annexe to our house!).
Inside was lovely - beams, antiques, and low ceilings. Great if you play stand up bass! We were squished into one beamed area of the converted cottages (three into one). In front of us were vertical beams too so we were sectioned off, like in a mini-prison. B kept hitting his head on the lamp, and every time M hit any kind of drum all the bone china on the Welsh Dresser next to us rattled and threatened to slip. On one side was a small open fronted display cabinet full of antique perfume bottles. We suggested the owner push them slightly to the back of each shelf and she immediately knocked one off - but I caught it! Phew!
We played and they enjoyed our music, but they all had face paint on (grown ups, not children) and it looked really strange. Then there was the 'farting song' - delivered by the birthday boy's son and granddaughter. And a four-year-old's improvised pirate song (clever little tyke!).
The rain stopped so they went into the garden for - this is true! - wheelchair egg and spoon racing. The birthday boy himself (a young 60) showed me his workshop which was full of model airplanes. Not little ones, hulking great five-six-eight foot things that had motors and flew and everything. He had about 30 in the workshop and a further 90 (I was told) in a barn.
We had good food, they treated us well, and enjoyed the music. But I don't think private parties are really our forte somehow. The money came in handy though, especially as it was the day after our holiday so cash was very welcome.
So - what next? Well, the next gig is the Red Lion Folk Day, and I'm doing that with someone completely different. Let's see what happens....
Now, on a lovely August day you'd expect a garden party to go well. But, being UK August, the height of summer, it peed down! Torrential rain! Half the guests cancelled and the lovely laid out lawn with small marquees etc was a muddly swamp with the strong wind sending the B&Q special marquees flying.
So, we were moved indoors (as we couldn't play outside in the summer house as originally intended. By they way, their summerhouse would have done as a complete annexe to our house!).
Inside was lovely - beams, antiques, and low ceilings. Great if you play stand up bass! We were squished into one beamed area of the converted cottages (three into one). In front of us were vertical beams too so we were sectioned off, like in a mini-prison. B kept hitting his head on the lamp, and every time M hit any kind of drum all the bone china on the Welsh Dresser next to us rattled and threatened to slip. On one side was a small open fronted display cabinet full of antique perfume bottles. We suggested the owner push them slightly to the back of each shelf and she immediately knocked one off - but I caught it! Phew!
We played and they enjoyed our music, but they all had face paint on (grown ups, not children) and it looked really strange. Then there was the 'farting song' - delivered by the birthday boy's son and granddaughter. And a four-year-old's improvised pirate song (clever little tyke!).
The rain stopped so they went into the garden for - this is true! - wheelchair egg and spoon racing. The birthday boy himself (a young 60) showed me his workshop which was full of model airplanes. Not little ones, hulking great five-six-eight foot things that had motors and flew and everything. He had about 30 in the workshop and a further 90 (I was told) in a barn.
We had good food, they treated us well, and enjoyed the music. But I don't think private parties are really our forte somehow. The money came in handy though, especially as it was the day after our holiday so cash was very welcome.
So - what next? Well, the next gig is the Red Lion Folk Day, and I'm doing that with someone completely different. Let's see what happens....
Friday, August 11, 2006
A holiday in the Lake District
Well, what are blogs for if not for indulging in the luxury of telling nobody in particular just what you've been up to?
This las week we spent in the Lake District, in a small village called Seatoller in Borrowdale. Wonderful!
Here is my daily diary of the week:
Saturday Night:
I'm lying in bed with my head resting carefully against the wall - slightly at an angle so that my scalp is not puncutred by the decorative iron flowers on the metal frame headboard. My head just fits between the bars, so I can rest it securely against the wall and not on the narrow metal poles. Not the best designed headboard I've ever encountered.
We are in a small small village in Borrowdale. Outside the widows of our small, stone terraced cottage, huge rocky hills - the fells - loom above us. Across one a cloud lies light a light fluffy blanket, but now that it is night this almost comforting image must, in reality, be a cold cover damping teh slippery stone and moss-covered paths. Right now I'm glad I'm in bed, but tomorrow I want my feet to meet the stony paths one on one, my eyes to feast upon the green and grey, and my ears to let the sound of so much more silence teach them how to listen again.
Sunday
We've been out on Lake Windermere today - enjoying a warm but wet trip on the lake in some tourist tub. The greyskies obscured many of the views, but just being out on the water was good - different. Parking though, had been a nightmare. We found one carpark outside the town, and they wanted £5 for a day's parking. Well, we weren't going to be there all day so that was too expensive in our minds. Instead we went back towards the town and ended up - because of the traffic and lack of opportunity to do anything else - paying £5.50 for a half day. D'oh!
But we made the boat trip and I saw tufted duck, cormorant, gulls, swans (I'm sure one of them was a Hooter or Beswick, not a Mute). Queuing for car parks and boat trips gives me plenty of time for observing other kinds of wild life too. As well as the birds I can't help but notice the different types of people around. Lots of people from different cultures all gathered together in this extraordinary part of the UK to enjoy - to enjoy whatever it is they have come to enjoy.
As for the majority of people visiting the Lakes, I think there are basically three main reasons:
1. You love walking and enjoy the rugged yet accessible landscape
2. Youar e looking for any excuse to wear short/colourful trousers, odd headgear and/or other bizarre clothing and not feel self-concious (because everyone else is doing the same)
3. You are a senior widow - and the only fit senior men seem to be these hairy legged, would-be Tyroleans whose health and rigour in their 'declining' years is denied by their sprightly pursuit. Well - if you are looking for a new bloke and you are over 50, I reckon the Lakes is not a bad place to start. You see many old men, many fat men, but not many old, fat men. These aged hiking fanatics (and they come in both genders too - I've seen them up close) probably have a longer life expectancy than your average British Male. And they seem to congregate in places like the Lake District.
There's different kinds of walkers too - there's those like us (trainers, stick to the paths, no backpacks, families, casual 'we're here so we may as well' walkers). Then there's the 'serious' walker. There is a strict code of dress - your boots/socks must provide a very definite border between foot and hip. You can't have long socks that run up your leg towards your shorts, oh no! You must have big, round boots, and big, round-topped socks. Then, your thin (in the majority of cases), but muscly legs may stand proud all the way up to your Rohan shorts. This provides another visual 'stop' as you look from shoe to stomach. Around the neck is an O/S map in a neat plastic case. On the head is either a woolly hat or a small-brimmed 'tilly' hat. On the back is a pack filled with - well, who knows! Most likely a thermos, possibly a distress beacon, and certainly some of those vacuum packed meals. These walkers stride along with their spring-ended sticks and are confident, assured and experienced. These are the ones who watch the annual arrival of tourists with a knowing smile. They are accepted by the locals as staple income builders - they will walk come rain or shine!
Finally (and I'm being very general here I know) there are the tourist walkers. They come with some walking boots and jeans. Or those aforesaid colourful trousers. They will arrive and pile into the 'Outdoor Pursuits' shop and purchase one of everything they think will make them look authentic. They usually wear leather stetson style hats, too. (I wonder if any of them are lost folk music lovers?) They stride off (with their springy sticks - my goodness, aren't they great?) and are probably the group most often causing havoc for the mountain rescue services. Equipped is not experienced.
But I digress!
Here's the notes I wrote for Monday, straight on to the laptop (hey, would you go on holiday without one? OK, but I got to the leaderboard on Pinball!!)
We're in luck, the weather has brightened and we can go to the seaside! OK, maybe the seaside isn't everyone's first thought when visitng the lake District, but we want to see the sea, and we are going to!
We set off and decided to follow the other path out of Borrowdale instead of going back up to Keswick and along the A66. The Honister Pass - probably one of the steepest bits of road we have ever been on! And it did stress the driver - just a little (especially as our car brakes had only recently been fixed). However, we made it out alive, and headed towards Cockermouth and on to Maryport. We made it to what turned out to be a small, very un-commercialised fishing village. The main sea-side was a working fishing harbour, but venturing out and along the coast a little, within just a mile we hit the most beautiful shorline.
There were no beach huts, no cafes, no stalls selling inflatable everythings - just miles of open rocky beach full of rock pools and not a lot else. Across the bay you could see land - in fact we could see Scotland. We wandered along for an hour or two just meandering - clambering over these amazing red, flat, sparkling rocks, paddling in the tide, slipping on fresh sea-weed that appearedas the tide went out. (I'm going to have to do some geological detective work - this rock was just so beautiful, and every so often there were these patches that looked melted. Amazing!).
We walked back again, to the main town, enjoying the sun and the pure peace. We saw maybe four other people on the whole shore - along with plenty of herring and black-backed gulls and, in the distance, some long-legged waders. (More detective work needed, where's my bird book?)
We stopped for some chips and then headed back inland, intending to walk around a lake. We went back down the A66 and turned off to hit the top of Bassenthwaite Lake - a lovely quiet lake with small inlets around it - each occupied by a small family enjoying the sun by the water. We found a tree swing and the children splashed around and swung on this before we moved on round the lake, about half a mile, to find our own private inlet. The children decided they would swim - and though quite cold, obviously had a great time splashing around in the shallows, stumbling over slimy stones and swimming in the shallow, open water. Around them the sun shone, the sailing boats (further out) enjoyed the light wind and the warm weather, and we chilled on the shore, enjoying a really peaceful, relaxed afternoon. Apart from the drama of the extreme descent in the Honiston pass, there was no drama, no peculiar occurrence or anything remarkable. It was just chilled - a proper relaxing day with the family.
Monday evening:
It;s the end of a very war, relaxed day. The sun shone and I wore my sun-glasses. Big, wide, round the side of yer face glasses (my daughter says I look like a fly in them). Consequently, the sun being hotter than we realised, I have a face like a panda (two white eyes in a red face), my cleavage is bright red and my parting smarts when I brush my hair. The children, thankfully, are not burned and my husband is merely a slightly redder shade of brown than usual. It is my misfortune to sit here and radiate as I write. I should have been more careful! But it really didn't seem that hot. Ah well, with a bit of luck tomorrow we'll have more sun (we didn't!) and if I put on sunscreen everywhere except the white bits, I may achieve a slightly less panda-ish appearance and a more even beetroot. I won't go brown - I never do. White: red: peel.
Tuesday
We went shopping! To a very superior supermarket in Keswick called 'Booths'. Everything looked neater and cleaner (certainly nicer than the Co-op we had already visited), and nicer than our home supermarket (Tesco). The bread looked inviting, the fruit tempting, the tins lined up neatly and full of interesting things (even the baked beans looked somehow, nicer). And it was spacious too. Goodness! A nice place to shop.
The weather brightened so we took another trip to Bassenthwaite and went for a good long walk. There was a sign that said 'Osprey View Point' but we never found the view point and certainly didn't see any osprey. It was too cold and cloudy for swimming, so we went home for lunch and then took a trip to Ullswater. The drive was spectacular - and the lake very beautiful - but the weather was dull so apart from some 'deep paddling' not a lot was done other than to continue the chilling out process.
