Dear children,
This Sunday we are having a barbecue. Sandy is coming and you would all be most welcome. You know how she loves you all. It has been a while since she visited. It is promising to be a beautiful day and may be the last sun we have this year. We probably won't barbecue again till next summer. Wouldn't it be lovely to all enjoy that together?
On 12th it is Great Aunt Ethel's 80th birthday. She is celebrating with lunch at The Grand on the strand in Eastbourne. We have all been invited. Obviously, 80 is a grand old age and, since she doesn't have any children of her own, I'm sure she'd be thrilled to see all of you and yours. It would also be a great opportunity for you to catch up with your relatives on Daddy's side (some of them are really quite nice). Numbers are limited, so perhaps you could let me know at your earliest convenience?
We have been invited to a Champagne and strawberry buffet by the Echo. We can bring the whole family and they are laying on food and drink all day. (Your father and I get in for free. You would have to pay £10 per car, but everything after that is gratis).
If any or all of you would be interested in any of those dates, do just let me know. It would be lovely to see you, if you can manage it. It seems such a long time since we were all together, but of course there is no pressure.
Your ever-lovin'
Mamma
XXXXXXXXXXX
Sunday 21 September 2008
Tuesday 16 September 2008
Spanish Song
Every so often, a few gentle notes drifted softly over the vine-smothered wall. The music was not loud enough to disturb, but just sufficient to enhance the evening's ambience in the walled garden of the restaurant. The low murmur of lovers' talk, the chink of cutlery on china and of glass against glass, the flicker of candlelight protected from the balmiest of breezes by goblet-shaped lanterns, and the tiniest pin-pricks of fairy lights twinkling prettily through the garden foliage. It was an idyll. A clandestine paradise.
Ambling down the cobbled street, colourful lines of laundry stretching from one side to the other high above passing walkers, you would never have divined its existence. Only those in the know - learned by word of mouth, friendship with the proprietors, or happy accident - had the secret understanding that this old, studded wooden door, which to the uninitiated appeared to be just a door in a wall like any other, with its unassuming little copper bell, led to the delights of the best garden restaurant in all Granada. From the intimate tables were visible the lights of the Alhambra Palace. As you sipped your Marques de Caceres and contemplated the treasures tonight's menu had to offer, drank deeply of the vision seated at your table with you, you might gaze for further inspiration in the direction of its ancient walls. Your thoughts might even travel to the lives it had held, the opulence it had witnessed and the beauty it still possesses.
I don't know if I'd ever find it again. But I'd happily die in the attempt.
Ambling down the cobbled street, colourful lines of laundry stretching from one side to the other high above passing walkers, you would never have divined its existence. Only those in the know - learned by word of mouth, friendship with the proprietors, or happy accident - had the secret understanding that this old, studded wooden door, which to the uninitiated appeared to be just a door in a wall like any other, with its unassuming little copper bell, led to the delights of the best garden restaurant in all Granada. From the intimate tables were visible the lights of the Alhambra Palace. As you sipped your Marques de Caceres and contemplated the treasures tonight's menu had to offer, drank deeply of the vision seated at your table with you, you might gaze for further inspiration in the direction of its ancient walls. Your thoughts might even travel to the lives it had held, the opulence it had witnessed and the beauty it still possesses.
I don't know if I'd ever find it again. But I'd happily die in the attempt.
Sunday 14 September 2008
Western Frivolity
Tumbleweed.
Tumbleweed, a howling wind carrying choking dust and the sun descending behind the only bar in this godforsaken town.
A cowboy, a sheriff maybe, his boots so pointed the toes have never kissed the ground; legs akimbo, hands on his gun-belt, cheroot between his teeth.
Eyes narrowed to mere slits, periodically he spits to the side without looking to see what he's hit. Casually, he wipes his chin with the sleeve of his seersucker shirt and his hand resumes its position, millimetres from his gun.
