tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69472632024-03-19T04:03:10.613+00:00Owl PelletsJust things I *cough* up once in a while. Incorporating "The AS Byatt Rocketry Club"Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.comBlogger257125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-48884782994403295552023-05-09T12:09:00.001+00:002023-05-09T12:09:27.956+00:00Manhole CoversAll those years ago I tried to tell you that manhole covers were interesting. I was Japanese at heart it seems.<a href="https://mymodernmet.com/japan-manhole-cover-art/">See?</a>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-63741816609141301642023-02-10T14:37:00.006+00:002023-02-10T16:48:37.052+00:00Entirely to do with the Writing Process - a tale of writing this shit in 10 curses. <p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-c9aa447d-7fff-e9c3-bee5-349c80dd4ed8" style="line-height: 1.27266; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-right: 3.80261pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 121.98pt; margin-top: 36.3895pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.742813110351562pt; margin-right: 0.544586181640625pt; margin-top: 24.89886474609375pt; margin: 24.8989pt 0.544586pt 0pt 8.74281pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.0107pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -12.0107pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1. As a writer, it is so important to use the right tools. I first used Microsoft Word® and chose the Nimbus Roman font, mainly because it had the ® mark in the Special Characters, I then switched to LibreOffice® because Microsoft are part of an #EvilEmpire, and I am not paying a monthly fee Oh No, and my document is saved in the .ODT format which is better than .docx, just because. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.384124755859375pt; margin-right: 0.5479736328125pt; margin-top: 8.303558349609375pt; margin: 8.30356pt 0.547974pt 0pt 8.38413pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.3693pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -12.3693pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. I bought a Moleskine® notebook and a top class r0tring® mechanical pencil. I carry these everywhere because Joanne Harris told me in her book that the First Rule of Writing was to carry a notebook. The best tools would make the job better. I still haven't written much of course, but it will come. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.264541625976562pt; margin-right: 0.54296875pt; margin-top: 8.303741455078125pt; margin: 8.30374pt 0.542969pt 0pt 8.26454pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.6084pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -12.6084pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3. I bought a Scrivener® licence! If you are going to be a proper writer, and lots of Proper Writers that I have never heard of but that's because I don't Read Around enough, swear by it. Scrivener® is really good and has a useful Chalkboard Feature. I have never yet used the Chalkboard Feature, but I am glad it is there: it could really Come In Useful one day. It is annoying that I have to change the spell-checking to English(UK), but I won't uninstall it, because it costs £40. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.14502pt; margin-top: 8.30258pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.728pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -12.728pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">4. Oh Happy Day! I have become a LaTex® user! It is Free and OpenSource and promises that What You See Is What You Want , which is what I want. It is apparently very efficient for mathematical notation, which of course I won't use, but that's great; there is a Steep Learning Curve, which I am up for. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.384124755859375pt; margin-right: 0.56365966796875pt; margin-top: 8.302520751953125pt; margin: 8.30252pt 0.56366pt 0pt 8.38413pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.4889pt; text-indent: -12.4889pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">5. I will choose Export to Epub rather than dull old PDF! I haven't written very much yet but I just want to use a comfortable tool. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.264572143554688pt; margin-right: 0.53680419921875pt; margin-top: 8.302734375pt; margin: 8.30273pt 0.536804pt 0pt 8.26457pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.728pt; text-indent: -12.728pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">6. There are some really good writing aids out there tp look after your typos and tell you if you are using the Passive Voice too much. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.503677368164062pt; margin-right: 0.527984619140625pt; margin-top: 8.303726196289062pt; margin: 8.30373pt 0.527985pt 0pt 8.50368pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.4889pt; text-indent: -12.4889pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">7. One of these Writing Aids has Auto-Renewed: I must have given it my card details in a fit of Too Much Primitivo, and I now have access to a </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 20.873046875pt; margin-right: 0.557861328125pt; margin-top: 0pt; margin: 0pt 0.557861pt 0pt 20.873pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">myriad of Pro Features. Mainly though I need to navigate to the small grey semi-transparent link to ensure I don't Auto-Renew again in November, now that the Primitivo has worn off . </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.264602661132812pt; margin-right: 0.5545654296875pt; margin-top: 8.302734375pt; margin: 8.30273pt 0.554565pt 0pt 8.2646pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.6084pt; text-indent: -12.6084pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">8. I wrote a Limerick in my lovely Moleskine® notebook. I am proud of it, except that the last line doesn't scan properly. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 8.264602661132812pt; margin-right: 0.57611083984375pt; margin-top: 8.30377197265625pt; margin: 8.30377pt 0.576111pt 0pt 8.2646pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 12.4889pt; text-indent: -12.4889pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">9. I have forgotten whether my top-of-the-range r0tring® mechanical pencil takes 0.5 or 0.7mm refills. These are among the curses of being a Writer. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 3.762786865234375pt; margin-right: 0.5723876953125pt; margin-top: 8.302734375pt; margin: 8.30273pt 0.572388pt 0pt 3.76279pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 17.2298pt; text-indent: -17.2298pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">10. When I am a professional writer with an agent and a 5 book deal I will be able to claim these things against tax and live in Key West like my hero. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 165.571pt; margin-top: 436.697pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2</span></span></p><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0Bexhill, Bexhill-on-Sea, UK50.8499062 0.466207121.06823687053064 -34.6900429 80.631575529469359 35.6224571tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-53936631230756489102023-01-10T17:18:00.004+00:002023-02-11T12:57:48.995+00:00Reflections<p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Part 1: Climate Change, Southern Water and The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. </span></b></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is August. Grass everywhere is the colour of sand.</span></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby sits disconsolately in just-waist-deep water, in a nearly empty river bed. She looks, to quote Pepys at an execution, “as cheerful as any (wo)man could do in that condition.”</span></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unable to even look at her reflection in the pond, or the dried cracked depression which once was a pond, Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid reflects, but only internally, on the year, with its drought, its deaths, its usual invasion of her habitat by sewage and litter. The Human Race had never cared, but now it was doing its not-caring on a scale they had never seen.</span></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The Water Babies depicts a fantasy water-land of clean, though savage, innocence, teeming with creatures and life. Already under threat from industry when published in 1863 with the great waterways full of pollution already, we now see rivers and streams culverted as if an inconvenience, drying out or full of algal invasion, mismanaged by the people and companies who are paid large amounts to do the opposite.</span></i></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The water-fairies pondered what revenge was to be taken on those who caused the ejection of foulness into the waters as soon as they thought nobody was looking, but found they were only moralistic Victorian personifications after all.</span></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Part 2: Truss & Floods & Writing</span></b></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is October. It rains and rains and rains. Liz Truss has come and gone.</span></span></p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“I write with acid – there mustn’t be one single word out of place or one word that could be taken out.” </i>(Katherine Mansfield) : - A writing ambition for 2023 which will behave like a drunken man wandering into the Ladies, but must come under control.</span></span></p><div> <br><br> <br> <br><br> </div>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-59165473544111643712023-01-10T14:05:00.005+00:002023-01-23T17:31:23.883+00:00Pop You Round Pebsham<p></p><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i>A piece I wrote for a Writers' Group Competition. It didn't get placed, and you'll probably see why. I enjoyed the way the process pushed me from a rather kitchen-sink thing to Greek Goddesses. It turned out far from seamless though.</i></span></span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;">Preamble</span>
“And now Hephaestus, yours is the charge to observe the mandates laid upon you
by the father-- to clamp this miscreant upon the high craggy rocks in shackles of
binding adamant that cannot be broken…. Hurry then to cast the fetters about him.”