Wednesday
Today I ate ostrich! OK, not exactly the reason you go on holiday, but certainly something I'd not done before (well, not in a burger anyway). We went to Muncaster castle - a beautiful castle in the South of the Lake District. The castle itself was a big, square, 18th Century castellated manor rather than a medieval castle, but impressive non-the-less. We entered the big, redstone building and were handed neat little hand sets which would guide us round the rooms that were open to the public. The castle was built on the site of Roman remains and then a medieval tower, but the big windows (which my son noticed immediately as very un-castle like) gave away its more modern reconstruction. The rooms were full of many peronal memorabilia of the family, who still reside in part of the castle. The voices on the audio guide were family members, and their great fondness and pride in their heritage was evident. In the 'most haunted' room, they ask if you notice whether its colder, or feels odd at all. Well of course its colder, I'm sure they've made it that way. But the castle is the focus of many a paranormal researcher, its true. I didn't notice anything, but then maybe wandering round the small room with a family or two, and an audio player plastered to my ear is not the most conducive atmosphere to detecting anything on a psychic level. Not that I'm likely to anyway, but my sometimes more perceptive husband may have done.
Following our tour of the castle we went to the stable block for lunch (not hay, they have a restaurant/cafe there). That's when I ate my ostrich burger! After lunch we went out to the 'Maze' - which turned out to be a large plastic run, introduced by a cartoon vole, intended to instruct the young in the importance of vole conseravation. My daughter was unsure about going in as it said, in the leaflet, 'dark in places', and she doesn't like the dark. But it was not very dark at all, and the scariest thing was how quickly Alex and I wandered through and came out the other side.
We then went on to 'Meet the Birds'. On first entering the castle grounds we had stopped at the Owl Sanctuary - the headquarters of the World Owl Trust. We saw, unsurprisingly, lots of owls. Owls who live in deserts, who burrow in the ground, who come from Mexico to Muncaster. The 'Meet the Birds' attraction was a very informative talk on the work of the Trust and some close up views of some of the rehabilitated inhabitants of the sanctuary, including a buzzard who chased his decoy rabbit on foot - not a natural hunting method for one of the UKs largest flying predators! The poor bird had been raised by people and was afraid of heights!
We wandered on through the grounds and, enjoying the sunshine (which had only shone since our arrival at Muncaster), and then set out for home. Deciding to complete a circular journey, we made a mistake and spent twice as long going home as getting there - but it didn't matter. It was a pleasant day, and we stayed chilled out.
Thursday
Today was once again a 'chill out day'. We started with a quick trip to Keswick to download our photos to disc (fancy forgetting the cable!) Then we went down to Derwent Water for a walk - which turned into quite a good distance. We walked from where we'd parked alongthe side of the lake, then up through the woods to the Ledore Falls. Not enormous waterfalls, but very pretty. We went on, across the countryside and through the marshes. We walked along wooden walk-ways, enjoying the bright, but cloudy day. We came back the same way (but not visiting the falls) and I saw goldcrest breifly flash through the branches of the pine trees.
We came home for some lunch and then, after some chill time for our leg muscles to recover, went back out to Bassenthwaite - our favourite lake.
Anglers on the opposite bank were bathed in evening sunshine, and we saw one pull out a very large, long fish. Pike, perhaps? Or a stumpy eel, not sure which. We skimmed stones, wandering along the stony bank and watching my daughter swing on the rope swing and - as predicted - dunk herself (fully clothed) in the shallow end of the lake.
Our journey home took us back through Keswick and past the Chinese Take-Away. Back to the cottage for a continuation of the chill therapy - Chinese food, wine (not for the kids though) and (this time for the kids!) ice dream from the local shop for dessert.
Tomorrow we must head home, but we will head home well walked, well rested and having spent more time playing cards and doing activities as a family in these few daysthan we usually do in a year.
Friday
This morning we packed. Sad that we must leave this lovely place, but we've had a good week. OK we've not trekked up any mountainous paths, we've not delved into the Slate Mines, and we've not white water rafted our way along the rivers, but we've had a good, relaxing and enjoyable time.
The evenings we spent watching a bit of TV (the athletics has been great) and playing cards. I think we've played more cards as a family this week than we usually do in a year. We stayed up together, and had relaxing baths, long showers, late mornings and lazy evenings. What else should a holiday be about?
After packing we went for a brief walk locally - enjoying the last chance to breathe this lovely air and enjoy the sounds of nothing more than the occasional car and the bleating of the herdwick sheep. I like the sheep up here - they seem more intelligent than southern (different breed obviously) sheep. They watch you, they move when a car comes along, they just look smarter (well, for sheep anyway).
The journey home was long and tedious. We decided to avoid the M6 and head straight across the country on the A66 (our favourite road in the whole of the UK) and then down the A1. Rats. Lots of traffic, and plenty of concertina-ing and stop-starting in various places. But we are home, and I have 167 work emails (OK, call me sad for checking my work emails but most of them were spam so I could delete them before going in on Monday!) and 26 personal emails (of which only 16 were spam).
Friday evening
I am doing this. Writing up my week in my blog. Call me sad! I don't care. I have had a nice supper (mother cooked roast beef) and a large brandy. My husband has gone to the folk club (fancy being home in time for that) and tomorrow we have a gig (yay, money!).
I wonder where we will go next year on holiday? I think we are going to have to find some sun.
This las week we spent in the Lake District, in a small village called Seatoller in Borrowdale. Wonderful!
Here is my daily diary of the week:
Saturday Night:
I'm lying in bed with my head resting carefully against the wall - slightly at an angle so that my scalp is not puncutred by the decorative iron flowers on the metal frame headboard. My head just fits between the bars, so I can rest it securely against the wall and not on the narrow metal poles. Not the best designed headboard I've ever encountered.
We are in a small small village in Borrowdale. Outside the widows of our small, stone terraced cottage, huge rocky hills - the fells - loom above us. Across one a cloud lies light a light fluffy blanket, but now that it is night this almost comforting image must, in reality, be a cold cover damping teh slippery stone and moss-covered paths. Right now I'm glad I'm in bed, but tomorrow I want my feet to meet the stony paths one on one, my eyes to feast upon the green and grey, and my ears to let the sound of so much more silence teach them how to listen again.
Sunday
We've been out on Lake Windermere today - enjoying a warm but wet trip on the lake in some tourist tub. The greyskies obscured many of the views, but just being out on the water was good - different. Parking though, had been a nightmare. We found one carpark outside the town, and they wanted £5 for a day's parking. Well, we weren't going to be there all day so that was too expensive in our minds. Instead we went back towards the town and ended up - because of the traffic and lack of opportunity to do anything else - paying £5.50 for a half day. D'oh!
But we made the boat trip and I saw tufted duck, cormorant, gulls, swans (I'm sure one of them was a Hooter or Beswick, not a Mute). Queuing for car parks and boat trips gives me plenty of time for observing other kinds of wild life too. As well as the birds I can't help but notice the different types of people around. Lots of people from different cultures all gathered together in this extraordinary part of the UK to enjoy - to enjoy whatever it is they have come to enjoy.
As for the majority of people visiting the Lakes, I think there are basically three main reasons:
1. You love walking and enjoy the rugged yet accessible landscape
2. Youar e looking for any excuse to wear short/colourful trousers, odd headgear and/or other bizarre clothing and not feel self-concious (because everyone else is doing the same)
3. You are a senior widow - and the only fit senior men seem to be these hairy legged, would-be Tyroleans whose health and rigour in their 'declining' years is denied by their sprightly pursuit. Well - if you are looking for a new bloke and you are over 50, I reckon the Lakes is not a bad place to start. You see many old men, many fat men, but not many old, fat men. These aged hiking fanatics (and they come in both genders too - I've seen them up close) probably have a longer life expectancy than your average British Male. And they seem to congregate in places like the Lake District.
There's different kinds of walkers too - there's those like us (trainers, stick to the paths, no backpacks, families, casual 'we're here so we may as well' walkers). Then there's the 'serious' walker. There is a strict code of dress - your boots/socks must provide a very definite border between foot and hip. You can't have long socks that run up your leg towards your shorts, oh no! You must have big, round boots, and big, round-topped socks. Then, your thin (in the majority of cases), but muscly legs may stand proud all the way up to your Rohan shorts. This provides another visual 'stop' as you look from shoe to stomach. Around the neck is an O/S map in a neat plastic case. On the head is either a woolly hat or a small-brimmed 'tilly' hat. On the back is a pack filled with - well, who knows! Most likely a thermos, possibly a distress beacon, and certainly some of those vacuum packed meals. These walkers stride along with their spring-ended sticks and are confident, assured and experienced. These are the ones who watch the annual arrival of tourists with a knowing smile. They are accepted by the locals as staple income builders - they will walk come rain or shine!
Finally (and I'm being very general here I know) there are the tourist walkers. They come with some walking boots and jeans. Or those aforesaid colourful trousers. They will arrive and pile into the 'Outdoor Pursuits' shop and purchase one of everything they think will make them look authentic. They usually wear leather stetson style hats, too. (I wonder if any of them are lost folk music lovers?) They stride off (with their springy sticks - my goodness, aren't they great?) and are probably the group most often causing havoc for the mountain rescue services. Equipped is not experienced.
But I digress!
Here's the notes I wrote for Monday, straight on to the laptop (hey, would you go on holiday without one? OK, but I got to the leaderboard on Pinball!!)
We're in luck, the weather has brightened and we can go to the seaside! OK, maybe the seaside isn't everyone's first thought when visitng the lake District, but we want to see the sea, and we are going to!
We set off and decided to follow the other path out of Borrowdale instead of going back up to Keswick and along the A66. The Honister Pass - probably one of the steepest bits of road we have ever been on! And it did stress the driver - just a little (especially as our car brakes had only recently been fixed). However, we made it out alive, and headed towards Cockermouth and on to Maryport. We made it to what turned out to be a small, very un-commercialised fishing village. The main sea-side was a working fishing harbour, but venturing out and along the coast a little, within just a mile we hit the most beautiful shorline.
There were no beach huts, no cafes, no stalls selling inflatable everythings - just miles of open rocky beach full of rock pools and not a lot else. Across the bay you could see land - in fact we could see Scotland. We wandered along for an hour or two just meandering - clambering over these amazing red, flat, sparkling rocks, paddling in the tide, slipping on fresh sea-weed that appearedas the tide went out. (I'm going to have to do some geological detective work - this rock was just so beautiful, and every so often there were these patches that looked melted. Amazing!).
We walked back again, to the main town, enjoying the sun and the pure peace. We saw maybe four other people on the whole shore - along with plenty of herring and black-backed gulls and, in the distance, some long-legged waders. (More detective work needed, where's my bird book?)
We stopped for some chips and then headed back inland, intending to walk around a lake. We went back down the A66 and turned off to hit the top of Bassenthwaite Lake - a lovely quiet lake with small inlets around it - each occupied by a small family enjoying the sun by the water. We found a tree swing and the children splashed around and swung on this before we moved on round the lake, about half a mile, to find our own private inlet. The children decided they would swim - and though quite cold, obviously had a great time splashing around in the shallows, stumbling over slimy stones and swimming in the shallow, open water. Around them the sun shone, the sailing boats (further out) enjoyed the light wind and the warm weather, and we chilled on the shore, enjoying a really peaceful, relaxed afternoon. Apart from the drama of the extreme descent in the Honiston pass, there was no drama, no peculiar occurrence or anything remarkable. It was just chilled - a proper relaxing day with the family.
