http://viewfromthewolds.blogspot.com/2007/02/solid-air.html
...do revisit, as I have just done, these words of mine from some two years past regarding the great and now sadly the late John Martyn.
I add only this. The grave of his dear friend Nick Drake has its epitaph, a line from one of own his wonderful songs. It is now a fitting memorial for them both, reunited once more in eternity:
"And now we rise, and we are everywhere."
Go in peace dear John, play sweet duets with Nick, and thank you so much for all you gave of yourself.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
On Holding The Front Page...
...well perhaps more an inside page than the cover itself, but the principle is the same.
Just settling down this afternoon for the traditional 'power nap' that falls upon one so readily at this lowering time of year, when who but H should bean her way through the very closed study door to announce in high and strident tones that to the devil with a nap, 'Horse and Hound' had just been on the blower wanting a word with our E.
Hard, if you are not a riding family to put quite into words how potent a sentence that is if you are. How can one compare? Say then that motor cars are your thing and young Clarkson, J. should ring up for a chat; or else when scrivening away over some legal tomes as part of your student studies, the Lord Chancellor should happen to stroll round for tea and a chinwag.
That order of magnitude, I trust you see.
But why her and why they I mused to H? Not the sharpest - not nearly half as sharp as required for sure - response I fear. "Stupid man," sighed she. "It's about that dressage competition she won yesterday." Well, of course what else should it have been but that? Just so indeed.
Wasn't going to indulge in any proud parent crowing by mentioning it, but yes she did come a fine first at a show yesterday, and newsworthy enough it seems it is for H & H to want to conduct the smallest no doubt of interviews with her on her victory.
E, at work when the phone rang, could not reply at once. I trust though she bothered to return the call and, equally, assume her acceptance speech was suitably honed - "I owe it all of course to my horse, my trainers and above all my ever wondrous parents, without whose enduring support and endless cash I would not be standing here now." (Hope at least she remembers our names, unlike the overwhelmed and undone Miss Winslet the other night!)
I may have missed my nap, but I shall not miss a discreet note to Bessy at the Post Office requesting her to order an extra dozen or so of the magazine for next week, in order that they may be casually distributed around the parish for all to read and admire.
Probably won't leave them open at the relevant page, but will have to give some thought to that matter: discretion vs. direction. A tricky dilemma you'll agree.
Just settling down this afternoon for the traditional 'power nap' that falls upon one so readily at this lowering time of year, when who but H should bean her way through the very closed study door to announce in high and strident tones that to the devil with a nap, 'Horse and Hound' had just been on the blower wanting a word with our E.
Hard, if you are not a riding family to put quite into words how potent a sentence that is if you are. How can one compare? Say then that motor cars are your thing and young Clarkson, J. should ring up for a chat; or else when scrivening away over some legal tomes as part of your student studies, the Lord Chancellor should happen to stroll round for tea and a chinwag.
That order of magnitude, I trust you see.
But why her and why they I mused to H? Not the sharpest - not nearly half as sharp as required for sure - response I fear. "Stupid man," sighed she. "It's about that dressage competition she won yesterday." Well, of course what else should it have been but that? Just so indeed.
Wasn't going to indulge in any proud parent crowing by mentioning it, but yes she did come a fine first at a show yesterday, and newsworthy enough it seems it is for H & H to want to conduct the smallest no doubt of interviews with her on her victory.
E, at work when the phone rang, could not reply at once. I trust though she bothered to return the call and, equally, assume her acceptance speech was suitably honed - "I owe it all of course to my horse, my trainers and above all my ever wondrous parents, without whose enduring support and endless cash I would not be standing here now." (Hope at least she remembers our names, unlike the overwhelmed and undone Miss Winslet the other night!)
I may have missed my nap, but I shall not miss a discreet note to Bessy at the Post Office requesting her to order an extra dozen or so of the magazine for next week, in order that they may be casually distributed around the parish for all to read and admire.
Probably won't leave them open at the relevant page, but will have to give some thought to that matter: discretion vs. direction. A tricky dilemma you'll agree.
Friday, January 23, 2009
As A Matter Of Fact, I Do Know Of A Better Hole...
If you don't then you won't know that our neck of The Wolds is more hilly than not. Visitors oft remark that they had expected a Cowardesque landscape of unrewarding flatness only, of course, to note on arrival and local exploration the unending undulations of it all round here.
Geology not being a lengthy suit of mine I cannot give account of why this should be, but take it from our newly enlightened visitors it is. That being so, The Wolds could well be the sort of place panicky folk would tend to aspire to when the cry goes out - as soon it must - 'Head for the hills!'
Take it from me, though, that - to paraphrase the old World War One cartoon - there are better hills to whence you should go and thus go to them you must. Why do I say this? Is it concern for your best interests that I should urge you to the Chilterns or the Cheviots rather than The Wolds when in flight from the coming doom? Could rather it be a more selfish desire on my part not to have our small space clogged with indigent incomers?