<i>Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i>The legend of the Titan, Prometheus, is one of the best-known of all the Greek
myths. For the crime of giving fire to the mortals, he is punished by Zeus. He is
fettered to a rock, and every day an eagle appears and consumes his vitals, which
every day regenerate for a repeat the next day. Who among the gods and
goddesses had the strength to bind him? And what has this to do with the harmless
and charmless little town of Pebsham?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_IWAvD_IAibttrdyJkO1gFDQMvukB_55chdvWq7KwxDVeI8kf7q6W_6Y0tXY_p9SJj4LXjWLUJNNVeB4x-g4pKerzOf4tWLcbW_aNbYzvMk8ZIaTZegik7Hjy1ifABhlo21i1HYPgrNhjTm4oghm-uRKZ4jT3jfDEOMo1-l9zYF9Ay9i-A/s422/813f0a181fafa1cce05e61168df78b8480b3a0a1.pnj.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="422" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_IWAvD_IAibttrdyJkO1gFDQMvukB_55chdvWq7KwxDVeI8kf7q6W_6Y0tXY_p9SJj4LXjWLUJNNVeB4x-g4pKerzOf4tWLcbW_aNbYzvMk8ZIaTZegik7Hjy1ifABhlo21i1HYPgrNhjTm4oghm-uRKZ4jT3jfDEOMo1-l9zYF9Ay9i-A/s320/813f0a181fafa1cce05e61168df78b8480b3a0a1.pnj.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> <p></p></span></div><div class="k31gt"><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff4930;">Pebsham</span></b> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A bus appears. It is first not there, then is. It is the way of buses. It resolves itself
along the spray-damped seafront road.
The driver: “I’ll just pop you round Pebsham, then we’ll go straight to Bexhill.”
I have never before been to Pebsham. I am content. The driver has a centuries old,
blasted look, the look of a man who has taken a million or a billion fares. The
serpent tattoo on his forearm is faded almost to a smudge. I pay with, not an obolus
or other ancient coin, but Google Wallet.
I am nobody, a mere resider in the world. I am travelling to meet somebody from the
beginning of history, history long merged into myth.</span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A word about Pebsham. It is a housing estate, adjacent to Bexhill, and near
Hastings, deep in the south of England. It is near the sea, yet no tourists go there.
Nobody goes there to shop: there is one shop. Nobody drinks there: there is no pub.
Pebsham sprawls, spreading its bungular cul-de-sac tentacles into the fields and
Sussex countryside, unnoticed and unregarded. Any secrets it holds are surely the
earthbound secrets of every town.
Our double-decker bus hauls itself around a roundabout, deviating from my usual
trip home. Upstairs are a few solitary characters, besides myself. Opposite, a bald
man, the top of whose head almost comes to a point, looks unwonderingly out of the
window. Intermittently his bottom set of false teeth shoots out alarmingly beyond his
half-closed mouth: he pushes it back with a satisfying – to him – “glock” sound. I
cannot decipher the name of the band depicted on his T-shirt but the iconography
suggests catastrophic sound, distortion, chaos.
A flicker of light, like a minor aurora, momentarily shows itself over the marsh and
field.
In the front seat sits another man. I can only see the back of him, but his voice loudly
pierces the dead echo of the interior: he expresses alarm at something only he can
see or feel.
Pebsham: we are in you.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICmPWx8FDlzRgtWUt00hSKPMN_kxyauatkk_2ZBBMqZF-npx9sAE8bJnxisQwcmJ5vEyxBhua5UPpMwjz2Rv3c0SASQQPJEsuUf8OSFG-t-uCJrwEml4Dt1eq3fu2DDn9iAQ1slxI0lya2EMEFeGisg_PR7kUddJSQjfmsXelEzLfC4UuwA/s500/452dac087bb4d5e500a7dea6ac492f4b5c5f2d98.pnj.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="500" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICmPWx8FDlzRgtWUt00hSKPMN_kxyauatkk_2ZBBMqZF-npx9sAE8bJnxisQwcmJ5vEyxBhua5UPpMwjz2Rv3c0SASQQPJEsuUf8OSFG-t-uCJrwEml4Dt1eq3fu2DDn9iAQ1slxI0lya2EMEFeGisg_PR7kUddJSQjfmsXelEzLfC4UuwA/s320/452dac087bb4d5e500a7dea6ac492f4b5c5f2d98.pnj.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> <p></p></span></div><div class="CQmeg"><br /></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;">Bia</span> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I ring the bell; I get off. I had only asked to go further in a faint attempt to confuse any
pursuers. After a brief entanglement, with the three elderly women trying to get on,
during which no eye contact is made but a “tut” is audible, I find myself on a grass
verge. In front of me is The Co-op.
A tall, powerful-looking woman dressed in all black sits at a wallpaper pasting table
on the open space next to the shop. She is lightly drenched in voter apathy while
seemingly attempting to be elected to the Town Council. I move towards her,
curious. She smiles, lifts a stone paperweight from the table. Five or six leaflets are
blown into the road. The seventh she gives to me, speaking:
“Were you seen?”
