...I may have mentioned this before, but whereas you will find me a great fan of gardens per se - places in which to sit at ease on a fine summer's day (though not this dank year clearly), pondering the wonder of creation and the perfidy of the created [see previous], armed only with a largish Pimms and a languid mien while one simply is not does - the act of gardening itself has no personal appeal in the slightest.
Sadly, of course, if one has the one - a necessary prerequisite indeed for being at ease in one, one not being able totally to relax in another's ("More tea Vicar" is not a myth I can avow!) - yet lacks the spare change of upwards of a couple of hundred a month to employ some local ferret of a fellow to lean heavily on a hoe whilst not quite managing more than the odd swipe at a weed per hour, despite - or perhaps because - said ferrety fellow is paid more than handsomely by that very same hour - one is forced to defend against ever-threatening chaos (a good working definition of a garden for sure) by deploying any spare time a-hacking and a-hoeing oneself until the back is bowed, the spirit fails and a good lie down the only salve.
This summer having been as frantic as it has been wet, opportunities between monsoon-esque downpours to leg it into the menacing jungle that is our portion of Eden, with weapons of mass destruction to hand for culling the unwanted growth - which is all one really ever contributes - have been few. Too few by far in fact, for though one can give thanks and praise for not having to buckle down this particular freeish yet sodden day to a-mowing or a-chopping, 'tis but a short-term gain for a long term loss.
The Psalmist may have the view that leaves, as grass, will wither in the wind, etc., all by themselves; but clearly King David was too burdened with outdoor servants ever to have noticed the extended human effort required to assist natural forces of entropy. Nor indeed can one attempt the noble Quentin Crisp line on indoor detritus ("Leave the dust for five years and it will get no worse").
That was tried with the hedge for some six years, but the wretched thing kept on growing, refusing rankly to comply with the lawful command of homeostasis and reach some optimum size and no more. Eventually the whole thing was curved over like some great green surfing wave - quite picturesque in its way perhaps but earning an episcopal rebuke for some strange yet of course compelling reason.
Anyway, Canon Pewter was over for the weekend and bless the old salt entirely volunteered to take all Church jankers for the duration, despite being officially retired. "Like to keep the brain ticking over," he offered as an excuse. A worthy and a fine sentiment - not to mention most welcome - though am not sure that in his particular case there might not be rather too much tock these days and not quite the needed balancing amount of tick, for Mildred simply had to pop round after the Morning Service to enquire whether we had gone completely over to Rome just yet, and on being asked by H why the question replied that she [Mildred] had had to assume we must have done, as why else permit a pure priest of a fellow to say the full Tridentine Mass before the assembled and impressed if stunned flock for whom Latin of any kind is a closed book and a cause for some fright.
Ah! A bit tricky that one and deserving of a fulsome answer. Mercifully though I was not in the required position to give it to the difficult satisfaction of Mildred as, Pewter in charge, I had been dispatched to the farthest vast clump of long-neglected wilderness that was our back rockery to get stuck in - by H of course, who positively insisted at breakfast that this must be so; who lurked even over the Sunday sausages with shears in hand as if to make sure there could be no mistaking her meaning or her intention. (When ever was there thus!)
Blowed then if I was to return from this arduous exile merely to be harangued by Mildred. Weeds may not be good company, but they do have the singular vantage - shared by the entire vegetative world - of soulful silence, most quite unlike Mildred when fully bent on an extended rant.
H having imposed thus on me, H could jolly well come up with some satisfactory rationale for Canon Pewter's liturgical anomaly. As and when - or perhaps more fittingly if and when - the garden is returned to its pre-lapsarian pristine condition I will venture in to ask her [H] what excuse she gave, and then later check with Pewter what on earth or by Heaven he thought he was doing!
But first this next weed. A good long lean on the hoe required first for this beauty I can tell!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Vermin...
