Identity

                                                                                         Acapulco



 Dear Reader,

I have been reading a book about the poet Philip Larkin and his long term companion Monica Jones.  Philip Larking has always been one of my favourite poets, along with Thomas Hardy, and I thought I would much enjoy learning about his life.  But this isn't really the case.  It turns out that he was a particularly unpleasant man, sarcastic, antisemitic, cruel and racist.  And that is just the start.  He met Monica Jones, a fellow student, when they were both at Oxford university where she fell in love with him and stayed in love with him for thirty odd years.  But he had several other women over the years including one called Maeve, a librarian, who  also thought she was the favourite.  He married none of them, and lied to them all.

I think my point is that it is a mistake to read about much admired and loved authors.  As it said in the book, the real Philip Larkin was very difficult to pin down.  Reading the biography of Thomas Hardy I learnt some unpleasant truths about him which upset me considerably as he was my hero at school and beyond.  I still enjoy the poetry of both of these poets but view them now in a different light. People are so complex and their art is only side of them, I suppose.

                                                                                       *

From Gilbert White, August 1st 1786 in Hampshire

'The poor begin to glean wheat.  The country looks very rich, being finely diversified with crops of corn of various sorts and colours.'

From John Ruskin, August 1st, 1884 in Lancashire

'Very lovely with calm lake, but the roses fading, the hay cut.  the summer is ended.  Autumn begun.'

                                                                                        *

Identity

"Why hello", she said, "how are you,
what have you been doing,
how are the family, is your sister
still writing, I love her books,
and George, I expect he is as
busy as ever, and the  twins, heavens
how are they, and your grandmother, does
she still live in Acapulco, breeding
donkeys, and your dog, is it alive and well?
Ah good, good, good.
Gosh look at the time -
I really must fly,  but so
lovely to hear all about you,
and your life.

The woman scratched her fingernails
down her cheek,
a spot of blood
splattered her hand,
she pinched her arm, sensed the pain,
she stamped the ground,
felt paving stones beneath her feet,
and  she saw a 23 bus drawing near.
These things were proof of
her existence, weren't they?
So she was alive, was there,
just invisible.

                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

        

Straight Away

                                                                                   The Common shrew                                                                           

                                                                   

 Dear Reader,

I sometimes wonder whether the Powers that Be in the form of local Councillors and the like, have taken leave of their senses. Here is this week's absurdity.  Parkin is a cake that has been enjoyed as a Yorkshire delicacy since the 18th century.  It is made of ginger and treacle, but will it be allowed to be made in future for afternoon tea? Its international origins are being examined in a review of local cuisine launched to investigate links with the slave trade.  Labour runs Leeds City Council which will be doing the research. 

I must say I did laugh out loud, but what next I wonder?  The slave trade and Spotted Dick perhaps.

                                                                             *

Shrews are about at this time of year, their breeding season is from April to September, but peaks during the summer months.  The staple diet of a shrew is earthworms, spiders, woodlice, snails, slugs, small rodents, worms and a large array of insects including beetles.  The common shrew is always hungry, it needs to eat 80/90% of its body weight every day to survive.

In comparison to mice, shrews have a very short life span.  It is uncommon for a shrew to live more than a year.  If you are lucky enough to see a shrew you will see that they twitch and are full of busy, jerky movements.

                                                                            *

Straight Away

The cafe was painted pink,
sea shells decorated the door,
and rainbows adorned the windows.
It looked inviting.

They stepped in and sat
at a scrubbed wooden table,
ordered tea and toast,
scrambled eggs and bacon.
They were hungry.

The waitress, pretty,
dark-haired and pony-tailed
said 'straight away, no problem'.
She ran through to the kitchen.

The couple gazed for a long time
at the crabs on the walls,
the fishing nets looped on the ceiling,
the photographs of the sea, of the gulls.

But the toast, tea and scrambled eggs
didn't appear. 'Its coming straight
away', said the girl.  Later, later,
much later it was served.

As they left the cafe they agreed
that picturesque cafes are not
always as beguiling as they
appear to be.

                                                                                        *

Best wishes - Patricia.

                                                                                   

A Curse

                                                           Beautiful England last week in the North
 

Dear Reader, 

 St. Swithun's Day, July 15th, is a day which, according to folklore,  the weather for a subsequent period is dictated.  It is said, if it rains on St. Swithun's Day it will rain for 40 days, but if it is fair, 40 days of good weather will follow.

St. Swithun was Bishop of Winchester from 852 to 862.  At his request he was buried in the churchyard where rain and the steps of passerby might fall on his grave.  According to legend his body was moved inside the Cathedral on July 15th, 971, when a great storm ensued.

                                                                                          *

I find this story very interesting.  Some of you will already know my views about digging up skeletons, sacred bones, of dead people.   It simply is not the correct thing to do, it is a violation, and as we all know Shakespeare put a curse on anyone who dared to move his bones.  No one should have move St. Swithun.  He left instructions of what to do with his remains and these should have been obeyed.