“I think not, though for a moment I thought the driver knew me.”
“Let me show you Pebsham.”
I ask: “Why, how, in all of the world, does a Goddess, the daughter of a Titan,
companion of Zeus himself, find herself in this Pebsham of all the places? A
storyteller and known liar I have heard of tells me that Prometheus once found
himself in Swindon, but at least that has a civic centre and shops: but this…”
“…is handy for the seaside. That’s something.”
“To be the personification of POWER is something. To have been the only god or
goddess with the strength to bind a Titan to a rock is something.” Again I say:
“this…”
Her form shifts. The seeming black cloak is revealed as… wings; wings which
spread outward, above her head and mine, raven-black feathers rustling in the thin,
newly-chilling breeze. She now towers above me, her blazing green eyes fixed to the
middle-distance above me.
An elderly woman leaves the Co-op pulling a wheeled trolley. Of course, she doesn’t
see me or the ten foot tall winged goddess beside me. Why should she? It is none
of her business.
“Let me show you Pebsham”, Bia repeats.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6GAS3gYhU69sta-pbx0lBrmB1-plFPcXh0JPwYpcoKIoDMWgLKO-WxbBsj1S0M0CLbHzBivjjL3IlbV6mQDd0q3ChF6mnId9osRRS9f-xj8VFEg2jvV-Q4S7PEEjWz0wdAbSiPn3rtyQx7X7XBEsbRzBzjN439HTk79fMWdhUgnUn4209A/s506/b3884a1c500d31b50943c3416f59b29e30571329.pnj.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="506" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6GAS3gYhU69sta-pbx0lBrmB1-plFPcXh0JPwYpcoKIoDMWgLKO-WxbBsj1S0M0CLbHzBivjjL3IlbV6mQDd0q3ChF6mnId9osRRS9f-xj8VFEg2jvV-Q4S7PEEjWz0wdAbSiPn3rtyQx7X7XBEsbRzBzjN439HTk79fMWdhUgnUn4209A/s320/b3884a1c500d31b50943c3416f59b29e30571329.pnj.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> <p></p></span></div><div class="CQmeg"><br /></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;">Explore</span> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Along Pebsham Lane is an unkempt bungalow with an encrusted orange cement
mixer anchored immovably to the front garden, like a parody of a Greek statue. His
neighbours loved Gordon because he did up their soffits at cost for cash, but now
they avoid him because bereavement is so embarrassing.
He supports Chelsea, but hasn’t been since Bonetti was in goal. That old wallpaper
mocks him: if Sheila had still been here they’d have chosen new by now. He is old
now; tired, old and lonely.
The cement mixer would need a drill to get it off its accidental plinth. Maybe next
week.
“Neither Force nor Power have a rôle here. That would need an altogether more
empathetic goddess. Good.”
A faint smell of semen joins the atmosphere around a town-house in Amanda Close.
We do not linger.
A house in Top Cross Road is on fire. Nobody has yet spotted this, not even Janet
who lives there. She is trying to write a book combining Magic Realism with
Regency England, which she is starting to suspect will never be published. Her
suspicion is well-founded.
The ghost of Eleanor Rigby smiles amiably upon Janet; the fire brigade less so after
the fire has spread next door, and next-door-but-one. Her doomed manuscript
survives to continue unread for another day.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacQ51OrEr1Tj_VhHZ6_pWbKefdzq9BbIh_8tSczjG-vtKUvrusRKWzPcvLMHTMadzxA-5H9OOOyJRJQh_FsRUTfk5F03j8dJhbDDdYKLwS2A09UcQSC_BcIJr0TjVlbYqX6JyX0M9qEddGfXw4glFry_iHNAUbY4wufRGJ7oARLmqpPQZPA/s493/ca5c4418aed68ab23b69361029dafa9ec94a4e6e.pnj.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="493" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacQ51OrEr1Tj_VhHZ6_pWbKefdzq9BbIh_8tSczjG-vtKUvrusRKWzPcvLMHTMadzxA-5H9OOOyJRJQh_FsRUTfk5F03j8dJhbDDdYKLwS2A09UcQSC_BcIJr0TjVlbYqX6JyX0M9qEddGfXw4glFry_iHNAUbY4wufRGJ7oARLmqpPQZPA/s320/ca5c4418aed68ab23b69361029dafa9ec94a4e6e.pnj.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> <p></p></span></div><div class="CQmeg"><br /></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b> </b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b>What On Earth</b></span></span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
“This is all very whimsical,” I venture, “but I still don’t understand why an ancient
Goddess with the power to bind Titans is here. To call this Pebsham ‘unremarkable’
is to garland it. You could have put out that fire with a breath, but we just moved on to
look at that house that sells houseplants and has a view of the sea. Of all the places
in the world, the sky-bothering mountains, the mighty deserts, the whirlpools that
swallow huge ships, mighty cities, giant rivers, huge forests. You could do some
GOOD in the world, this world its tenants are bent on destroying, in a way that the
ancient gods would have been amazed at.”