He's waiting. Watching. Expectant. Alert.
The sky is about to crash down around him. He knows it, I know it. Whoever he is anticipating is going to be the meanest hell-raiser in all Christendom. Not just a bad dude: a baby-eater. A dog-shooter. A wife-beater. As a kid, he cut the legs off frogs because he was bored.
What would happen, though, if instead of this show-down - this all guns blazing, shoot 'em up, hang 'em high - a stagecoach full of chorus girls thundered around the corner?
Would the sun grind to a creaking halt on its chain and begin a re-ascent? The tumbleweed check its progress? The wind cease to howl? Would the band, resting on its laurels for the explosions of gun-fire, tune up and begin a natty little two-step while girls of all shapes and sizes, colours and costumes alighted from the coach giggling and chatting, rehearsing for the knees-up?
Would that be so bad?
What is a happy ending?
Tumbleweed, a howling wind carrying choking dust and the sun descending behind the only bar in this godforsaken town.
A cowboy, a sheriff maybe, his boots so pointed the toes have never kissed the ground; legs akimbo, hands on his gun-belt, cheroot between his teeth.
Eyes narrowed to mere slits, periodically he spits to the side without looking to see what he's hit. Casually, he wipes his chin with the sleeve of his seersucker shirt and his hand resumes its position, millimetres from his gun.
He's waiting. Watching. Expectant. Alert.
The sky is about to crash down around him. He knows it, I know it. Whoever he is anticipating is going to be the meanest hell-raiser in all Christendom. Not just a bad dude: a baby-eater. A dog-shooter. A wife-beater. As a kid, he cut the legs off frogs because he was bored.
What would happen, though, if instead of this show-down - this all guns blazing, shoot 'em up, hang 'em high - a stagecoach full of chorus girls thundered around the corner?
Would the sun grind to a creaking halt on its chain and begin a re-ascent? The tumbleweed check its progress? The wind cease to howl? Would the band, resting on its laurels for the explosions of gun-fire, tune up and begin a natty little two-step while girls of all shapes and sizes, colours and costumes alighted from the coach giggling and chatting, rehearsing for the knees-up?
Would that be so bad?
What is a happy ending?
Thursday 11 September 2008
Cretan Adventure
The battered, mustard-yellow Citroen Pony stood lonely in the corner of the plot. With the thickest of accents, the swarthy rentals clerk was explaining that it was holiday season, "no car left - yust one". My father turned to my mother, a look of helpless resignation smeared across his face. He lifted his hands outwards, palms up, in a gesture that mirrored his impotence.
"What do you think, darling?"
"If we are going to go anywhere, do anything, not be stuck in this deserted little cove, then what choice do we have?"
Personally, I loved that deserted little cove. It was dark and volcanic; the brilliance of the sand white-gold dust. I could have stayed there happily, exploring, every day of the holiday. But it wasn't about me or my tomboy ways. My mother wasn't one for beach-lingering. She wanted to be up and at 'em, filling our heads with the wonders of the world. Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like it at that tender age, nor would I ever have admitted it. Not for all the ice cream Ben & Jerry make.
So, the Citroen Pony was ours for the week. It was open, boxy, shaped like a jeep and had a canvas roof that fastened onto the sides with poppers. We didn't bother with the roof; didn't have to. The sun shone relentlessly and we piled in, our family of seven: parents in the front, three kids in the middle and two on box seats in the boot.
We visited beaches over the mountain on the other side of the island, reached by winding, narrow roads, with death-defying drop-aways and dotted with shrines to those who had lost their lives in the endeavour. Every so often, a coach laden with holiday-makers would career around the corner on the wrong side of the road and my father make the sign of the cross and grip the steering wheel harder. My mother clasped her handbag and breathed in, as though that would make the car thinner.
We visited Knossos to search for the Minotaur and marvel at the reconstructed palace. At least, we children hunted the Minotaur. My parents marvelled while we dragged our feet in the chalky white dried-out earth and chased lizards over the walls. It was calm, balmy, beautiful.