From the BBC tonight:
Man admits urinating on ill woman
A Hartlepool man is facing jail after he urinated on a disabled woman who lay dying in the street. The 27-year-old shouted "this is YouTube material" as he degraded Christine Lakinski, 50, who had fallen ill, magistrates heard.
Miss Lakinski, who suffered a number of medical conditions, died from natural causes, an inquest found.
Anthony Anderson, of Raby Road, who admitted outraging public decency, will be sentenced at Teesside Crown Court.
Hartlepool magistrates heard how, on 27 July, Miss Lakinski was making her way home with a box of laminate flooring when she fell ill and stumbled into a doorway.
Anderson had smoked a cannabis joint and been drinking when he and two friends spotted her.
He tried to rouse her by throwing a bucket of water over her, before urinating on her and covering her with shaving foam. The incident was filmed on a mobile phone.
She was later declared dead at the scene, the cause of death being given as pancreatic failure.
Lynne Dalton, prosecuting, said: "Although his actions did not contribute to her death it was appalling behaviour that robbed her of any dignity in the last hours of her life."
She urged magistrates to transfer the case to crown court for sentencing, claiming their maximum powers were insufficient.
Anderson's solicitor did not oppose the application and his client will be sentenced at Teesside Crown Court on 22 October.
After Wednesday's hearing, Miss Lakinski's brother, Mark, said: "We will await the outcome and just hope he gets what he deserves."
...What he deserves indeed. It does make me think of those wonderful medieval Doom paintings in Churches, vividly reminding sinners what eternity of vile punishment they would face in Hell if they did not repent.
Also too, the perfectly proper Hebraic motto of tooth for a tooth or eye for eye: let the punishment fit the crime. Inmates of whatever prison this vermin is sent to please note.
Oh, and also the person who filmed all this on his mobile phone. Let him too suffer in the same way.
Man admits urinating on ill woman
A Hartlepool man is facing jail after he urinated on a disabled woman who lay dying in the street. The 27-year-old shouted "this is YouTube material" as he degraded Christine Lakinski, 50, who had fallen ill, magistrates heard.
Miss Lakinski, who suffered a number of medical conditions, died from natural causes, an inquest found.
Anthony Anderson, of Raby Road, who admitted outraging public decency, will be sentenced at Teesside Crown Court.
Hartlepool magistrates heard how, on 27 July, Miss Lakinski was making her way home with a box of laminate flooring when she fell ill and stumbled into a doorway.
Anderson had smoked a cannabis joint and been drinking when he and two friends spotted her.
He tried to rouse her by throwing a bucket of water over her, before urinating on her and covering her with shaving foam. The incident was filmed on a mobile phone.
She was later declared dead at the scene, the cause of death being given as pancreatic failure.
Lynne Dalton, prosecuting, said: "Although his actions did not contribute to her death it was appalling behaviour that robbed her of any dignity in the last hours of her life."
She urged magistrates to transfer the case to crown court for sentencing, claiming their maximum powers were insufficient.
Anderson's solicitor did not oppose the application and his client will be sentenced at Teesside Crown Court on 22 October.
After Wednesday's hearing, Miss Lakinski's brother, Mark, said: "We will await the outcome and just hope he gets what he deserves."
...What he deserves indeed. It does make me think of those wonderful medieval Doom paintings in Churches, vividly reminding sinners what eternity of vile punishment they would face in Hell if they did not repent.
Also too, the perfectly proper Hebraic motto of tooth for a tooth or eye for eye: let the punishment fit the crime. Inmates of whatever prison this vermin is sent to please note.
Oh, and also the person who filmed all this on his mobile phone. Let him too suffer in the same way.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Our Lady of the Gates of Grace....
...It was quite humbling to hear, the other week, that dear Maurice was shortly to be taking himself off on pilgrimage. Never really saw him as the type. The annual Parish trip for a day's retreat at our neighbouring Priory perhaps, but not an extended hike to some further place of sanctity involving tiresome travel and uncertain beds. Not his thing at all, I would have said, if asked.