Monday evening:
It;s the end of a very war, relaxed day. The sun shone and I wore my sun-glasses. Big, wide, round the side of yer face glasses (my daughter says I look like a fly in them). Consequently, the sun being hotter than we realised, I have a face like a panda (two white eyes in a red face), my cleavage is bright red and my parting smarts when I brush my hair. The children, thankfully, are not burned and my husband is merely a slightly redder shade of brown than usual. It is my misfortune to sit here and radiate as I write. I should have been more careful! But it really didn't seem that hot. Ah well, with a bit of luck tomorrow we'll have more sun (we didn't!) and if I put on sunscreen everywhere except the white bits, I may achieve a slightly less panda-ish appearance and a more even beetroot. I won't go brown - I never do. White: red: peel.
Tuesday
We went shopping! To a very superior supermarket in Keswick called 'Booths'. Everything looked neater and cleaner (certainly nicer than the Co-op we had already visited), and nicer than our home supermarket (Tesco). The bread looked inviting, the fruit tempting, the tins lined up neatly and full of interesting things (even the baked beans looked somehow, nicer). And it was spacious too. Goodness! A nice place to shop.
The weather brightened so we took another trip to Bassenthwaite and went for a good long walk. There was a sign that said 'Osprey View Point' but we never found the view point and certainly didn't see any osprey. It was too cold and cloudy for swimming, so we went home for lunch and then took a trip to Ullswater. The drive was spectacular - and the lake very beautiful - but the weather was dull so apart from some 'deep paddling' not a lot was done other than to continue the chilling out process.
Wednesday
Today I ate ostrich! OK, not exactly the reason you go on holiday, but certainly something I'd not done before (well, not in a burger anyway). We went to Muncaster castle - a beautiful castle in the South of the Lake District. The castle itself was a big, square, 18th Century castellated manor rather than a medieval castle, but impressive non-the-less. We entered the big, redstone building and were handed neat little hand sets which would guide us round the rooms that were open to the public. The castle was built on the site of Roman remains and then a medieval tower, but the big windows (which my son noticed immediately as very un-castle like) gave away its more modern reconstruction. The rooms were full of many peronal memorabilia of the family, who still reside in part of the castle. The voices on the audio guide were family members, and their great fondness and pride in their heritage was evident. In the 'most haunted' room, they ask if you notice whether its colder, or feels odd at all. Well of course its colder, I'm sure they've made it that way. But the castle is the focus of many a paranormal researcher, its true. I didn't notice anything, but then maybe wandering round the small room with a family or two, and an audio player plastered to my ear is not the most conducive atmosphere to detecting anything on a psychic level. Not that I'm likely to anyway, but my sometimes more perceptive husband may have done.
Following our tour of the castle we went to the stable block for lunch (not hay, they have a restaurant/cafe there). That's when I ate my ostrich burger! After lunch we went out to the 'Maze' - which turned out to be a large plastic run, introduced by a cartoon vole, intended to instruct the young in the importance of vole conseravation. My daughter was unsure about going in as it said, in the leaflet, 'dark in places', and she doesn't like the dark. But it was not very dark at all, and the scariest thing was how quickly Alex and I wandered through and came out the other side.
We then went on to 'Meet the Birds'. On first entering the castle grounds we had stopped at the Owl Sanctuary - the headquarters of the World Owl Trust. We saw, unsurprisingly, lots of owls. Owls who live in deserts, who burrow in the ground, who come from Mexico to Muncaster. The 'Meet the Birds' attraction was a very informative talk on the work of the Trust and some close up views of some of the rehabilitated inhabitants of the sanctuary, including a buzzard who chased his decoy rabbit on foot - not a natural hunting method for one of the UKs largest flying predators! The poor bird had been raised by people and was afraid of heights!
We wandered on through the grounds and, enjoying the sunshine (which had only shone since our arrival at Muncaster), and then set out for home. Deciding to complete a circular journey, we made a mistake and spent twice as long going home as getting there - but it didn't matter. It was a pleasant day, and we stayed chilled out.
Thursday
Today was once again a 'chill out day'. We started with a quick trip to Keswick to download our photos to disc (fancy forgetting the cable!) Then we went down to Derwent Water for a walk - which turned into quite a good distance. We walked from where we'd parked alongthe side of the lake, then up through the woods to the Ledore Falls. Not enormous waterfalls, but very pretty. We went on, across the countryside and through the marshes. We walked along wooden walk-ways, enjoying the bright, but cloudy day. We came back the same way (but not visiting the falls) and I saw goldcrest breifly flash through the branches of the pine trees.
We came home for some lunch and then, after some chill time for our leg muscles to recover, went back out to Bassenthwaite - our favourite lake.
Anglers on the opposite bank were bathed in evening sunshine, and we saw one pull out a very large, long fish. Pike, perhaps? Or a stumpy eel, not sure which. We skimmed stones, wandering along the stony bank and watching my daughter swing on the rope swing and - as predicted - dunk herself (fully clothed) in the shallow end of the lake.
Our journey home took us back through Keswick and past the Chinese Take-Away. Back to the cottage for a continuation of the chill therapy - Chinese food, wine (not for the kids though) and (this time for the kids!) ice dream from the local shop for dessert.
Tomorrow we must head home, but we will head home well walked, well rested and having spent more time playing cards and doing activities as a family in these few daysthan we usually do in a year.
Friday
This morning we packed. Sad that we must leave this lovely place, but we've had a good week. OK we've not trekked up any mountainous paths, we've not delved into the Slate Mines, and we've not white water rafted our way along the rivers, but we've had a good, relaxing and enjoyable time.
The evenings we spent watching a bit of TV (the athletics has been great) and playing cards. I think we've played more cards as a family this week than we usually do in a year. We stayed up together, and had relaxing baths, long showers, late mornings and lazy evenings. What else should a holiday be about?
After packing we went for a brief walk locally - enjoying the last chance to breathe this lovely air and enjoy the sounds of nothing more than the occasional car and the bleating of the herdwick sheep. I like the sheep up here - they seem more intelligent than southern (different breed obviously) sheep. They watch you, they move when a car comes along, they just look smarter (well, for sheep anyway).
The journey home was long and tedious. We decided to avoid the M6 and head straight across the country on the A66 (our favourite road in the whole of the UK) and then down the A1. Rats. Lots of traffic, and plenty of concertina-ing and stop-starting in various places. But we are home, and I have 167 work emails (OK, call me sad for checking my work emails but most of them were spam so I could delete them before going in on Monday!) and 26 personal emails (of which only 16 were spam).
Friday evening
I am doing this. Writing up my week in my blog. Call me sad! I don't care. I have had a nice supper (mother cooked roast beef) and a large brandy. My husband has gone to the folk club (fancy being home in time for that) and tomorrow we have a gig (yay, money!).
I wonder where we will go next year on holiday? I think we are going to have to find some sun.
Monday, July 31, 2006
And what happened at school today dear?
Well, I ask my kids often enough, don't you? The answer is usually 'not much', or 'usual'. Though from teenage son, the response is more of a grunt than a word. I'm amazed how 'I don't know' has transformed from clear, audible words to something musical almost - to 'Iuno' with an accompanying shoulder shrug that tells it all.
But the amazing versatility of this response! Have you tidied your room? Iuno. Have you any homework? Iuno. Is that an elephant about to tread on your mobile phone? Iuno.
The joys of communicating with the young! I think I will have to learn txt spk. Then I cn tlk to thm in thr own lnguge. Or then again - maybe not. 1984! It's here - a few decades late indeed - but Newspeak is now common parlance over messenger services and mobile phones. And there's Big Brother as well - so perhaps all early science fiction was not indeed fiction but just time travel. I remember reading a 1957 book that had Texas as the last preserve of masculinity, the whole world ruled by women, and the opening paragraph stating 'It was ever since the UK had a woman prime minister in the 1980s' or something of the sort.
And they say that 60% of today's 10 year olds will be doing jobs as adults that we haven't even invented yet. So what will they say to their kids at the end of the day?
"Hv a nc dy lol?"
...
...
...
"Iuno."
Ah - maybe a little cynical - surely the written word will thrive in this world of blogs and on-line publishing rather than be degraded by abbreviations and contractions. But who knows! By the time my children are grandparents, they'll probably be 'reading' stories through a brain implant that is fully accompanies by image and sound.
"Did you enjoy that one?" as the braincast finishes and the family unclick and use verbal communication, by way of novelty.
"Iuno"
But the amazing versatility of this response! Have you tidied your room? Iuno. Have you any homework? Iuno. Is that an elephant about to tread on your mobile phone? Iuno.
The joys of communicating with the young! I think I will have to learn txt spk. Then I cn tlk to thm in thr own lnguge. Or then again - maybe not. 1984! It's here - a few decades late indeed - but Newspeak is now common parlance over messenger services and mobile phones. And there's Big Brother as well - so perhaps all early science fiction was not indeed fiction but just time travel. I remember reading a 1957 book that had Texas as the last preserve of masculinity, the whole world ruled by women, and the opening paragraph stating 'It was ever since the UK had a woman prime minister in the 1980s' or something of the sort.
And they say that 60% of today's 10 year olds will be doing jobs as adults that we haven't even invented yet. So what will they say to their kids at the end of the day?
"Hv a nc dy lol?"
...
...
...
"Iuno."
Ah - maybe a little cynical - surely the written word will thrive in this world of blogs and on-line publishing rather than be degraded by abbreviations and contractions. But who knows! By the time my children are grandparents, they'll probably be 'reading' stories through a brain implant that is fully accompanies by image and sound.
"Did you enjoy that one?" as the braincast finishes and the family unclick and use verbal communication, by way of novelty.
"Iuno"
Monday, July 17, 2006
Pirates!
If you've read any of my other blogs about recent gigs, you'll have noticed they have had a slightly bizarre twist. Well, this Saturday was no exception.
The first issue was that for the first time we were just a three piece - no melody instrument. Me on bass, P on guitar and singing, Baz on drums. OK, no worries, we'd get there - just all have to sing a lot more.
P relies on me to provide the set list - I have a big book and a list, and I yell things out and we pick a key and do them. This year I chose, at about the fourth number in, 'The Pirate Song'. I had heard (from P's children) that this was a good song, but P had always refused to sing it. No escape this time!
She lined up some willing volunteers in front of the stage (participation number folks) and then started to sing what turned out to be a song for the under fives. In other words, at this Medieval Fair, it was perfectly pitched! They did the actions, sang the song and loved it.
Baz squeaked at me 'Never again!!!' Shut up and hit those drums man. I'm busy slipping sweatily up and down the neck of my stand up bass and if I'm lucky I'll hit a decent note soon.
P was exhausted having worked all day at the show running some kind of on-site facilities (she told me she was not on toilet duty, which was a relief... har har). But she sang beautifully as usual, and the gig was going fine. The stallholders were getting rowdy (they say they drink mead because they like it - I'm not so sure). They were still in costume and probably getting more medieval by the minute (it was HOT and natural wool fabric hose can get pretty warm I'm sure).
Then - as darkness gently fell across the fenland airfield, and our open sided marquee filled with mildly inebriated knights, monks and maidens, the pirates arrived. About six or seven, in full pirate gear. One waved his pair of muskets at us yelling 'SING US THE PIRATE SONG...' having been told he'd missed it. But no way - it was now far too late (in so many ways).
So picture this - three of us on stage, about 50 tired and slightly drunk East Anglians, Stall Holders, Medieval Re-enactors and a bunch of Pirates. Oh yes, and one bright green leprechaun with orange hair.