Returning from one of these adventures, snaking round the shrunken roads, my little brother piped up in his most plaintive voice:
"I need to do a wee!"
"Darling, you're a boy. You have the equipment. We're not stopping here: it's too dangerous. You'll have to do one over the side of the car."
Horror.
"I can't wee while we're driving along!"
At this point, my father saw fit to interject:
"If another of those coaches comes around this next bend, I very well might!"
"What do you think, darling?"
"If we are going to go anywhere, do anything, not be stuck in this deserted little cove, then what choice do we have?"
Personally, I loved that deserted little cove. It was dark and volcanic; the brilliance of the sand white-gold dust. I could have stayed there happily, exploring, every day of the holiday. But it wasn't about me or my tomboy ways. My mother wasn't one for beach-lingering. She wanted to be up and at 'em, filling our heads with the wonders of the world. Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like it at that tender age, nor would I ever have admitted it. Not for all the ice cream Ben & Jerry make.
So, the Citroen Pony was ours for the week. It was open, boxy, shaped like a jeep and had a canvas roof that fastened onto the sides with poppers. We didn't bother with the roof; didn't have to. The sun shone relentlessly and we piled in, our family of seven: parents in the front, three kids in the middle and two on box seats in the boot.
We visited beaches over the mountain on the other side of the island, reached by winding, narrow roads, with death-defying drop-aways and dotted with shrines to those who had lost their lives in the endeavour. Every so often, a coach laden with holiday-makers would career around the corner on the wrong side of the road and my father make the sign of the cross and grip the steering wheel harder. My mother clasped her handbag and breathed in, as though that would make the car thinner.
We visited Knossos to search for the Minotaur and marvel at the reconstructed palace. At least, we children hunted the Minotaur. My parents marvelled while we dragged our feet in the chalky white dried-out earth and chased lizards over the walls. It was calm, balmy, beautiful.
Returning from one of these adventures, snaking round the shrunken roads, my little brother piped up in his most plaintive voice:
"I need to do a wee!"
"Darling, you're a boy. You have the equipment. We're not stopping here: it's too dangerous. You'll have to do one over the side of the car."
Horror.
"I can't wee while we're driving along!"
At this point, my father saw fit to interject:
"If another of those coaches comes around this next bend, I very well might!"
Monday 8 September 2008
Fruitful Dunes
The breeze was gentle, but insistent. It whipped at her hair with playful, random strokes and, occasionally, peppered her face with a fine dusting of sand. She squinted a little against such invasion but did not once drop her gaze. She looked out to sea, searching. What for, not even she could fathom, but her probing was unrelenting, unflinching.
She stayed that way for an hour, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning, all significance. The book in her hand remained unread, her mind oblivious to even its own meanderings. But it was travelling! It carried her on its back, an eagle, soaring over as yet unvisited lands; dipping over fish-glittered oceans. It took her, ghost-like, into homes of mossy warmth, kitchens hanging with dried flowers and herbs; potions bubbling on stove-tops; to intimate tables with wine-laden glasses; mirth and magic and adoration. It led her, her own sweet guide, to meetings of minds, evenings of contented nothings, smiles passed tenderly over tasks at hand.
She walked slowly away, transfigured; her life inextricably altered. Nothing would again be the same. But with that very realisation came the delicate appreciation that it was what it was, and thus it should be.
She stayed that way for an hour, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning, all significance. The book in her hand remained unread, her mind oblivious to even its own meanderings. But it was travelling! It carried her on its back, an eagle, soaring over as yet unvisited lands; dipping over fish-glittered oceans. It took her, ghost-like, into homes of mossy warmth, kitchens hanging with dried flowers and herbs; potions bubbling on stove-tops; to intimate tables with wine-laden glasses; mirth and magic and adoration. It led her, her own sweet guide, to meetings of minds, evenings of contented nothings, smiles passed tenderly over tasks at hand.