But then I wasn't asked, I was told. Mildred had telephoned apologise for and to explain her husband's irresistible absence from last weekend's monthly Finance Committee meeting. A thing near miraculous in itself that the old buzzard would turn down the chance of attending one such spielfest, for put 'Finance' and 'Committee' into a single sentence and usually you would have the fellow positively salivating with glee - the effect not dissimilar to my own fondness for the coupling of the words 'Nicole' and 'Kidman'. (Ah dear lady!)
"Pilgrimage!" I exclaimed in awe. "Yes Rector. It's his weekend for Lourdes. Does it every year. Good for him I think to keep in touch, don't you think? His playing days are long gone and the subscriptions are getting a bit steep on our pensions, but when he walks through them gates of Grace I know he's smiling inside and out."
Fair bit puzzled by all that I had to admit. Didn't realise that you had to stump up a regular payment of any material kind, prayer being all needed to maintain the connection to the place in my book. As for the playing of it - that left me for dead. (The 'gates of grace' motif though was touching. Must use the image in one's next homily.)
But best not to press in such circs. So I didn't. The Finance Committee came and went, and, it must be said, 'twas all the more tedious for lack of Maurice's usual spirited challenges to the chair over some arcane audit procedure or motion to dismiss various - and seemingly sometimes random - committee members for flagrant, if invisible to all but Maurice, rule violations.
And so then spotting the old man this morning I had to ask "How was Lourdes then?"
"Pretty dull the first day - bit of a procession if you ask me, which you just did - but perked up no end on the second. I love the amateur game though don't you? Bring two villages together, give them their one day of glory and watch them play with a passion to shame the pros."
One had to reel, it made so little sense. Now 'procession' I could grasp, one has seen the very moving photos of crowds of the sick and their helpers wending their way to the salving waters. So why that should be seen as clearly not a good thing was beyond me. And as for the rest, I'm sorry I hadn't a clue.
Not wanting though to be found wanting, as it were, I fought for anything else to say, coming up somewhat lamely with "Must take you a deuced while to get there."
"Not at all these days Rector. You'd be amazed. Bus to N, fast train to Town, then a short hop on the Tube and I'm there in under three hours."
Now I may be too long hidden in the rural depths to know much about modern international travel, but even I know that the London Underground does not yet - nor ever likely should - stretch as far as la belle France.
Said so indeed, then wished at once I hadn't. Old Maurice gave me the kind of withering yet pitiful look usually reserved for the poor fool who had tried to last the year as Parish Treasurer without his - Maurice's - backing or support. Happened twice in living memory and on both occasions the respective poor fools failed miserably: the one ending up with a two-stretch for fraud (it was just a technicality, nothing malicious - just very true that there was some serious money missing come Lammas Day) and the other who chose to emigrate rather than face the public's rank opprobrium.
"Since when is St. John's Wood in France then Rector?" thrust Maurice in my very face.
It was then that the the penny dropped and the light shone bright once more. For yes surely this could be the one, true answer. That single tablet of LSD one had taken as a student had indeed - as forewarned it might - so deep-fried the brain that all since had been a continuous, fallacious hallucination. I was not Rector of my own Parish, but a mental patient in some asylum for whom the nurses have long since given up any hope of recovery.
But even hallucinations must be answered, especially the ones positively rocking with mocking laughter in one's - imaginary - High Street, with a throng of cheeky neighbours - dream creatures all for sure but irksome for all that - beginning to gather round.
"I may not have been the sharpest blade in the seminary kitchen drawer," I replied thus most haughtily, "But I can assure you that dear Bernadette Soubirous was never spotted anywhere near North London! So how can your journey to Lourdes have taken you there! Tell me that!"
"Lord's Rector, not Lourdes!", was the howling-with-glee response. "Did you think I were at Lourdes? Ah wait 'til Mildred hears this. She'll be splitting herself."
Oh how we all laughed. All but myself that is.
'Hail Mary,' one silently intoned, 'Full of grace, get me out of this fix please!'