The latter I fear and also own. But why the jeremiad tone, you reasonably ask? Have I spotted something of such tremendous terror that, like the eponymous OT prophet and all round gloom-merchant, has me tonight so assured of impending disaster I must prepare myself and yourselves for the very worst?
Well, yes sadly I have. Just been listening to this knowledgeable cove on the wireless who told it straight. For, it seems, to buy now insurance against GB plc going bust - that is, to insure against the failure of British Government bonds - not only costs more than the price of the bond itself, but is also at the same rate that would be asked for insurance against the smashed RBS going down the pan.
This is truly chilling. These insurance fellows are not the crazed 'Masters of the Universe' financial types, whose deluded desires for untold wealth have hatched this whole horrid mess. No, these types are the calculating actuaries who know how to call the right odds in any bet. (Handy to have one by your side for a day at the races of course.)
So if they say that we, as a country, are heading for bankruptcy, then you'd be a foolish reader who wagered to the contrary.
We shall all be heading for the hills soon I fear. By all means do so, but just not our hills if you wouldn't mind. We'd hate to be seen as inhospitable and all that, but be advised barricades are in the making, road signs are already disappearing and our ex-SAS chemist [see much earlier] is starting survivalist evening classes.
Just off to the first one now, if you'll excuse me. 'How to cook up a nourishing broth of nettles whilst keeping a lookout for approaching strangers'. Most useful.
Geology not being a lengthy suit of mine I cannot give account of why this should be, but take it from our newly enlightened visitors it is. That being so, The Wolds could well be the sort of place panicky folk would tend to aspire to when the cry goes out - as soon it must - 'Head for the hills!'
Take it from me, though, that - to paraphrase the old World War One cartoon - there are better hills to whence you should go and thus go to them you must. Why do I say this? Is it concern for your best interests that I should urge you to the Chilterns or the Cheviots rather than The Wolds when in flight from the coming doom? Could rather it be a more selfish desire on my part not to have our small space clogged with indigent incomers?
The latter I fear and also own. But why the jeremiad tone, you reasonably ask? Have I spotted something of such tremendous terror that, like the eponymous OT prophet and all round gloom-merchant, has me tonight so assured of impending disaster I must prepare myself and yourselves for the very worst?
Well, yes sadly I have. Just been listening to this knowledgeable cove on the wireless who told it straight. For, it seems, to buy now insurance against GB plc going bust - that is, to insure against the failure of British Government bonds - not only costs more than the price of the bond itself, but is also at the same rate that would be asked for insurance against the smashed RBS going down the pan.
This is truly chilling. These insurance fellows are not the crazed 'Masters of the Universe' financial types, whose deluded desires for untold wealth have hatched this whole horrid mess. No, these types are the calculating actuaries who know how to call the right odds in any bet. (Handy to have one by your side for a day at the races of course.)
So if they say that we, as a country, are heading for bankruptcy, then you'd be a foolish reader who wagered to the contrary.
We shall all be heading for the hills soon I fear. By all means do so, but just not our hills if you wouldn't mind. We'd hate to be seen as inhospitable and all that, but be advised barricades are in the making, road signs are already disappearing and our ex-SAS chemist [see much earlier] is starting survivalist evening classes.
Just off to the first one now, if you'll excuse me. 'How to cook up a nourishing broth of nettles whilst keeping a lookout for approaching strangers'. Most useful.
Monday, January 12, 2009
"...And Not A Penny More!" (How to thrive in a time of recession)
Odd news just in from the rather lovely Borough of Poole. (Second largest natural harbour in the world and all that jazz.)
For it seems a thriving 'Every Item A Pound' store there has been forced to close after a rival shop opened opposite selling the same wares but for a penny less.
Can't imagine it's much fun working the till at such a place, not to mention the cash-up at the end of the day. That though is by the by, for the Great British Public has spoken - "Show us a penny and we're for taking it."
Is this then the dreadful measure of the depth of the recession that people will literally cross the road just to save a penny? Seemingly so on the evidence. (Would that some feral youths of this parish would cross the road to spend a penny at the local public convenience designed for that very purpose and absolutely - despite the metaphor - free at the point of delivery, as it were, rather than simply urinating where they stand on their side of the street. But that is another matter for another time.)
Let us though pursue the thought and in so doing make our fortunes. For if 99p pricing can wipe out a pound, then let us at once pool our resources (in Poole naturally) and chance our arms with a 98 pence a throw model of sales.
Bound to work - for a while - until some dastardly cove comes in at 97p, to be further undercut by the 96'ers. And so forth, thence finally reaching the point of absurdity where someone actually pays you to take the goods away.
Granted then there are limits to the 'pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap' way of doing business. But it will be the richest fellow in town who can chop in at the absolute rock-bottom price with yet a margin of profit howsoever small.
Sets you thinking don't it?
For it seems a thriving 'Every Item A Pound' store there has been forced to close after a rival shop opened opposite selling the same wares but for a penny less.