She walked slowly away, transfigured; her life inextricably altered. Nothing would again be the same. But with that very realisation came the delicate appreciation that it was what it was, and thus it should be.
Friday 5 September 2008
Lancelot
He fought in vain to banish her from mind.
No battle won had called for such endeavour.
And she, his love within her heart entwined,
Safe-guarded, held, protected, stored forever.
No battle won had called for such endeavour.
And she, his love within her heart entwined,
Safe-guarded, held, protected, stored forever.
They stole their passion: moments undefined;
Her king and lord too trusting, too enamoured.
His loyal servant on his lady dined;
And for her troth, her promise, yet he clamoured.
It could not last: the peril ever loomed.
Discovered: treason! From the kingdom banished.
He bore his life from her to meet his doom.
Her soul enmeshed with his, together vanished.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Savile Row
In one smooth move, he flicked his wrists and shot his cuffs - pink, bejewelled cuffs - the cufflinks alone worth as much as his entire outfit. The pin-striped suit flashy, the Thomas Pink shirt an eye-grasping cerise, the tie impeccably knotted, the shoes Lobb's finest. He stepped off the train with an air of minutely studied nonchalance. Not a hair unstyled, not a thread misplaced. His teeth were pearlier than white and his skin the colour of cheap old pine. Even his eyebrows were groomed to perfection.
Strolling past a group of office girls giggling, smoking and bursting with the previous night's gossip on the corner outside the station, almost imperceptibly he seemed to grow an inch, suck in his stomach, push out his chest, compose his features. His head struck a jauntier angle, his smile fixed in a fairly miserable attempt at seductive. Even the man-bag slung casually over his shoulder exuded affluence and attention to detail. He was a creative masterpiece, sculpted to the exact mould, perfected hour after hour, day after day, many a long year after many a long year.
His roots were humble; his determination to rise above them gritty, steely, already achieved. Seldom, to his parents' obvious distress, revisited. He was recreated, reborn, removed. It caused him as much pain to remember; he ached for the capacity to forget. An only child, there was little to tempt him out of the City, little to remind him of his provenance, as long as he could hold his memories in check.
Each and every microscopic facet of transformation dreamt of throughout his battle for adulthood had been realised: the penthouse flat, the Savile Row wardrobe, the Aston Martin (for fine weekends).
Why, then, was life so empty? He had become a parody. At home, where he could not bear to linger, he was what he so yearned to be: a success, a king amongst men. Here, where he felt he ought to belong, he was just another clone. The veneer had become the man.
No sign of life.
Who can love a shell?
Strolling past a group of office girls giggling, smoking and bursting with the previous night's gossip on the corner outside the station, almost imperceptibly he seemed to grow an inch, suck in his stomach, push out his chest, compose his features. His head struck a jauntier angle, his smile fixed in a fairly miserable attempt at seductive. Even the man-bag slung casually over his shoulder exuded affluence and attention to detail. He was a creative masterpiece, sculpted to the exact mould, perfected hour after hour, day after day, many a long year after many a long year.
His roots were humble; his determination to rise above them gritty, steely, already achieved. Seldom, to his parents' obvious distress, revisited. He was recreated, reborn, removed. It caused him as much pain to remember; he ached for the capacity to forget. An only child, there was little to tempt him out of the City, little to remind him of his provenance, as long as he could hold his memories in check.
Each and every microscopic facet of transformation dreamt of throughout his battle for adulthood had been realised: the penthouse flat, the Savile Row wardrobe, the Aston Martin (for fine weekends).
Why, then, was life so empty? He had become a parody. At home, where he could not bear to linger, he was what he so yearned to be: a success, a king amongst men. Here, where he felt he ought to belong, he was just another clone. The veneer had become the man.
No sign of life.
Who can love a shell?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