Graceful as ever She is, at once Maurice desisted in his mockery. "Come and have a beer Rector, you looks like you need one, and I'll tell you all about MCC and me. Greatest place in the world - you wait twenty years to get in then are rewarded with some of the hardest seats in Christendom, and most of the worst portraiture in the Western world under one roof. Makes you proud to be British!"
But then I wasn't asked, I was told. Mildred had telephoned apologise for and to explain her husband's irresistible absence from last weekend's monthly Finance Committee meeting. A thing near miraculous in itself that the old buzzard would turn down the chance of attending one such spielfest, for put 'Finance' and 'Committee' into a single sentence and usually you would have the fellow positively salivating with glee - the effect not dissimilar to my own fondness for the coupling of the words 'Nicole' and 'Kidman'. (Ah dear lady!)
"Pilgrimage!" I exclaimed in awe. "Yes Rector. It's his weekend for Lourdes. Does it every year. Good for him I think to keep in touch, don't you think? His playing days are long gone and the subscriptions are getting a bit steep on our pensions, but when he walks through them gates of Grace I know he's smiling inside and out."
Fair bit puzzled by all that I had to admit. Didn't realise that you had to stump up a regular payment of any material kind, prayer being all needed to maintain the connection to the place in my book. As for the playing of it - that left me for dead. (The 'gates of grace' motif though was touching. Must use the image in one's next homily.)
But best not to press in such circs. So I didn't. The Finance Committee came and went, and, it must be said, 'twas all the more tedious for lack of Maurice's usual spirited challenges to the chair over some arcane audit procedure or motion to dismiss various - and seemingly sometimes random - committee members for flagrant, if invisible to all but Maurice, rule violations.
And so then spotting the old man this morning I had to ask "How was Lourdes then?"
"Pretty dull the first day - bit of a procession if you ask me, which you just did - but perked up no end on the second. I love the amateur game though don't you? Bring two villages together, give them their one day of glory and watch them play with a passion to shame the pros."
One had to reel, it made so little sense. Now 'procession' I could grasp, one has seen the very moving photos of crowds of the sick and their helpers wending their way to the salving waters. So why that should be seen as clearly not a good thing was beyond me. And as for the rest, I'm sorry I hadn't a clue.
Not wanting though to be found wanting, as it were, I fought for anything else to say, coming up somewhat lamely with "Must take you a deuced while to get there."
"Not at all these days Rector. You'd be amazed. Bus to N, fast train to Town, then a short hop on the Tube and I'm there in under three hours."
Now I may be too long hidden in the rural depths to know much about modern international travel, but even I know that the London Underground does not yet - nor ever likely should - stretch as far as la belle France.
Said so indeed, then wished at once I hadn't. Old Maurice gave me the kind of withering yet pitiful look usually reserved for the poor fool who had tried to last the year as Parish Treasurer without his - Maurice's - backing or support. Happened twice in living memory and on both occasions the respective poor fools failed miserably: the one ending up with a two-stretch for fraud (it was just a technicality, nothing malicious - just very true that there was some serious money missing come Lammas Day) and the other who chose to emigrate rather than face the public's rank opprobrium.
"Since when is St. John's Wood in France then Rector?" thrust Maurice in my very face.
It was then that the the penny dropped and the light shone bright once more. For yes surely this could be the one, true answer. That single tablet of LSD one had taken as a student had indeed - as forewarned it might - so deep-fried the brain that all since had been a continuous, fallacious hallucination. I was not Rector of my own Parish, but a mental patient in some asylum for whom the nurses have long since given up any hope of recovery.
But even hallucinations must be answered, especially the ones positively rocking with mocking laughter in one's - imaginary - High Street, with a throng of cheeky neighbours - dream creatures all for sure but irksome for all that - beginning to gather round.
"I may not have been the sharpest blade in the seminary kitchen drawer," I replied thus most haughtily, "But I can assure you that dear Bernadette Soubirous was never spotted anywhere near North London! So how can your journey to Lourdes have taken you there! Tell me that!"