"I'm a personification of Force and Power. How have Force and Power served the
world these thousands of years? I feel the crushing weight of history upon me. It's as
heavy as the rock and the fetters Hephaestus and I clamped onto Prometheus.
History– so old they call it prehistory, or they call it myth. There's no history here in
Pebsham. 10 minutes ago it seems, there was only a farmhouse. Empty, no history.
That was like air to me. I wanted that. I don't like reminding myself that nobody even
knows where Scythia was, even if they’ve heard of it at all.. I don't want to stand next
to a pile of worn-out old carved stones and call it home. Memory is my curse.
Have you met my sister?”</span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b>Canvassing</b></span> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> In Kniver Lane stands an extraordinarily ordinary end-terrace house. A paved drive
and rhododendron ‘Nova Zembla’ flourishing redly in the gap between it and next-
door. Though the window is netted, a light seems to oscillate behind the net curtain,
and draws my eyes towards the interior. Instead of the expected sofa, TV,
occasional table and souvenir of Malaga I instead wonder at a distant vista, a
mountain, no, a mountain range. I am standing in a darkened, desolate landscape of
rock, of the toughest shrubs, of stunted hardy trees. The sky is first red, then green
then glows gold as the wind swirls, and the cloud is lit from below by a fountain of
sparks from the mountainside. Lightning suddenly fills the window and the shock of it almost literally knocks me backwards.
Suddenly back on the paviours outside the house, I look around for help but Bia has
vanished.
“Can I help you”?
A cardiganned man stands indignant on the far side of the gaudy rhododendron,
holding in his right hand that direful weapon of householders everywhere, a soft
broom with a red handle.
“I’m sorry, I…” I look back towards the window. The net curtain and window are blank,
colourless, suburban once more.
“What are you doing here? You’ve no business peeping through people’s windows.
Perhaps I should call the police.”
“It’s all right, he’s with me.” A woman in black, sans wings, no longer 10 feet tall,
reassures him. "Can I give you one of my election leaflets? ”</span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b>Winged Victory</b></span></span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
“What did you see?”
I tell her.
“Mighty Mount Olympus, we used to call it. I think it’s a National Park these days.
Haven’t been there since the World was young.”
“What was that blinding light I saw?”
“You know I asked if you’d met my sister Nike? I think you just have. The question is,
was it just a vision or an actual manifestation? All golden sandals and big wings and
perpetual victory. Cow. The last time I saw her she was taking legal advice about a
shoe company using her name. She was told that as an unembodied being and
moreover a mere aspect or attribute of another goddess she literally didn’t have a
leg to stand on.
I don’t normally do jokes by the way, but she just makes me cross.”</span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><h1><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #ff4930;"><b>Milligans</b></span></span></h1></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
Discontented but with no further reason to linger, I take my leave of the reluctant but
retired goddess and make my way to the bus stop, looking around me at the houses
all around and try with a shiver to block out any more thoughts of lives behind
curtains. After ten minutes which seem like thirty the bus approaches, arrives, and I
climb the stairs. To my astonishment the pointed-headed man from before is there,
and his eyes flicker towards me before returning to the window. I hear a “glock” and
a sharp intake of saliva. A shout of panicked alarm from the front seat completes the
phantasm.
It seems a natural response in me after experiencing so much, to go for a drink or
two to help me process all I had seen. I settle down in the bar of a pub named after a
famous comedian: he too saw things that changed his life. A pint of Doom Bar in
front of me, I begin to regain my equilibrium.