As the night ran on we played on - singing everything from traditional folk songs, Ps own material, to Jimmy Cliff and Elvis. I kind of went a bit mad when it came to Blue Suede Shoes - Baz looked at me in amazement having never heard my (usually soft and very folksy) voice belting out a raucous and rough Rock'n'Roller. Ah - what he doesn't know about me - that's a whole other blog!
Then one of the monks (yes, there was more than one) decided to climb the tent pole. 20 foot up, and he clambered up agile as a ship's monkey (aharrr me hearties). Not to be outdone, another chap climbed up the opposite pole, and at the top detatched his wooden leg. Now he SHOULD have been dressed as a pirate (but wasn't).
The great relief for us was that tonight we could stop at 11 because our medieval music pals, Schelmish, were booked to play after us. So, following slightly jazzy folk/rock/whoknowswhat us, was this bunch of 8 large (well mostly) very noisy Germans. They are terrific - http://www.schelmish.de/ - run around half naked, dressed in leather with the most ludicrous shoes, playing enormous bagpipes and many, many noisy percussion things. They were great! We had fun watching them as well as playing.
I was very brave and asked one pirate (in the most amazing full length leather frock coat, with tricorn and some rather strange looking false fangs - not quite sure if pirates were vampires or not but at that stage I didn't really care): "Why Pirates?"
His answer was simple: "Because Pirates are cool." Turns out he bought the coat at a German Gamers Convention for about 160 Euros. I kind of wandered off then, not just because of his wife and very large Wolf Hound, but because I was worried he'd start to tell me all about the Gaming....
But for me the evening was over, and once I'd collected my share of filthy lucre (paid in English Pounds, not Pieces of Eight alas) I donned my rather daft black leather hat (only to fit in you understand, only to fit in), and tootled home.
On my return B told me of his gig somewhere near Southampton. It had gone well but the event had put two stages back to back so whilst his acoustic quartet played lovely music, they were overwhelmed by the backwash of recorded music played very loud whilst colourfully dressed youngsters gave their interpretation of 'Riverdance'.
I still think I win on the weird gig stakes though. Bet there weren't any Pirates at HIS gig.
The first issue was that for the first time we were just a three piece - no melody instrument. Me on bass, P on guitar and singing, Baz on drums. OK, no worries, we'd get there - just all have to sing a lot more.
P relies on me to provide the set list - I have a big book and a list, and I yell things out and we pick a key and do them. This year I chose, at about the fourth number in, 'The Pirate Song'. I had heard (from P's children) that this was a good song, but P had always refused to sing it. No escape this time!
She lined up some willing volunteers in front of the stage (participation number folks) and then started to sing what turned out to be a song for the under fives. In other words, at this Medieval Fair, it was perfectly pitched! They did the actions, sang the song and loved it.
Baz squeaked at me 'Never again!!!' Shut up and hit those drums man. I'm busy slipping sweatily up and down the neck of my stand up bass and if I'm lucky I'll hit a decent note soon.
P was exhausted having worked all day at the show running some kind of on-site facilities (she told me she was not on toilet duty, which was a relief... har har). But she sang beautifully as usual, and the gig was going fine. The stallholders were getting rowdy (they say they drink mead because they like it - I'm not so sure). They were still in costume and probably getting more medieval by the minute (it was HOT and natural wool fabric hose can get pretty warm I'm sure).
Then - as darkness gently fell across the fenland airfield, and our open sided marquee filled with mildly inebriated knights, monks and maidens, the pirates arrived. About six or seven, in full pirate gear. One waved his pair of muskets at us yelling 'SING US THE PIRATE SONG...' having been told he'd missed it. But no way - it was now far too late (in so many ways).
So picture this - three of us on stage, about 50 tired and slightly drunk East Anglians, Stall Holders, Medieval Re-enactors and a bunch of Pirates. Oh yes, and one bright green leprechaun with orange hair.
As the night ran on we played on - singing everything from traditional folk songs, Ps own material, to Jimmy Cliff and Elvis. I kind of went a bit mad when it came to Blue Suede Shoes - Baz looked at me in amazement having never heard my (usually soft and very folksy) voice belting out a raucous and rough Rock'n'Roller. Ah - what he doesn't know about me - that's a whole other blog!
Then one of the monks (yes, there was more than one) decided to climb the tent pole. 20 foot up, and he clambered up agile as a ship's monkey (aharrr me hearties). Not to be outdone, another chap climbed up the opposite pole, and at the top detatched his wooden leg. Now he SHOULD have been dressed as a pirate (but wasn't).
The great relief for us was that tonight we could stop at 11 because our medieval music pals, Schelmish, were booked to play after us. So, following slightly jazzy folk/rock/whoknowswhat us, was this bunch of 8 large (well mostly) very noisy Germans. They are terrific - http://www.schelmish.de/ - run around half naked, dressed in leather with the most ludicrous shoes, playing enormous bagpipes and many, many noisy percussion things. They were great! We had fun watching them as well as playing.
I was very brave and asked one pirate (in the most amazing full length leather frock coat, with tricorn and some rather strange looking false fangs - not quite sure if pirates were vampires or not but at that stage I didn't really care): "Why Pirates?"
His answer was simple: "Because Pirates are cool." Turns out he bought the coat at a German Gamers Convention for about 160 Euros. I kind of wandered off then, not just because of his wife and very large Wolf Hound, but because I was worried he'd start to tell me all about the Gaming....
But for me the evening was over, and once I'd collected my share of filthy lucre (paid in English Pounds, not Pieces of Eight alas) I donned my rather daft black leather hat (only to fit in you understand, only to fit in), and tootled home.
On my return B told me of his gig somewhere near Southampton. It had gone well but the event had put two stages back to back so whilst his acoustic quartet played lovely music, they were overwhelmed by the backwash of recorded music played very loud whilst colourfully dressed youngsters gave their interpretation of 'Riverdance'.
I still think I win on the weird gig stakes though. Bet there weren't any Pirates at HIS gig.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Another mad gig
Picture the perfect English village on a beautiful summer's day. The green, opposite the pub, is filled with happy laughing people as the Villlage Fun Day enters full swing. And this afternoon's entertainment will feature a barn dance - on the village green. This is where the village idly dissipates.
We set up whilst a blues player twanged the afternoon away, and once all was plugged in and Mr Punch had finished demonstrating wanton puppet violence, we were ready to go!
But, of course, our audience was spread over a field. At one end, a football match, next to us a bouncy castle, ahead of us (some way off) the steps up to the pub. And scattered around was the audience. Ready to Dance?!! No way. They were ready to drink and probably to snooze. In the three and a half hours we played our caller managed to get enough people together for just three dances. All of which were a complete shambles - I've never seen such bad dancing!!
We sang songs, played a few tunes - made the afternoon pass. But one chap did want to dance. There we were in the midst of the Suffolk countryside and this man, in his shorts with his baseball cap on, spoke pure Estuary. He was a little drunk and decided that he and the children should have a dance competition.
I have played to some odd sights - three men, two goats and an inflatable doll, even to strippers (see previous posts), but this is the first time I've seen a grown man in competition with 8 year old girls by doing headstands and trying to 'teach 'em rock'n roll' (to the sound of a country dance band).
Ah roll on winter - when the audience are trapped in the hall and can't wander off.
We set up whilst a blues player twanged the afternoon away, and once all was plugged in and Mr Punch had finished demonstrating wanton puppet violence, we were ready to go!
But, of course, our audience was spread over a field. At one end, a football match, next to us a bouncy castle, ahead of us (some way off) the steps up to the pub. And scattered around was the audience. Ready to Dance?!! No way. They were ready to drink and probably to snooze. In the three and a half hours we played our caller managed to get enough people together for just three dances. All of which were a complete shambles - I've never seen such bad dancing!!
We sang songs, played a few tunes - made the afternoon pass. But one chap did want to dance. There we were in the midst of the Suffolk countryside and this man, in his shorts with his baseball cap on, spoke pure Estuary. He was a little drunk and decided that he and the children should have a dance competition.
I have played to some odd sights - three men, two goats and an inflatable doll, even to strippers (see previous posts), but this is the first time I've seen a grown man in competition with 8 year old girls by doing headstands and trying to 'teach 'em rock'n roll' (to the sound of a country dance band).
Ah roll on winter - when the audience are trapped in the hall and can't wander off.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
My take on the universe
I was sitting on the bog today, letting my mind wander whilst other things happened, and sort of organised my own view of the universe. Just for me. So I understand it - so it makes sense to me.
I'm not a religious person, but very tolerant. If you believe in a God/Gods, then they exist for you. I won't argue. I won't share your belief, but I can't decry it.
So how does this link in with the universe? Well - kind of energy is what I'm thinking. Take faith healers - they believe that with the power of God they can make people well. And it works sometimes too - amazing, extraordinary, unexplainable (through scientific logic that is). And Chinese healers using Chi, and Reiki, and so many strange and wonderful healing, therapeutic and beneficial practices that have a result we can't explain. Do we need to explain them? If the faith healer and the reike practioner are getting great results, they are doing something. They are tapping into an energy or force or whatever you like to call it (watch out Luke Skywalker!) and using it for beneficial results. So there is something there that they access, even though we don't know or understand how.
Some people use crystals for healing, or herbs, or dowse, or pray or even use hypnosis. All of these have one thing in common - the belief of the practitioner. There is belief because there are results. Despite scientific and clinical tests, somewhere along the line there are people who benefit from 'alternative' therapies.
Going back to my energy theory, this links in with religions of all kinds. God - one big energy created the world. Many gods - pagan, Hindu, whichever religion you choose - they could all be different energies. Some people worship or find deity in the simplest of things - perhaps what they are recognising is its innate energy.
I don't know - this is a very undeveloped theory at the moment, and someone somewhere else has probably refined it wonderfully. But it makes sense to me.
I'm not a religious person, but very tolerant. If you believe in a God/Gods, then they exist for you. I won't argue. I won't share your belief, but I can't decry it.
So how does this link in with the universe? Well - kind of energy is what I'm thinking. Take faith healers - they believe that with the power of God they can make people well. And it works sometimes too - amazing, extraordinary, unexplainable (through scientific logic that is). And Chinese healers using Chi, and Reiki, and so many strange and wonderful healing, therapeutic and beneficial practices that have a result we can't explain. Do we need to explain them? If the faith healer and the reike practioner are getting great results, they are doing something. They are tapping into an energy or force or whatever you like to call it (watch out Luke Skywalker!) and using it for beneficial results. So there is something there that they access, even though we don't know or understand how.
Some people use crystals for healing, or herbs, or dowse, or pray or even use hypnosis. All of these have one thing in common - the belief of the practitioner. There is belief because there are results. Despite scientific and clinical tests, somewhere along the line there are people who benefit from 'alternative' therapies.
Going back to my energy theory, this links in with religions of all kinds. God - one big energy created the world. Many gods - pagan, Hindu, whichever religion you choose - they could all be different energies. Some people worship or find deity in the simplest of things - perhaps what they are recognising is its innate energy.
I don't know - this is a very undeveloped theory at the moment, and someone somewhere else has probably refined it wonderfully. But it makes sense to me.