"Lord's Rector, not Lourdes!", was the howling-with-glee response. "Did you think I were at Lourdes? Ah wait 'til Mildred hears this. She'll be splitting herself."
Oh how we all laughed. All but myself that is.
'Hail Mary,' one silently intoned, 'Full of grace, get me out of this fix please!'
Graceful as ever She is, at once Maurice desisted in his mockery. "Come and have a beer Rector, you looks like you need one, and I'll tell you all about MCC and me. Greatest place in the world - you wait twenty years to get in then are rewarded with some of the hardest seats in Christendom, and most of the worst portraiture in the Western world under one roof. Makes you proud to be British!"
Sunday, September 09, 2007
"Osama bin Laden is virtually impotent"...
...As a headline it has, you must admit, more or less everything.
The universal monster - and he is that - now suddenly revealed as merely a man who simply - in the coined phrase - can't get it up no more.
You wonder who spilled those beans? A Mrs bin Laden - if there be such a one - would be a strong contender as a sound reliable source, though you would have to question how readily she might let the news slip given the likely come back on herself.
"Hey you, missus, what you been doing telling the world I ain't no good in the piston department no more? You want instant death you shall have it."
You can see the point.
So a girlfriend blags all? We get that here of course. "I bedded five-a-night sex-monkey football god Kevin - but I wish I'd stayed in to finish the decorating 'cos it was an utter washout if you know what I mean." No doubt the archives could raise a dozen or so such revelations.
But yet again over here the totty in question generally is penalised for such smears with just the withdrawal of all season ticket privileges, rather than summary execution.
So if there is someone in the foothills of the Afghan-Pakistan border feeling a trifle let down, shall we say, by big boy my guess would have to be that she too wouldn't want it mooted about thus for fear of ritual stoning or somesuch.
You can tell, mind you, that he is on the wane in that way. How else would you account for the newly-minted black beard that five years ago was shadowy grey throughout? That, I tell you, is a mighty, mighty clue. Show me a man whose beard has miraculously transformed from old-man silver to caveman black and I'll show you a man whose wand lacks that certain sparkle.
There is though, just one other angle to consider that may resolve all puzzles here. And the clue is in the word 'virtually'.
Now two things we all know. The Internet is everywhere, including the Afghan caves. And second 90% plus of men on this planet have used the Internet, plus trusty webcam, to do a bit of virtual wand-waving at some unmet female - mostly - from the other side of the planet.
Some opine this is the very end of all civilisation as we know it, whilst others prefer to see it as the ultimate in safe sex. (Methinks they both be right.)
A 'good friend' once told me - it must have been the fifth malt that brought the matter to our conversational attention, though I acknowledge that to be no excuse - that in such circs. a gentleman - allowing him still to be one - must first, of uttermost importance, confirm that his correspondent is indeed the busty, lusty female she claims to be and not some teenage male nerd pissing himself with laughter at some other's hapless expense. That way You Tube lies.
So there you have it I believe. The universal monster has been at it on the airwaves, or rather more to the point failing to be at it, found himself the patsy for some aforementioned teen male loon and is now thus the subject of global lampooning.
'Al Qaida: my part in its downfall' - Spike Milligan would have been so proud.
The universal monster - and he is that - now suddenly revealed as merely a man who simply - in the coined phrase - can't get it up no more.
You wonder who spilled those beans? A Mrs bin Laden - if there be such a one - would be a strong contender as a sound reliable source, though you would have to question how readily she might let the news slip given the likely come back on herself.
"Hey you, missus, what you been doing telling the world I ain't no good in the piston department no more? You want instant death you shall have it."
You can see the point.
So a girlfriend blags all? We get that here of course. "I bedded five-a-night sex-monkey football god Kevin - but I wish I'd stayed in to finish the decorating 'cos it was an utter washout if you know what I mean." No doubt the archives could raise a dozen or so such revelations.