The barmaid comes to collect glasses, wipe tables. She is known to her customers
as Alice. She looks towards me with the unseeing yet all-seeing eyes of one who is
everyone’s yet no-one’s friend.
Her eyes shine gold: she is Victory. She is Nike, She works in a pub. She raises a
finger to her lips and wordlessly begs my silence.
</span></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i><i>`Shepherds of the wilderness, wretched things of shame, mere bellies, we know
how to speak many false things as though they were true; but we know, when we will,
to utter t</i>rue things.'
<i>Hes</i>iod<i>, </i><i>The Th</i></i></span><span style="color: #ff8a00;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i>eogony</i></span><br /></span></span></p></div><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-50745149227102335082022-09-05T12:57:00.003+00:002023-01-10T13:58:47.061+00:00Twilight. No, not Twilight<p> <span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p><em>A little piece I did for a competition set by Hastings Young Writers for the adults of Hastings Writers Group. It cam</em><em>e 3rd</em>.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>The scene is an old-fashioned classroom: at the front is a teacher, behind her is a chalkboard on which she has written some long and difficult-looking words. In front of her sit the schoolchildren. At the very back of the classroom, at a desk far too small for him, sits a man never seen before, his face hidden: perhaps he is an OFSTED inspector.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Referring to one of the words on the board, one of the class asks; “What does ‘crepuscular’ mean, miss?”</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>The teacher thinks briefly about rolling her eyes and/or sighing, but does not. “Don’t wait for me to tell you. You can look it up. J.K. Rowling said that children are not afraid of difficult words. So see if you can find out what ‘crepuscular’ means on your own.”</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>There is a moment's silence.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“Who's J.K. Rowling, miss?”</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“Surely you must know. Harry Potter?”</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Another moment passes.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“That nasty old boomer.”</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>The OFSTED inspector disentangles himself from the too-small desk and stands up, revealing himself to be an indignant elderly man of about 35. He removes a thin but gnarled stick from his rucksack, shakes his slightly-greying long red hair and, waving the stick more or less vigorously, feebly cries out "<strong><em>crepusculo</em></strong>", and, as he falls over backwards exhausted, all the lights go out.</p></div><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-38745171957715307332022-07-19T12:47:00.005+00:002023-01-10T14:24:40.674+00:00Erik Satie- an “obituary”.<p> <span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p><i>A piece submitted for a </i><a href="https://href.li/?https://hastingswriters.co.uk/" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><i>Hastings Writers Group</i></a><i> competition, with a few changes to things that didn’t work at all.</i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p>Erik Satie, musician, composer and writer died on 1st July 1925.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Eric Alfred Leslie Satie, born 17 May 1866 in Honfleur, Normandy, was the son of a French father and a British mother. Jane Satie was an English Protestant of Scottish descent. His father, Alfred Satie was a Roman Catholic – and an anglophobe. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He had three siblings, Conrad, Olga and Diane.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cXS1BQkBkx_Ct6-h9h50c_j7nNjsuap0GVtIZJSW_ytDLbzHT3Cdfmk4speNYtPCIKF6GwGyYq-B3EdmAUc3Uo3JI8PXjRKFMQS63jbiyM0-ifv5eskpf0_APvxHkbuUM9v4HPwemycMa6q4Qy6Ddk6TohGOsNT0p5uIwp5-X0uJXN864A/s3072/1d66283c54e9863675fa0e90634d4aca1939f159.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cXS1BQkBkx_Ct6-h9h50c_j7nNjsuap0GVtIZJSW_ytDLbzHT3Cdfmk4speNYtPCIKF6GwGyYq-B3EdmAUc3Uo3JI8PXjRKFMQS63jbiyM0-ifv5eskpf0_APvxHkbuUM9v4HPwemycMa6q4Qy6Ddk6TohGOsNT0p5uIwp5-X0uJXN864A/s320/1d66283c54e9863675fa0e90634d4aca1939f159.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /> <p></p></div><i> <br /></i><p></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie is today known chiefly for just one of his many pieces for solo piano, <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TL0xzp4zzBE" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Gymnopédie No.1</a>.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p> (A gymnopédie is defined in one source, <i>- Dominique Mondo's Dictionnaire de Musique</i> - as a "nude dance, accompanied by song, which youthful Spartan maidens danced on specific occasions"). It has been described as the “most relaxing piece of music ever written”. If it were just that it would languish in the “forgotten” pile, with a million pieces of ambient music, but decidedly does not. It is not now, nor was it ever, commonly accompanied by nude dancing.