Monday, June 26, 2006
From the sublime to the ridiculous - in about 6 hours
Can you imagine a day that switches from cucumber sandwiches to strippers? Can you take the cultural shift from powdered ladies to drunken knights? It’s easy – if you are a folk musician!
Let me set the scene for you: It’s a sunny day in June, the English sun has fought through the early morning cloud to quickly evaporate the scant puddles left from a brief rain shower. The English countryside is enjoying a warm spell, with droughts and floods all in the same week. A fairly typical summer, I suppose.
My husband and I are both musicians, and though we play together sometimes, we are both in different bands. In fact, we play with all sorts configurations of the same and different musicians. For example, today I was deputising for Bryan and playing with Penni as he had another gig that had been moved and he couldn’t change. So at the crack of dawn this same, June summer day, he headed off to Newcastle and a music festival with his band, whilst I was set to drive to London with Penni. Penni and I were playing at an afternoon garden party, for the ‘Friends of The Red House’. No, not some obscure religious sect, but those dedicated supporters of the residence of one William Morris, designer, architect and artist – the man many feel responsible for the launch of the arts and crafts movement.
A long drive down the M11, under the now blistering sun, and into London. Well, the suburbs of Kent that may as well be London these days as the city continues its urban sprawl. We came into the small town of Bexley Heath, and down one of the quiet residential streets off the main broadway, we drove through two large white gates and into the grounds of the Red House. Early, we had plenty of time to set up, and I was given a quick tour of the house. It was – of course – red brick. Inside were many ‘Morrisy’ things – examples of his fabric, some extraordinary furniture he and his cohorts had made, and some wall paintings that reminded me of the kind of decoration seen on 16th century church walls. In the main bedroom was a window seat, and behind the door of a cupboard, upon the old plaster wall, a faded picture painted, reputedly by Lizzie Siddel. Now by coincidence I knew of this woman – the artist Rosetti’s wife and the first model to have been described as a ‘stunner’. She, as our first ‘supermodel’, was also the first to self-destruct through abuse and eventual overdose of laudanum. In that brief moment of standing in that room, I saw her at the window, looking out as if posed. An image my mind constructed, but one that even now I can recall. Of course, whilst I was enjoying the tour, Penni was unloading the car with all our gear.
We stet up in the porch, a lovely brick archway (well, it’s all brick, but there were nice tiles on the floor too and a great oak door) with a view onto the small but neat garden. Around us the ‘Friends’ were setting up small gazebos for the food, for selling plants and books, for the general comfort of the forthcoming visitors. Our immediate view was of a large well, with covered roof and wrought iron, and a bench surround. The main door was closed so that visitors would not try and stumble through us, sitting in the porch (it was barely big enough for us and our guitars). We were ready, the guests began to arrive, and a most convivial afternoon commenced.
Penni and I played a wide range of very laid, back, easy listening folk songs like ‘Molly Malone’, lots of Penni’s songs (and my own song about Lizzie Siddel), but as the average age of the audience was probably around 70, we tried a few old 40’s songs too. We only knew choruses mostly, but ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and ‘Show me the Way to go Home’ were certainly appreciated. No clapping, no cheering, but the audience enjoyed the music because it was non-invasive, pleasant and – I have to say – appropriate to the setting. During our break we enjoyed ham, beef and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, some nice fruit punch, and strawberries and cream. The property is National Trust owned and one of the volunteer guides came over and told us how he used to sing with Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger (great names of socialist folk from the 60’s). But later I heard him say ‘Kirsty McColl, she was lead singer with the Pogues’. That shattered his folk credibility completely.
We played, we finished, the afternoon was a wonderful success. A quick drive (hour and a quarter) back up the M11 and it was time to go off to the next gig. We had time for a cup of tea at my house before reloading all the gear into Penni’s car (including my stand up bass which doesn’t fit in my car) and then off to Twinwood Medieval Fair.
We have a whole series of Medieval Fair gigs, Penni and I. We did have a band to do them once, but it split, so now Penni and I do them with whatever musicians we can find. Sometimes it’s my husband, but tonight it was Fran, a fiddle player that we play with in yet another band. Oh yes, and Baz – whom I adore deeply. Only because he’s a wonderful drummer, of course. So tonight’s band was a four piece; Penni on guitar and singing, Fran on fiddle and singing, me on bass and guitar and singing, and Baz on drums and – yes even Baz too – sometimes singing. Bob (Penni’s husband) was there to operate the PA – we were allowed to make a loud noise and were going to take full advantage.
This is where the whole thing became a little surreal. We set up in a small open fronted marquee (familiar to us now from other medieval fairs) and below us the view was a patchwork of tents – some striped, but most plain – those of the reenactors and the stall holders. The occupants and proprietors were to be entertained by us now that they had completed their entertainment of the Public. We were next to the bar (a good place to be) with tables and chairs placed here and there, in a random and casual manner. Many of these chairs were filled with said reenactors, dressed still in their medieval garb. No armour, but plenty of coarse linen and wool, funny hats and the occasional fancily embroidered surcoat (well, just Duke Henry’s, which I get the feeling he probably wears around the house too).
We played a few lively tunes, sang a couple of songs, the sun gently set on the warm day and the audience got louder as the mead, beer and cider flowed. Oh, it was lovely cider, I wasn’t driving, so I know. Fran had never played with this line up but was doing fine – it’s a highly improvised set always so you never know what’s coming. But what came next was a little out of the ordinary, even for us. About nine men appeared dressed in drag. Not medieval drag, but dresses, hats and tights sort of drag. We carried on playing, but during a short break I had to ask – why? It turned out that one of the girls was having a hen night, and the boys had dressed up so that they could crash the hen party. Imaginative! Well, it got more raucous, and we played more tunes and songs (including me singing a soppy romantic one which they danced to, and another romantic one which Penni sang that the bride to be danced with some chap who was not her intended).
But the real anachronism was when the Gestapo turned up. Now, I’ve seen WWII planes flying over a medieval battle scene, but this is the first time that the soldiers turned up too!
It just so happens that Twinwood was the airfield that Glen Miller was based at for a while, and Glen Miller 40’s weekends are a regular occurrence. I’m not sure whether they were rehearsing or having another event nearby, but the Gestapo and British Tommy uniformed soldiers were just reenactors, like the medievalists. The music got louder (I got just a little drunker, but not so that I couldn’t play – just enough to be rather naughty verbally with my fellow band-mates), and we were asked to play something that the 40s fans could jive to. OK, we were ostensibly a folk band, but we obliged. Penni sang “I Saw Stars…” and the dancers jittered on the grass in normal clothes, uniforms and ancient costumes. The whole atmosphere was getting very lively and somehow we ended up playing “The minute you walked in the joint…” Penni sang, I played the bass, and the German soldiers and the drag queen started to strip. For the German, down to his rather large and ungainly looking underpants. The drag man down to his suspenders and bra. We ended the night playing rock and roll – Blue Suede Shoes and stuff like that. Again we didn’t know all the words, but what the hell – it was loud and mad and they loved it. We had great fun – but it does have to rate as one of the most peculiar gigs I have played in a very long time.
Home at about 1 am and Bryan is there to greet me. “How did your gig go?”.
“It was illegal. They lost their licence the day before and the Police were on TV telling everyone not to come, but they let it happen anyway.” So whilst I was playing to the Kent gentry, Bryan was playing to a very few brave souls who had ventured to this benighted festival near Newcastle. And whilst I was playing rock and roll for knights, soldiers and wannabe transvestites, Bryan was back home, drinking tea and waiting for me to come home.
I wonder what the next gig will be like? It’s a hell of a life, playing folk music.
Let me set the scene for you: It’s a sunny day in June, the English sun has fought through the early morning cloud to quickly evaporate the scant puddles left from a brief rain shower. The English countryside is enjoying a warm spell, with droughts and floods all in the same week. A fairly typical summer, I suppose.
My husband and I are both musicians, and though we play together sometimes, we are both in different bands. In fact, we play with all sorts configurations of the same and different musicians. For example, today I was deputising for Bryan and playing with Penni as he had another gig that had been moved and he couldn’t change. So at the crack of dawn this same, June summer day, he headed off to Newcastle and a music festival with his band, whilst I was set to drive to London with Penni. Penni and I were playing at an afternoon garden party, for the ‘Friends of The Red House’. No, not some obscure religious sect, but those dedicated supporters of the residence of one William Morris, designer, architect and artist – the man many feel responsible for the launch of the arts and crafts movement.
A long drive down the M11, under the now blistering sun, and into London. Well, the suburbs of Kent that may as well be London these days as the city continues its urban sprawl. We came into the small town of Bexley Heath, and down one of the quiet residential streets off the main broadway, we drove through two large white gates and into the grounds of the Red House. Early, we had plenty of time to set up, and I was given a quick tour of the house. It was – of course – red brick. Inside were many ‘Morrisy’ things – examples of his fabric, some extraordinary furniture he and his cohorts had made, and some wall paintings that reminded me of the kind of decoration seen on 16th century church walls. In the main bedroom was a window seat, and behind the door of a cupboard, upon the old plaster wall, a faded picture painted, reputedly by Lizzie Siddel. Now by coincidence I knew of this woman – the artist Rosetti’s wife and the first model to have been described as a ‘stunner’. She, as our first ‘supermodel’, was also the first to self-destruct through abuse and eventual overdose of laudanum. In that brief moment of standing in that room, I saw her at the window, looking out as if posed. An image my mind constructed, but one that even now I can recall. Of course, whilst I was enjoying the tour, Penni was unloading the car with all our gear.
We stet up in the porch, a lovely brick archway (well, it’s all brick, but there were nice tiles on the floor too and a great oak door) with a view onto the small but neat garden. Around us the ‘Friends’ were setting up small gazebos for the food, for selling plants and books, for the general comfort of the forthcoming visitors. Our immediate view was of a large well, with covered roof and wrought iron, and a bench surround. The main door was closed so that visitors would not try and stumble through us, sitting in the porch (it was barely big enough for us and our guitars). We were ready, the guests began to arrive, and a most convivial afternoon commenced.
Penni and I played a wide range of very laid, back, easy listening folk songs like ‘Molly Malone’, lots of Penni’s songs (and my own song about Lizzie Siddel), but as the average age of the audience was probably around 70, we tried a few old 40’s songs too. We only knew choruses mostly, but ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and ‘Show me the Way to go Home’ were certainly appreciated. No clapping, no cheering, but the audience enjoyed the music because it was non-invasive, pleasant and – I have to say – appropriate to the setting. During our break we enjoyed ham, beef and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, some nice fruit punch, and strawberries and cream. The property is National Trust owned and one of the volunteer guides came over and told us how he used to sing with Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger (great names of socialist folk from the 60’s). But later I heard him say ‘Kirsty McColl, she was lead singer with the Pogues’. That shattered his folk credibility completely.
We played, we finished, the afternoon was a wonderful success. A quick drive (hour and a quarter) back up the M11 and it was time to go off to the next gig. We had time for a cup of tea at my house before reloading all the gear into Penni’s car (including my stand up bass which doesn’t fit in my car) and then off to Twinwood Medieval Fair.