Can't imagine it's much fun working the till at such a place, not to mention the cash-up at the end of the day. That though is by the by, for the Great British Public has spoken - "Show us a penny and we're for taking it."
Is this then the dreadful measure of the depth of the recession that people will literally cross the road just to save a penny? Seemingly so on the evidence. (Would that some feral youths of this parish would cross the road to spend a penny at the local public convenience designed for that very purpose and absolutely - despite the metaphor - free at the point of delivery, as it were, rather than simply urinating where they stand on their side of the street. But that is another matter for another time.)
Let us though pursue the thought and in so doing make our fortunes. For if 99p pricing can wipe out a pound, then let us at once pool our resources (in Poole naturally) and chance our arms with a 98 pence a throw model of sales.
Bound to work - for a while - until some dastardly cove comes in at 97p, to be further undercut by the 96'ers. And so forth, thence finally reaching the point of absurdity where someone actually pays you to take the goods away.
Granted then there are limits to the 'pile 'em high and sell 'em cheap' way of doing business. But it will be the richest fellow in town who can chop in at the absolute rock-bottom price with yet a margin of profit howsoever small.
Sets you thinking don't it?
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Shaggers Bottom - A Brief Defence...
...What correlation is there, one wonders, between the utter savage wretchedness of the world and the rising tide of priggish officialdom? The more, for example, feral youths run riot causing mischief, mayhem and indeed sadly sometimes murder, the more does the Constabulary of this land appear to spend its time nicking plain folk for putting jokey advertisements in shop windows or else carving their hedgerows into amusing if mildly erotic shapes.
Most likely said Constabulary, as I fear so many of us, have simply given up on the big things, because they are truly monstrous and largely untouchable. How much easier is it to harass a poor pensioner for cluttering up a shopping centre or the child chalking hopscotch on a pavement, than to tackle the Mad Max gangs that terrorise whole neighbourhoods?
This though is not a rant about policing in its narrow sense, but of the latest Town Hall nonsense that would seek to sanitise our cherished street names. For way down South - not here mercifully - one reads that Lewes Council is to take arms against 'Juggs Close' and to prevent any 'Typple Lane'.
Pompously declaring they will not countenance names that are "capable of deliberate misinterpretation", the local Council sets its silly Puritan hat against fun in any guise. (More cakes and ale cried Falstaff and so do I!)
The worst of it is that in so po-facedly deciding, they are at war with our heritage, history and tradition. The 'jugg' that so titillates - or not - the modern ear is, for example, the name of the basket in which fish was carried in that once great port of Lewes.
We too here have our ancient names for ancient ways, 'Shaggers Bottom' being but the best of them. Yes it is amusing in all so many silly ways, but it is also a remembrance of the valley in which rough woollen cloth was woven in centuries past. A light-industry long gone maybe, but I would as soon lose that connection to our Woldean history as I would see an Elizabethan house torn down for being equally archaic.
Now for myself - as Rector - I own I do prefer not actually to live in Shaggers Bottom as such. There would be complications, it is true, I could and do well live without. But H and E have already heard from their stern and committed master that should come the day our local Council looks askance at the name we'll be moving there the very next day and hang the lot of them say we all. (Well, do I say anyways.)
Is there a New Year equivalent for Yuletide 'Bah Humbug'? There jolly well should be!
Most likely said Constabulary, as I fear so many of us, have simply given up on the big things, because they are truly monstrous and largely untouchable. How much easier is it to harass a poor pensioner for cluttering up a shopping centre or the child chalking hopscotch on a pavement, than to tackle the Mad Max gangs that terrorise whole neighbourhoods?
This though is not a rant about policing in its narrow sense, but of the latest Town Hall nonsense that would seek to sanitise our cherished street names. For way down South - not here mercifully - one reads that Lewes Council is to take arms against 'Juggs Close' and to prevent any 'Typple Lane'.
Pompously declaring they will not countenance names that are "capable of deliberate misinterpretation", the local Council sets its silly Puritan hat against fun in any guise. (More cakes and ale cried Falstaff and so do I!)
The worst of it is that in so po-facedly deciding, they are at war with our heritage, history and tradition. The 'jugg' that so titillates - or not - the modern ear is, for example, the name of the basket in which fish was carried in that once great port of Lewes.
We too here have our ancient names for ancient ways, 'Shaggers Bottom' being but the best of them. Yes it is amusing in all so many silly ways, but it is also a remembrance of the valley in which rough woollen cloth was woven in centuries past. A light-industry long gone maybe, but I would as soon lose that connection to our Woldean history as I would see an Elizabethan house torn down for being equally archaic.
Now for myself - as Rector - I own I do prefer not actually to live in Shaggers Bottom as such. There would be complications, it is true, I could and do well live without. But H and E have already heard from their stern and committed master that should come the day our local Council looks askance at the name we'll be moving there the very next day and hang the lot of them say we all. (Well, do I say anyways.)
Is there a New Year equivalent for Yuletide 'Bah Humbug'? There jolly well should be!
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