But yet again over here the totty in question generally is penalised for such smears with just the withdrawal of all season ticket privileges, rather than summary execution.
So if there is someone in the foothills of the Afghan-Pakistan border feeling a trifle let down, shall we say, by big boy my guess would have to be that she too wouldn't want it mooted about thus for fear of ritual stoning or somesuch.
You can tell, mind you, that he is on the wane in that way. How else would you account for the newly-minted black beard that five years ago was shadowy grey throughout? That, I tell you, is a mighty, mighty clue. Show me a man whose beard has miraculously transformed from old-man silver to caveman black and I'll show you a man whose wand lacks that certain sparkle.
There is though, just one other angle to consider that may resolve all puzzles here. And the clue is in the word 'virtually'.
Now two things we all know. The Internet is everywhere, including the Afghan caves. And second 90% plus of men on this planet have used the Internet, plus trusty webcam, to do a bit of virtual wand-waving at some unmet female - mostly - from the other side of the planet.
Some opine this is the very end of all civilisation as we know it, whilst others prefer to see it as the ultimate in safe sex. (Methinks they both be right.)
A 'good friend' once told me - it must have been the fifth malt that brought the matter to our conversational attention, though I acknowledge that to be no excuse - that in such circs. a gentleman - allowing him still to be one - must first, of uttermost importance, confirm that his correspondent is indeed the busty, lusty female she claims to be and not some teenage male nerd pissing himself with laughter at some other's hapless expense. That way You Tube lies.
So there you have it I believe. The universal monster has been at it on the airwaves, or rather more to the point failing to be at it, found himself the patsy for some aforementioned teen male loon and is now thus the subject of global lampooning.
'Al Qaida: my part in its downfall' - Spike Milligan would have been so proud.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Nepal Airlines - one to avoid!
Call me an oldstick-in-the-mud with no soul for adventure, or else one lacking in appreciation of the rich cultural diversity that is our human heritage, but I don't take kindly to the sacrifice of a couple of animals as a substitute for a proper re-wiring of the electrics on an aeroplane.
This from the Beeb tonight:
Goats sacrificed to fix Nepal jet
Nepal's state-run airline has confirmed that it sacrificed two goats to appease a Hindu god, following technical problems with one of its aircraft. Nepal Airlines said the animals were slaughtered in front of the plane - a Boeing 757 - at Kathmandu airport.
The offering was made to Akash Bhairab, the Hindu god of sky protection, whose symbol is seen on the company's planes. The airline said that after Sunday's ceremony the plane successfully completed a flight to Hong Kong.
"The snag in the plane has now been fixed and the aircraft has resumed its flights," senior airline official Raju KC was quoted as saying by Reuters.
The persistent faults with one of the planes had led to the postponement of a number of flights in recent weeks. The company has not said what the problem was, but reports in local media have blamed an electrical fault.
This from the Beeb tonight:
Goats sacrificed to fix Nepal jet
Nepal's state-run airline has confirmed that it sacrificed two goats to appease a Hindu god, following technical problems with one of its aircraft. Nepal Airlines said the animals were slaughtered in front of the plane - a Boeing 757 - at Kathmandu airport.
The offering was made to Akash Bhairab, the Hindu god of sky protection, whose symbol is seen on the company's planes. The airline said that after Sunday's ceremony the plane successfully completed a flight to Hong Kong.
"The snag in the plane has now been fixed and the aircraft has resumed its flights," senior airline official Raju KC was quoted as saying by Reuters.
The persistent faults with one of the planes had led to the postponement of a number of flights in recent weeks. The company has not said what the problem was, but reports in local media have blamed an electrical fault.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Lightfoot, G.
You recall Bilbo Baggins at his farewell party - towards the very beginning of 'Lord of the Rings' if you need a clue - who could not decide if he should refer to the plural of Proudfoot as 'Proudfoots' or as 'Proudfeet'? (His indecision causing as much offence as any choice he might have made, as it turned out.)