We have a whole series of Medieval Fair gigs, Penni and I. We did have a band to do them once, but it split, so now Penni and I do them with whatever musicians we can find. Sometimes it’s my husband, but tonight it was Fran, a fiddle player that we play with in yet another band. Oh yes, and Baz – whom I adore deeply. Only because he’s a wonderful drummer, of course. So tonight’s band was a four piece; Penni on guitar and singing, Fran on fiddle and singing, me on bass and guitar and singing, and Baz on drums and – yes even Baz too – sometimes singing. Bob (Penni’s husband) was there to operate the PA – we were allowed to make a loud noise and were going to take full advantage.
This is where the whole thing became a little surreal. We set up in a small open fronted marquee (familiar to us now from other medieval fairs) and below us the view was a patchwork of tents – some striped, but most plain – those of the reenactors and the stall holders. The occupants and proprietors were to be entertained by us now that they had completed their entertainment of the Public. We were next to the bar (a good place to be) with tables and chairs placed here and there, in a random and casual manner. Many of these chairs were filled with said reenactors, dressed still in their medieval garb. No armour, but plenty of coarse linen and wool, funny hats and the occasional fancily embroidered surcoat (well, just Duke Henry’s, which I get the feeling he probably wears around the house too).
We played a few lively tunes, sang a couple of songs, the sun gently set on the warm day and the audience got louder as the mead, beer and cider flowed. Oh, it was lovely cider, I wasn’t driving, so I know. Fran had never played with this line up but was doing fine – it’s a highly improvised set always so you never know what’s coming. But what came next was a little out of the ordinary, even for us. About nine men appeared dressed in drag. Not medieval drag, but dresses, hats and tights sort of drag. We carried on playing, but during a short break I had to ask – why? It turned out that one of the girls was having a hen night, and the boys had dressed up so that they could crash the hen party. Imaginative! Well, it got more raucous, and we played more tunes and songs (including me singing a soppy romantic one which they danced to, and another romantic one which Penni sang that the bride to be danced with some chap who was not her intended).
But the real anachronism was when the Gestapo turned up. Now, I’ve seen WWII planes flying over a medieval battle scene, but this is the first time that the soldiers turned up too!
It just so happens that Twinwood was the airfield that Glen Miller was based at for a while, and Glen Miller 40’s weekends are a regular occurrence. I’m not sure whether they were rehearsing or having another event nearby, but the Gestapo and British Tommy uniformed soldiers were just reenactors, like the medievalists. The music got louder (I got just a little drunker, but not so that I couldn’t play – just enough to be rather naughty verbally with my fellow band-mates), and we were asked to play something that the 40s fans could jive to. OK, we were ostensibly a folk band, but we obliged. Penni sang “I Saw Stars…” and the dancers jittered on the grass in normal clothes, uniforms and ancient costumes. The whole atmosphere was getting very lively and somehow we ended up playing “The minute you walked in the joint…” Penni sang, I played the bass, and the German soldiers and the drag queen started to strip. For the German, down to his rather large and ungainly looking underpants. The drag man down to his suspenders and bra. We ended the night playing rock and roll – Blue Suede Shoes and stuff like that. Again we didn’t know all the words, but what the hell – it was loud and mad and they loved it. We had great fun – but it does have to rate as one of the most peculiar gigs I have played in a very long time.
Home at about 1 am and Bryan is there to greet me. “How did your gig go?”.
“It was illegal. They lost their licence the day before and the Police were on TV telling everyone not to come, but they let it happen anyway.” So whilst I was playing to the Kent gentry, Bryan was playing to a very few brave souls who had ventured to this benighted festival near Newcastle. And whilst I was playing rock and roll for knights, soldiers and wannabe transvestites, Bryan was back home, drinking tea and waiting for me to come home.
I wonder what the next gig will be like? It’s a hell of a life, playing folk music.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Greenham Common
For those who are too young to remember, or not based in the US, Greenham Common was a US military airbase in the UK full of cruise missiles. A peace camp shut it down. More info http://www.greenham-common.org.uk/ixbin/hixclient.exe?a=file&p=greenham&f=greenham.htmBut here's the impression it made on me, visiting for the first time, aware of the history.
Gone from GreenhamT
he tents, the city built on belief.
Gone from Greenham
The silos, the harbingers of destruction.
Gone from Greenham
The song and the spirit - the hope and the glory.
Now a strong summer wind
Whips the young trees
Around new silos.
Square, imposing, cold grey silos.
The harbingers of industry.
No gods of death rule here,
The gods of money hold sway.
And on the common the lark shouts
On the common the coltsfoot clambers
The footprint forgotten
The snick of metal on metal replaced
By the creak of heather in the wind.
And the only flag flying isThe shock of yellow gorse.
All around is peace.
Gone from GreenhamT
he tents, the city built on belief.
Gone from Greenham
The silos, the harbingers of destruction.
Gone from Greenham
The song and the spirit - the hope and the glory.
Now a strong summer wind
Whips the young trees
Around new silos.
Square, imposing, cold grey silos.
The harbingers of industry.
No gods of death rule here,
The gods of money hold sway.
And on the common the lark shouts
On the common the coltsfoot clambers
The footprint forgotten
The snick of metal on metal replaced
By the creak of heather in the wind.
And the only flag flying isThe shock of yellow gorse.
All around is peace.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Throwing stones in glass houses
When I first set up my blog and wandered through others, I was appalled at those who set up their first post and then seemingly abandoned their blog... first post being last post. But here I am - having spent the first few days filling my blog with my meanderings and then I go and commit the same crime - that of neglect.
But why? Ahhh.. it is because I have been wooed by the appeal of a writers circle website. I spend ages on there now, helping others edit work, getting feedback from my own, chatting to anarchist punk rockers or Texas housewives, Candian Air Traffic controllers and a lovely writer from Ireland.
I need to put more on here - because I am safe here. No one reads this so no one comments on my grammar, or my spelling (I know I've spelt appalling wrong).
So goodnight sweet blog, and I promise not to neglect you so in weeks to come.
But why? Ahhh.. it is because I have been wooed by the appeal of a writers circle website. I spend ages on there now, helping others edit work, getting feedback from my own, chatting to anarchist punk rockers or Texas housewives, Candian Air Traffic controllers and a lovely writer from Ireland.
I need to put more on here - because I am safe here. No one reads this so no one comments on my grammar, or my spelling (I know I've spelt appalling wrong).
So goodnight sweet blog, and I promise not to neglect you so in weeks to come.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Resident - short story
Brief intro - this is true. As far as it goes. Obviously I have had to imagine what the ghost is feeling. He doesn't speak to us that much....
I stand here, and they don’t see me. I move and they do not look up. I know I am here, I don’t know why. I walk across the floor towards one of them – nothing, no response. They turn and pass straight through me. I am gutted – empty and hollow. I mean nothing, I am nothing. It is cruel.
I know time has passed. The light in the room is different. She comes in and she stops dead – looks across to where I am. Does she see me? She’s looking right at me. She speaks. She knows I am here – she senses it, but she cannot see me.
She talks to me! I hear sound, I know it is me she is speaking to. But the words are like the language of whales – their meaning lost upon me. I am saddened. Time passes again.
Now it is dark, and I am here again. I know this place and yet it is not the same. It is not as I knew it; it feels familiar and strange, comfortable and discomfiting. I see him standing. I go to him and stand next to him. He turns and is startled. His face is pale and he leaves the room, glancing back at me. Straight at me. He is gone.
I move. I am a shadow and a memory. I am here and they know me – but the light that passes through me hides me from their eyes. Their cat looks up at me. Disdaining even to hiss, it walks around me – leaving the room.
The Family
“Jeezuz!” Bryan came up to the bedroom, having finally cleared up the kitchen after our party.
“What’s up?” I said. He looked white as a sheet.
“I saw Maurice again. Standing right next to me, at the sink.” There’s not much I can say – we both know about Maurice, as we call him – he’s here and we know he’s here, but we don’t often see him. I never see him, I just kind of know when he’s around. The room is just – well, just different.
“I nearly leapt out of my skin,” says Bryan. “he was standing right next to me. He’s this tall..” he holds his hand up just above his own head height.
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Not really, he was just there.”
Nothing more to say really, this is just one more episode. Maurice is harmless enough – benign. We don’t know why he’s here, we don’t know that he’s actually Maurice, but it’s our best guess, and probably not a bad one.
Bryan is highly sceptical of things ‘unexplained’ – yet he is the one who has seen Maurice most often. He is the one whose perception of the presence is far more acute than anyone else. Other people have seen shadows, I’ve seen a passing presence from the corner of my eye. But Bryan has seen Maurice – in full.
“MUMMY!” Two girls waiting at the door for me to come home – my daughter and her friend. Tearful and distraught! Why? The plates have come crashing down in the kitchen. No reason. They just came down. Precariously balanced perhaps.
“What’s that hand by the door? My god, that’s freaky!” says my son’s friend.
“Oh, it’s just Maurice” is the casual reply. Nonchalant, accepting. Unbothered.
“Damn,” I shout, as the glass herb jar crashes to the floor. Why? Sitting on its shelf, content as a herb should be – safe and dry in its glass world. I clean up the glass. Still picking bits of plate up from the other day too. Everything smashes on this tile kitchen floor.
“I reckon its steam from the dishwasher,” says Bob, open to believing but always looking for a rational explanation. I agree, highly likely. But the dishwasher has been broken for weeks, and there is that vague distortion of the air again – that change in the fabric of perception that is so slight, yet so distinct. He likes blowing up kettles too – I’m sure of it. We’ve been through at least three.
Residual
Can I move things, if I try? Can I change the balance in the world just enough? There, if I forget I am not here and think what I would do – what I could do – then I can almost touch. Ahhh …
Time passes. I know it must. I don’t know what lies ahead or behind, or why or how. They come in and look at me, but they do not see me. I am underwater – I am deafened by space and time that wraps me like a thick fleece.
I move again. Sometimes the energy is like a voice I can hear. I can touch it – I can move it. Why am I here? Where should I be?
Conclusion
Before we bought our house, it had been empty for a while. The previous occupant had died and not been found for two weeks. I don’t know where, but I have a pretty good idea. I think its Maurice that’s still here somehow. Whether a memory or a spirit, a playback or projection – something of him, of someone anyway, is still in this house. It does not harm us, it does not un-nerve us. Sometimes it is not discreet. Sometimes I want to blame it for things that happen. Sometimes I don’t believe, sometimes I wish I did. Poor Maurice, I wonder what the truth really is? None of us will ever know.
The Cat
Cat looks up at the figure. “If only you could open tins. Bird! Hear bird – outside. Kill. ” Cat is gone. Shadows play, spirits dance, the light bends around the air like a wave around a stone.
(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard. No part of this work may be reprinted, quoted or otherwise published without the express permission of the author.
I stand here, and they don’t see me. I move and they do not look up. I know I am here, I don’t know why. I walk across the floor towards one of them – nothing, no response. They turn and pass straight through me. I am gutted – empty and hollow. I mean nothing, I am nothing. It is cruel.
I know time has passed. The light in the room is different. She comes in and she stops dead – looks across to where I am. Does she see me? She’s looking right at me. She speaks. She knows I am here – she senses it, but she cannot see me.
She talks to me! I hear sound, I know it is me she is speaking to. But the words are like the language of whales – their meaning lost upon me. I am saddened. Time passes again.
Now it is dark, and I am here again. I know this place and yet it is not the same. It is not as I knew it; it feels familiar and strange, comfortable and discomfiting. I see him standing. I go to him and stand next to him. He turns and is startled. His face is pale and he leaves the room, glancing back at me. Straight at me. He is gone.