                                                                                           *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, July 15th, 1802 in North Riding

'Arrived very hungry at Rievaulx ....at an exquisitely neat farmhouse we got some boiled milk and bread; this strengthened us, and I went down to look at the ruins. Thrushes were signing, cattle feeding among green-grown hillocks about the ruins.  These hillocks were scattered over with groveler of wild roses and other shrubs, and covered with wild flowers.  I could have stayed in this solemn quiet spot till evening, without a thought of moving, but William was waiting for me, so in a quarter of an hour I went away.'

                                                                                  *

A Curse

on those who plunder the earth,
and violate sacred places ......

A curse on those who disturb
and steal gently-bandaged skulls,
legs, arms, and finger-bones,
jewels: perhaps a pearl bracelet,
a coal ring, hair pins, or a mosaic plate,
set out lovingly with food
for the long journey home.
Who have lain there, at peace,
for many thousand years,
the sand, the desert winds, the rains,
nature's bed.

A curse on those whose
laughter and excitement
fills the air, stealing the remains,
transporting them to people
in white coats,
who dissect their dignity,
stick labels on them,
give them to museums
to enlighten an ice-cream-licking public.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Two Faces

 Dear reader,

I am very excited at the thought of the match tonight.  I do so hope we will win as it will give us all such a lovely boost after the very dreary months we have all had to endure.  I am proud of being English, and of England, and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the world.  I know I am very lucky to live where I do in the English countryside with wonderful neighbours and friends. Perhaps a win would help to unite us all, that would be perfect. 

                                                                                    *

More seagull news, the first I have heard for several months.

Apparently sleep-deprived residents living in Bath or Worcester can have gull nests removed from outside their houses if they are granted a doctor's note.  A new gull licence, being tried by both Bath and Worcester councils, is supposed to allow more freedom to help residents who are struggling with gulls nesting near their houses.

But the public must prove that they have needed help from a doctor in order to qualify for action to be taken by local officers.  Figures show that just a fraction of nests in both cities have been removed. The Government want to protect gulls at all costs, it seems. Gulls are increasingly living in British cities leading to clashes with human residents.  Four fifths of gulls now live away from their natural seaside homes in urban centres.

                                                                                     *

Two Faces

The wicked wolf tripped
lightly onto the stage,
his ears pricked, his eyes a twinkle.
He wore a yellow waistcoat,
smart tweed breeches,
and to cheerful music he danced
delightfully, tapping his toes,
then, smoothing his whiskers
he sang in a haunting voice
a familiar love song.
And the audience loved him.

He appeared suddenly from nowhere
twirling his handsome brush,
with a pretty girl on his arm.
Grinning widely he made witty jokes,
energy oozed from every pore,
this wolf was Mr. Alive.
And the audience loved him.

On the bus home she sat opposite a man
wearing a shabby raincoat, eyes downcast,
head bent, almost invisible,
almost without the breath of life.
But she recognised him, knew his secret.
Knew he was the wicked wolf
that the audience loved.

                                                                                   *

With best wishes, Patricia

Waif

                                                                                  Jam sandwiches


 Dear Reader,

This week I have made a very useful discovery about taking drugs prescribed by myself.  Off the chemist's shelf, as it were.  Ever since I was a small child I have suffered with catarrh and found breathing difficult. Nothing that was prescribed for me by doctors I have told about this, have been of any use at all.  But then I found out about Sinex.  A small dose up the nostril every night and I slept undisturbed.  And have used it ever since not knowing that I was certainly not supposed to. Only 3 to 5 nights at a time, it states on the back of the bottle, otherwise you can suffer from high blood pressure and other disagreeable side effects. And I had been taking it for over twenty years. And subsequently have high blood pressure.

And the other drug was Nytol, something to help you sleep.  But this is an addictive drug and should not be taken for any length of time and the side effects are dire to read.  Going to buy some in the chemist in Lyme Regis two very bossy women (doing their job) told me not to take Nytol except on particular occasions when needed.  Certainly not every night, absolutely not. I had been taking them for years.

I no longer take either of these drugs and have learnt a salutatory lesson.  That is to read the small print more carefully.  In both cases had I done so I would have taken them as advised and not in the incorrect way that I was happily doing. And giving myself nightmares and high blood pressure. Ah well....

                                                                                          *

From William Cowper, 1782, July 3rd, in Buckinghamshire

'I shiver with cold on this present third of July.....Last Saturday night the cold was so severe that it pinched off many of the young shoots of our peach trees....The very walnuts, which are now no bigger than small hazlenuts, drop to the ground; and the flowers, though they blow, seem to have lost their odours.  I walked with your mother yesterday in the garden, wrapped up in  winter surcoat, and found myself not at all encumbered by it.'

                                                                                          *

Waif

The waif lived in a tent
on the beach.
 It was cold, he was hungry.
He was always hungry.

He met a boy from a big house.
They played together
on the sand, picked up winkles
and shells, ran down to the sea.

The boy took him to his house
cut large slices of bread,
buttered them, piled cherry jam on top,
gave them to the waif who
wolfed them down.

When autumn came the boy
went back to school.
The waif missed his friend,
screwed his fists into his eyes
as the tears gathered.
Wept for the loss of friendship
and food.

                                                                                  *

With best wishes, Patricia