Well, I have had a similar moment of name confusion this very day to report.
One had - this is the occasion and the context - to leg it - but one among too many chores - in to town in order to have a new key cut for the side door of the horsebox.
Why so, you reasonably ask? Was not the old key sufficient unto the day?
Well no, as you ask, it wasn't; for the head of it, succumbing to metal fatigue, had snapped off in situ but a few days past and although it had failed in the open position, which was a mercy, one knew at once that the key could not be left unreplaced, not so much because one feared unlawful intrusion but more that the other family with whom the box is shared would not fail to lock the door should they find it not locked, thus locking us out.
You follow I am sure.
So in between doing the horse bed - a different thing entirely from fixing the horse box - the women folk being on a weekend jolly to Burghley's three-day event leaving me with, inter alia, equine cleaning jankers - not to mention dashing to the local DIY emporium in search of the perfect and safe weedkiller for the beweeded front path, pausing only in flight to take condign medication against a raging toothache and to soothe the fevered brow of the 'beloved' sister-in-law (aka 'Countess Dracula'), who having turned up for the duration allegedly to assist the poor Parson promptly fell sick with a heavy cold - thereby adding rather than subtracting to one's already heavy burden of office - there one was legging it in to town as aforementioned in order to have the key replaced.
Where the Proudfoots or 'Feet even in all this you ask once again?
Coming to that.
An ancillary effect of so much dashing had been, not surprisingly, so little eating and drinking - or even plain refueling. (The traditional eight-second pit stop for 'human petrol', which all sadly one has mostly the time for.)
Spotting, therefore, one of those juice bars that so proliferate these days one was about to sprint past, when one had one's Foot/Feet moment of the day.
For, in a highly clever marketing mode, this particular bar had hoisted a sign bearing some obscure song lyrics and offering a free concoction of said juices to any who could guess both singer and song.
Well at once one was on the case - never can resist what must surely be an easy challenge, for one was as familiar with the tune of the thing - even the timbre of the singer - to be able to hum it at once with the very sound of it echoing in the mind.
But could one actually pin it down? Like heck could one! It wasn't him and it wasn't him and it simply couldn't be him one puzzled - and one was, it transpired, quite right on all three counts - but it was Canadian - correct again and it was oh so long ago. True too it turned out.
Finally though one knew one was stumped. The final definitive answer was beyond recall. Buried in the memory for sure and safe keeping, but not for resurrection to active consciousness this side of Dooms Day.
It was less the lapse in intellectual recall that hurt: memory being one of those moveable feasts one more and more finds - you put it down for an instant and it is plain gone, much in the way of car keys or spectacles.
But it was more that one knew that here was a window on a closed yet special past. There had been a time - though clearly one knew not where or when - when this song had been special, some now forgotten past that was clamouring to be remembered. (A bit like the Proudfoots really - happy to be mentioned, but not unreasonably cross that they could not be precisely named.)
The choice then was simple - and what a tribute to astute marketing - either to approach the juicing personnel and say "Look here chaps, I know you're not here for the good of your health, but to make money. Setting though that aside for a moment - a highly personal moment - and not wishing, either, to spoil your impromptu and splendid competition - do you mind telling me what the answer is without me actually buying one of your amazing, nutritious and wondrous cups of fresh pressed fruit?"
Either that, or the more socially astute and commercially sensitive choice of saying rather "OK. I admit I'm foxed. I know I know the answer, but it's not to hand or tongue. Here is my order and my money for a mug of juice and now, while you're at it, could you tell me who it was who sang the song I can sing but not precisely place?"
The latter of course was one's only possible route. And the answer is as in the heading above. 'Twas dear old - by now for sure - Gordon Lightfoot singing 'If You Could Read My Mind' some near thirty-five or so years ago.
Pretty damn decent song as it happens then and now. (And the mug of juice was pretty damn fine too it must be added.)
Wonder if he ever married and had children. Would they be the Lightfoots or the Lightfeets?