I move. I am a shadow and a memory. I am here and they know me – but the light that passes through me hides me from their eyes. Their cat looks up at me. Disdaining even to hiss, it walks around me – leaving the room.
The Family
“Jeezuz!” Bryan came up to the bedroom, having finally cleared up the kitchen after our party.
“What’s up?” I said. He looked white as a sheet.
“I saw Maurice again. Standing right next to me, at the sink.” There’s not much I can say – we both know about Maurice, as we call him – he’s here and we know he’s here, but we don’t often see him. I never see him, I just kind of know when he’s around. The room is just – well, just different.
“I nearly leapt out of my skin,” says Bryan. “he was standing right next to me. He’s this tall..” he holds his hand up just above his own head height.
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Not really, he was just there.”
Nothing more to say really, this is just one more episode. Maurice is harmless enough – benign. We don’t know why he’s here, we don’t know that he’s actually Maurice, but it’s our best guess, and probably not a bad one.
Bryan is highly sceptical of things ‘unexplained’ – yet he is the one who has seen Maurice most often. He is the one whose perception of the presence is far more acute than anyone else. Other people have seen shadows, I’ve seen a passing presence from the corner of my eye. But Bryan has seen Maurice – in full.
“MUMMY!” Two girls waiting at the door for me to come home – my daughter and her friend. Tearful and distraught! Why? The plates have come crashing down in the kitchen. No reason. They just came down. Precariously balanced perhaps.
“What’s that hand by the door? My god, that’s freaky!” says my son’s friend.
“Oh, it’s just Maurice” is the casual reply. Nonchalant, accepting. Unbothered.
“Damn,” I shout, as the glass herb jar crashes to the floor. Why? Sitting on its shelf, content as a herb should be – safe and dry in its glass world. I clean up the glass. Still picking bits of plate up from the other day too. Everything smashes on this tile kitchen floor.
“I reckon its steam from the dishwasher,” says Bob, open to believing but always looking for a rational explanation. I agree, highly likely. But the dishwasher has been broken for weeks, and there is that vague distortion of the air again – that change in the fabric of perception that is so slight, yet so distinct. He likes blowing up kettles too – I’m sure of it. We’ve been through at least three.
Residual
Can I move things, if I try? Can I change the balance in the world just enough? There, if I forget I am not here and think what I would do – what I could do – then I can almost touch. Ahhh …
Time passes. I know it must. I don’t know what lies ahead or behind, or why or how. They come in and look at me, but they do not see me. I am underwater – I am deafened by space and time that wraps me like a thick fleece.
I move again. Sometimes the energy is like a voice I can hear. I can touch it – I can move it. Why am I here? Where should I be?
Conclusion
Before we bought our house, it had been empty for a while. The previous occupant had died and not been found for two weeks. I don’t know where, but I have a pretty good idea. I think its Maurice that’s still here somehow. Whether a memory or a spirit, a playback or projection – something of him, of someone anyway, is still in this house. It does not harm us, it does not un-nerve us. Sometimes it is not discreet. Sometimes I want to blame it for things that happen. Sometimes I don’t believe, sometimes I wish I did. Poor Maurice, I wonder what the truth really is? None of us will ever know.
The Cat
Cat looks up at the figure. “If only you could open tins. Bird! Hear bird – outside. Kill. ” Cat is gone. Shadows play, spirits dance, the light bends around the air like a wave around a stone.
(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard. No part of this work may be reprinted, quoted or otherwise published without the express permission of the author.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
My ghost story
(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard
Lying upon the large brass framed bed, which stands in the centre of the room, high and proud and unyielding, is a small child. Three years old, a girl in flannel pyjamas. The thick, comfortable mattress of horsehair did not warm her as she lay there, her rasping breath sending small white clouds into the air.
She couldn’t breathe… not easily. Breathing in her thin chest rattled and hardly rose; but breathing out was worse - a struggle, a cough, a wheeze and tears of panic came to her eyes. She could not cry out, could not catch enough of that precious air to shout for her mother and father who were downstairs, oblivious to her distress.
Clutching her candlewick bedspread close to her chin, the desolate feeling of incomprehension and abandonment only served to shorten her breath further. Stick-like arms bent sharply, she pushes her head heavily down into the striped ticking, feather filled pillow.
Feathers: deep within their rough cloth bag, sucking in dust, a safe harbour. Horsehair, flattened and ageing, clings to the years of detritus that have seeped, microscopically, into their substance. Old and cold, damp and dust-ridden, despite the layers of clean sheet, the bed exudes a musty odour. The fire has gone out. The room is chilly as the spring night dampens the world with its dew.
The house has no electricity, not like at home. Only gas light downstairs and candles upstairs – candles whose dim light is set to offer comfort to a small child who feels alone upstairs in this high old house.
She is starting to sweat in panic, thinks about getting up, going downstairs and daring to disobey the command to remain in bed and not disturb the parents. The fear of anger, the fear of touching the candle to light her way from the room, keep her still.
“Calm down child,” and a gentle hand brushes her hot forehead. She looks up, and sees, dancing in the candle’s shadows, the outline of an elderly lady. The woman, she can see, is dressed in a long brown dress, and looks at the child with kindly eyes. Eyes that are hidden, yet comforting. The lady wears her long grey hair in two tight buns. They sit on either side of her head light plaited earmuffs and their oddness makes the child smile. The child’s wheezing slows as she relaxes, no longer alone, and she turns her head on the pillow to see another lady, like the first, standing on the opposite side of the bed.
Candlelight offers brief detail. Spidery hands, blue veins, bony fingers that bear no rings but show calluses on their underside. The two women stand solicitously over the child. “Who are you?” the child asks in her innocence.
“We used to live here,” said the one who had calmed her.
“This was our house.” The child, accepting, feels no fear. She is breathing a little better now, but the loud wheeze and painful cough, are still distressing. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t feel well” the child says, at last able to confide.
“Hush now, all will be well.”
She is calmed, soothed by the gentle voices that sound soft, distant and unfamiliar in their cadence. She coughs and coughs again and sits up, feeling that her chest is so tight it is pulling her over. Her shoulders hunch and the candlewick duck adorning her bedspread distorts as she clutches it closer still to her spare frame. Her coughing gets worse, the wheezing louder and a low, mournful wail escapes in between the spasms.
Rushing hastily up the stairs, two at a time, heavy footsteps echo through the old house. Another light comes into the room, and beloved father’s face is there. The candlelight flickers as he hurries in to his child, his young daughter.
“Are you alright?” he asks of the small thing lying there, wheezing and coughing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks.
“Yes daddy, these two nice old ladies have been looking after me.”
He looks around; though the light is dim he can see they are alone.
“What ladies, sweetheart?” she sees they have gone too.
“They used to live here,” she says. He asks no more, aware that with each word the child struggles for breath.
He wraps her in his warm jumper, takes her downstairs and they all sit together by the fire, warming her, calming her, soothing her. She feels safe in her father’s arms and falls asleep. Tomorrow they will go to the doctor. Tomorrow she will learn the words and the routines that will accompany her new-found lifetime companion – asthma.
-o-
In those first days of her illness, she was too young to understand what was happening and how the dust in the room was her nemesis. Her father, Anthony was always concerned, always carrying her when she was tired, always there for her when she needed him. He would not have been cross, had she come downstairs that night, but how is a child to know?
Who was it that had cared for her that night of her first asthma attack? Who was it that had calmed her and kept her breathing steady until her father appeared? It was a question that begged answers. The house was old, and carried it’s own stories. Anthony loved the house, though it had so few conveniences. He loved the open fire, the gaslight and the great kitchen table that bore the knife marks of butchery from more than a century of farming. He loved the open fields surrounding it, the clear sound of the larks in the morning, and the high piled stacks of hay. The shout of the pheasant, the bark of the fox – these were sounds he craved and escaped from London to hear. He asked the farmer about the house and its history.
“It was always part of the farm,” he was told. “Before the current owners it was empty for a long time.” And before that, Anthony asked?
“Before that I think it was my grandfather’s sisters who lived there, two old spinsters together.”
How could a child imagine so clearly, and retell in such detail, the two women who had stood by her bed that night? How could she have known that less than a lifetime ago those two women had lived in that house, in that big farmer’s Lodge? The memory faded quickly for the child –perhaps she wanted to forget the panic of being unable to breathe – that simple action which should be so easy for us all. The asthma attack was the first of many and she spent months in hospital, her severe condition requiring treatment that, in the 1960’s, was still in its infancy. Inhalers and medicines, injections and hospital stays, the small frail child grew into a taller, equally frail child. But she slowly grew stronger and as time progressed, so did medical knowledge. Her treatments improved and so did her health. But of that night when she was three years old, she remembers nothing. Her parents provide her with the reconstructed memory of the event – and she fills in the gaps with those memories that she does hold dear. Eight years later she was still visiting the house, but she never saw anyone she did not know.
At fourteen years old her father is gone. Her mother is a widow and the world changes. But she can believe that, though there may be no life after death, there is love.
No part of this story may be reproduced or broadcast without the express permission of the author.
Thanks.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
What about the barm cakes?
Being a 'band on the road' we would often have to eat exceedingly unhealthily. I know - you'd think the tour bus chef would have prepared something wholesome and appropriate for a touring band but a) no chef and b) no tourbus. Who am I kidding? Though we photo-shopped a plane with our band logo on it once (ha! Loads of people actually thought we had our own plane!), our travel mode was usually everyone in their own car and tough if you had any troubles.
Well, we'd frequently play 'oop north' and our most frequent provender stops were - you guessed it - chip shops! On one occasion we were all headed righ the way up to Barnard Castle (love the place) so this time we did hire a mini van. It was a bit squashed with all of us and our gear, but it saved on petrol and hey - we could all listen to 'The Archers' on Radio 4 on the way up. Sorry ... did you imagine loud music from the vehicle as the band hit the road? No, since the band hit the forties (our ages), we adopted a far more cultured attitude to travel, life on the road and how we should behave in public. Now - when we'd finished our long journey (we is Southerners you know), we just had one thing in mind! Six hours on the road (it was a slow van) - we needed a NICE CUP OF TEA! Yay. No bad band boozing for us. Boo, I mean.
Chip shops in the north are wonderful! The chips taste chippier, the fish is definintely fishier and the sausages in batter - well, batterful. "Do you want a barm cake?" we were asked. Eh?! Brave K, our drummer, said yes. And he got - a buttered bread roll. Aha! So that's a barm cake then.
But chip shops across the country have more delights in store. B, being vegetarian, was the hardest to please. In Bridgewater (other end of the country completely, down South West), he just had chips. "These are fanstastic chips!" he announced to the chippy. "That's 'cos we cook them in real beef dripping." he said. Laugh? - we cried with laughter! Poor B, he didn't finish the chips.
Now in the Midlands our chip shop experience was even funnier - but it only works if you can do a really good Cannock accent (so 'coach' would sound like 'couch' and 'Barry' would sound like 'Barroi'). B asked for a "roll with no butter."
"Oi'll 'ave to ask," said the chippy, which confused us, but hey ho - we were not on home territory. The answer came back positive and whilst we munched chips and sausage and burgers and all sorts of cholesterol time bombs, B waited - and waited. Eventually his chips were served and a pink, floppy blob plonked on top. "What's that?" He said in Southern horror.