Well, I have had a similar moment of name confusion this very day to report.
One had - this is the occasion and the context - to leg it - but one among too many chores - in to town in order to have a new key cut for the side door of the horsebox.
Why so, you reasonably ask? Was not the old key sufficient unto the day?
Well no, as you ask, it wasn't; for the head of it, succumbing to metal fatigue, had snapped off in situ but a few days past and although it had failed in the open position, which was a mercy, one knew at once that the key could not be left unreplaced, not so much because one feared unlawful intrusion but more that the other family with whom the box is shared would not fail to lock the door should they find it not locked, thus locking us out.
You follow I am sure.
So in between doing the horse bed - a different thing entirely from fixing the horse box - the women folk being on a weekend jolly to Burghley's three-day event leaving me with, inter alia, equine cleaning jankers - not to mention dashing to the local DIY emporium in search of the perfect and safe weedkiller for the beweeded front path, pausing only in flight to take condign medication against a raging toothache and to soothe the fevered brow of the 'beloved' sister-in-law (aka 'Countess Dracula'), who having turned up for the duration allegedly to assist the poor Parson promptly fell sick with a heavy cold - thereby adding rather than subtracting to one's already heavy burden of office - there one was legging it in to town as aforementioned in order to have the key replaced.
Where the Proudfoots or 'Feet even in all this you ask once again?
Coming to that.
An ancillary effect of so much dashing had been, not surprisingly, so little eating and drinking - or even plain refueling. (The traditional eight-second pit stop for 'human petrol', which all sadly one has mostly the time for.)
Spotting, therefore, one of those juice bars that so proliferate these days one was about to sprint past, when one had one's Foot/Feet moment of the day.
For, in a highly clever marketing mode, this particular bar had hoisted a sign bearing some obscure song lyrics and offering a free concoction of said juices to any who could guess both singer and song.
Well at once one was on the case - never can resist what must surely be an easy challenge, for one was as familiar with the tune of the thing - even the timbre of the singer - to be able to hum it at once with the very sound of it echoing in the mind.
But could one actually pin it down? Like heck could one! It wasn't him and it wasn't him and it simply couldn't be him one puzzled - and one was, it transpired, quite right on all three counts - but it was Canadian - correct again and it was oh so long ago. True too it turned out.
Finally though one knew one was stumped. The final definitive answer was beyond recall. Buried in the memory for sure and safe keeping, but not for resurrection to active consciousness this side of Dooms Day.
It was less the lapse in intellectual recall that hurt: memory being one of those moveable feasts one more and more finds - you put it down for an instant and it is plain gone, much in the way of car keys or spectacles.
But it was more that one knew that here was a window on a closed yet special past. There had been a time - though clearly one knew not where or when - when this song had been special, some now forgotten past that was clamouring to be remembered. (A bit like the Proudfoots really - happy to be mentioned, but not unreasonably cross that they could not be precisely named.)
The choice then was simple - and what a tribute to astute marketing - either to approach the juicing personnel and say "Look here chaps, I know you're not here for the good of your health, but to make money. Setting though that aside for a moment - a highly personal moment - and not wishing, either, to spoil your impromptu and splendid competition - do you mind telling me what the answer is without me actually buying one of your amazing, nutritious and wondrous cups of fresh pressed fruit?"
Either that, or the more socially astute and commercially sensitive choice of saying rather "OK. I admit I'm foxed. I know I know the answer, but it's not to hand or tongue. Here is my order and my money for a mug of juice and now, while you're at it, could you tell me who it was who sang the song I can sing but not precisely place?"
The latter of course was one's only possible route. And the answer is as in the heading above. 'Twas dear old - by now for sure - Gordon Lightfoot singing 'If You Could Read My Mind' some near thirty-five or so years ago.
Pretty damn decent song as it happens then and now. (And the mug of juice was pretty damn fine too it must be added.)
Wonder if he ever married and had children. Would they be the Lightfoots or the Lightfeets?
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