"You asked for a roe with no batter..."
Ewwwww....
My latest food escapade on musical travels was a curry at the model airplane show. There were chips there too - but somehow.. .. ..
Well, we'd frequently play 'oop north' and our most frequent provender stops were - you guessed it - chip shops! On one occasion we were all headed righ the way up to Barnard Castle (love the place) so this time we did hire a mini van. It was a bit squashed with all of us and our gear, but it saved on petrol and hey - we could all listen to 'The Archers' on Radio 4 on the way up. Sorry ... did you imagine loud music from the vehicle as the band hit the road? No, since the band hit the forties (our ages), we adopted a far more cultured attitude to travel, life on the road and how we should behave in public. Now - when we'd finished our long journey (we is Southerners you know), we just had one thing in mind! Six hours on the road (it was a slow van) - we needed a NICE CUP OF TEA! Yay. No bad band boozing for us. Boo, I mean.
Chip shops in the north are wonderful! The chips taste chippier, the fish is definintely fishier and the sausages in batter - well, batterful. "Do you want a barm cake?" we were asked. Eh?! Brave K, our drummer, said yes. And he got - a buttered bread roll. Aha! So that's a barm cake then.
But chip shops across the country have more delights in store. B, being vegetarian, was the hardest to please. In Bridgewater (other end of the country completely, down South West), he just had chips. "These are fanstastic chips!" he announced to the chippy. "That's 'cos we cook them in real beef dripping." he said. Laugh? - we cried with laughter! Poor B, he didn't finish the chips.
Now in the Midlands our chip shop experience was even funnier - but it only works if you can do a really good Cannock accent (so 'coach' would sound like 'couch' and 'Barry' would sound like 'Barroi'). B asked for a "roll with no butter."
"Oi'll 'ave to ask," said the chippy, which confused us, but hey ho - we were not on home territory. The answer came back positive and whilst we munched chips and sausage and burgers and all sorts of cholesterol time bombs, B waited - and waited. Eventually his chips were served and a pink, floppy blob plonked on top. "What's that?" He said in Southern horror.
"You asked for a roe with no batter..."
Ewwwww....
My latest food escapade on musical travels was a curry at the model airplane show. There were chips there too - but somehow.. .. ..
Monday, May 15, 2006
Dr Who monsters
I used to have Dr Who monsters in the front room. The best ones were the Mutants, looked like rather large insects with big claws. Mother (a theatrical costumier) also made the bubble creatures, lots of vacuum formed plastic over enormous frames. I never went onto a Dr Who set, but I did see the Muppets being filmed (met Raquel Welch) and loads of other things. The Dr Who stuff - I met the designers, saw the designs (we threw them away!), and knew exactly how every monster trick worked.
My house was full of monsters, masks, costumes - all sorts of theatrical and TV stuff. Being the daughter of an actor and a costumier made for an 'interesting' childhood. I spent much of it in theatres, at TV studios and learned that all the 'magic' was imaginary.
In theatres I met Placido Domingo, and watched Rudolf Nuriyev dance. I was, in many ways, very lucky to have this extraordinary artistic upbringing. In other ways - it was not so good. But hey, I've got some stories to tell out of it all.
I have a photo of my aunt and my mother dressed as flies - and also my aunt as a Robin (a suit which was later worn by Eric Morcambe, a famous - and now dead - British comedian). Mum used to make plaster casts of different features for full facial masks (such as Patrick McNee for the Many Faces of Steed), imaginary creatures (she'd create the face/monster desired out of clay first), to single features ... for many years we had a plaster cast of Marty Feldman's nose.
I remember my mum's work stuff all over the house - large sheets of foam rubber, tubs of latex, pins everywhere (my mother still sheds pins like a dog does hair), and sequins on just about everything. She also used to work on children's productions of David Wood stories, like the Gingerbread Man and the Owl and the Pussycat. I remember on a day off from school having to take a train down to Basildon because she'd forgotten the Cuckoo's beak and glasses. I also remember a large plum pudding costume made with wicker sticks forming an enormous frame and then covered in sparkly purplish material - the sort that would make you a very nice evening dress, but not in that shape.
I need to interview mum and get some of her stories down, not just for posterity, but for entertainment.
My house was full of monsters, masks, costumes - all sorts of theatrical and TV stuff. Being the daughter of an actor and a costumier made for an 'interesting' childhood. I spent much of it in theatres, at TV studios and learned that all the 'magic' was imaginary.
In theatres I met Placido Domingo, and watched Rudolf Nuriyev dance. I was, in many ways, very lucky to have this extraordinary artistic upbringing. In other ways - it was not so good. But hey, I've got some stories to tell out of it all.
I have a photo of my aunt and my mother dressed as flies - and also my aunt as a Robin (a suit which was later worn by Eric Morcambe, a famous - and now dead - British comedian). Mum used to make plaster casts of different features for full facial masks (such as Patrick McNee for the Many Faces of Steed), imaginary creatures (she'd create the face/monster desired out of clay first), to single features ... for many years we had a plaster cast of Marty Feldman's nose.
I remember my mum's work stuff all over the house - large sheets of foam rubber, tubs of latex, pins everywhere (my mother still sheds pins like a dog does hair), and sequins on just about everything. She also used to work on children's productions of David Wood stories, like the Gingerbread Man and the Owl and the Pussycat. I remember on a day off from school having to take a train down to Basildon because she'd forgotten the Cuckoo's beak and glasses. I also remember a large plum pudding costume made with wicker sticks forming an enormous frame and then covered in sparkly purplish material - the sort that would make you a very nice evening dress, but not in that shape.
I need to interview mum and get some of her stories down, not just for posterity, but for entertainment.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
A drake's Tale - a very short story
Drake sat in the rain. He felt low and dejected. He felt as if all the progress he’d made was wasted – a pointless effort. No matter how hard he tried, he just seemed to end up back where he started.
He looked up at the dull English sky and shook himself. “Time for a change,” he thought. What may have been a sigh whispered into the air. A light breeze was picking up but he forged on, never quite defeated no matter how hard his trials became.
The rain set the trees to shivering, and the drops they shed plashed into the rushing waters. “Why,” Drake thought to himself, “do humans actually think ducks love the rain?” And he paddled on, upstream, to the shelter of the reeds.
He looked up at the dull English sky and shook himself. “Time for a change,” he thought. What may have been a sigh whispered into the air. A light breeze was picking up but he forged on, never quite defeated no matter how hard his trials became.
The rain set the trees to shivering, and the drops they shed plashed into the rushing waters. “Why,” Drake thought to himself, “do humans actually think ducks love the rain?” And he paddled on, upstream, to the shelter of the reeds.
Writers circle
I have found a wonderful form - mywriterscircle.com - full of people who love to write and who offer support and advice, and ask it too. All round the world we exist - the great unpublished (great being the collective noun, rather than the descriptive). Writing is addictive - I need to write to express all sorts of things I find. Emotion, especially, is an excellent thing to express in the written form. An inspiration - just what I needed to get me writing properly again. Yeeha!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Leading questions
Phew! Got out of work and went straight to pick daughter up from horseriding. Dropped her home and then straight to the school to do my Parent/Teachers chair bit. Why do I do this to myself?
The answers are not as simple as 'I want to help the school' or 'to meet other parents' - I can do those in lots of ways. One of the things I want to do is test my leadership skills.
I am having coaching at work about leadership - it's the stumbling block I think that stops me progressing from being a marketing generalist to being a director. Well, partly.
But leadership - a question to ponder. Do I lead already? Well, yes. I lead my own little team at work (in an ad hoc sort of way - they do not work for me directly) and I lead at the PTA, and I sort of lead in the band sometimes. Not the one I'm in with B so much - he's too much of a control freak to let me 'lead' - but I will take the lead if he lets it loose (sometimes he does just to see what happens - is it ego? is it a genuine reluctance to always be controlling things? who knows! he probably doesn't himself).
I know I can lead - I have the inclination and the ability - but it's the opportunity. When it's there I don't always take it. Sometimes I take it when I shouldn't. How on earth do you learn 'the right time'? Practice I guess. I'm good at realising that was the 'wrong thing to do/say' after the event, but not so good at knowing beforehand when to keep my mouth shut.
Ah well - maybe that's why working solo as a musician is fun - I've only myself to blame, to take to task and to share in any glory. Hmmm... but I'm a team player at heart. I don't like working on my own particularly.
Leadership - my boss goes on about being 'authentic' - and my natural authentic self is a bit light-hearted and has a bad sense of humour, but cares about other people and is good at seeing all sides of an argument whilst quite happy to fight for my own point of view where I believe in it strongly enough. But being 'me' doesn't seem to work - there's an insecurity I guess that makes me think something but not say it in case I get shot down, and a naievity that means I open my mouth and out hops the funny play on words before I think about how I then seem to other people.
Why would people want to follow me? That's another question my boss asks - tells us we should ask. Hmm. One to ponder.
There's loads of stuff on leadership and every week new research, new ideas, new theories and models. But it's about how you feel inside and then acting according to your true values. Oh dear, am I destined to be the comedian, not the straight man? I have to work on it - balance my natural inclination to humour with my ambition to progress and to lead and manage other people. What a challenge. Now, how about the ironing...
The answers are not as simple as 'I want to help the school' or 'to meet other parents' - I can do those in lots of ways. One of the things I want to do is test my leadership skills.
I am having coaching at work about leadership - it's the stumbling block I think that stops me progressing from being a marketing generalist to being a director. Well, partly.
But leadership - a question to ponder. Do I lead already? Well, yes. I lead my own little team at work (in an ad hoc sort of way - they do not work for me directly) and I lead at the PTA, and I sort of lead in the band sometimes. Not the one I'm in with B so much - he's too much of a control freak to let me 'lead' - but I will take the lead if he lets it loose (sometimes he does just to see what happens - is it ego? is it a genuine reluctance to always be controlling things? who knows! he probably doesn't himself).
I know I can lead - I have the inclination and the ability - but it's the opportunity. When it's there I don't always take it. Sometimes I take it when I shouldn't. How on earth do you learn 'the right time'? Practice I guess. I'm good at realising that was the 'wrong thing to do/say' after the event, but not so good at knowing beforehand when to keep my mouth shut.
Ah well - maybe that's why working solo as a musician is fun - I've only myself to blame, to take to task and to share in any glory. Hmmm... but I'm a team player at heart. I don't like working on my own particularly.
Leadership - my boss goes on about being 'authentic' - and my natural authentic self is a bit light-hearted and has a bad sense of humour, but cares about other people and is good at seeing all sides of an argument whilst quite happy to fight for my own point of view where I believe in it strongly enough. But being 'me' doesn't seem to work - there's an insecurity I guess that makes me think something but not say it in case I get shot down, and a naievity that means I open my mouth and out hops the funny play on words before I think about how I then seem to other people.
Why would people want to follow me? That's another question my boss asks - tells us we should ask. Hmm. One to ponder.
There's loads of stuff on leadership and every week new research, new ideas, new theories and models. But it's about how you feel inside and then acting according to your true values. Oh dear, am I destined to be the comedian, not the straight man? I have to work on it - balance my natural inclination to humour with my ambition to progress and to lead and manage other people. What a challenge. Now, how about the ironing...
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