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He was described by his music teachers at the Paris Conservatoire as "... worthless. Three months just to learn the piece. Cannot sight-read properly", and as “the laziest student in the Conservatoire”. In turn, Satie hated the Conservatoire, calling it “a sort of district prison with no beauty on the inside – nor on the outside, for that matter”.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Unsurprisingly, he left the Conservatoire but foolishly instead volunteered for military service. He was invalided out after deliberately contracting acute bronchitis by standing outside, shirtless, on a winter’s night.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><< Before I compose a piece, I walk round it several times, accompanied by myself. >></b></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie signed himself “Erik” rather than “Eric” after the publication of his first piano work in 1884. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He wrote literally hundreds of pieces of music, and at the peak of his fame worked with Claude Debussy, Sergei Diaghilev, Pablo Picasso and many others in the course of his work.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>All his life, the visual arts were important to Satie,. As well as Picasso, he spent time with Braque, Derain, and others. Man Ray called Satie the only musician to "have eyes”. Satie’s only love affair, as far as anyone knows, was with a painter, <a href="https://href.li/?http://meetingbenches.com/2018/05/suzanne-valadon-1865-1938-french-painter-to-become-model-for-toulouse-lautrec-after-the-birth-of-a-son/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Suzanne Valadon</a>, with whom he was obsessed, but the attraction seems to have been almost one-sided, and was certainly short-lived, for she left him after six months, leaving him “devastated”. He composed his “<a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P871ssjLhZU" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Dances Gothiques</a>” during their relationship<i>. </i> </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Afterwards, he said that he was left with "nothing but an icy loneliness that fills the head with emptiness and the heart with sadness".</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He purchased seven identical, grey velvet corduroy suits which he proceeded to wear, with no variation, for 10 years. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><< I am by far your superior, but my notorious modesty prevents me from saying so. >></b></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He gave some of his later works absurd titles, such as Veritables Prèludes flasques (pour un chien) ("<a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=habTdPaaLK4" rel="noopener" target="_blank">True Flabby Preludes (for a Dog</a>)", 1912), Croquis et agaceries d'un gros bonhomme en bois ("Sketches and Exasperations of a Big Wooden Man", 1913) and Sonatine bureaucràtique ("Bureaucratic Sonata", 1917).</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie was sued for libel in 1917 over insulting and, some would say, obscene postcards (<a href="https://href.li/?https://interlude.hk/composers-in-the-court-room-erik-satie-versus-jean-poueigh/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Link, but BE WARNED!</a>) that he had sent to the composer and critic Jean Marie Octave Géraud Poueigh, who had said of Satie that he lacked “wit, skill and inventiveness” shortly after the premiere of Jean Cocteau’s ballet "Parade", for which Satie had written the music; the resulting prison sentence and large fine were overcome by that patron of the French avant-garde <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8m9YvtfXgw" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Winnaretta Singer</a>, the sewing machine heiress and Princess by marriage.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie’s longest piece of music was also one of his shortest: “Vexations” played once usually comes in at about 3 minutes 40 seconds, but Satie declared that for the full effect it was to be played 840 times, making the full piece well over 9 hours long. <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gImDzmNuEDA" rel="noopener" target="_blank">It is available in full on YouTube in a concert performance by Nicolas Horvath</a>, complete with external sounds of rustlings and scrapings, and, quite early on, a police siren. Your obituarist held out for nearly 30 minutes. Horvath explains himself <a href="https://href.li/?https://nicolashorvath.blogspot.com/search/label/Satie%20Vexations" rel="noopener" target="_blank">here</a></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie was a heavy drinker throughout his life.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><< I eat only white foods: eggs, sugar, grated bones, the fat of dead animals; veal, salt, coconut, chicken cooked in white water; fruit mould, rice, turnips; camphorated sausage, dough, cheese (white), cotton salad, and certain fish (skinless). >></b></p><p><b> </b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXrijMfwziy5aWos05eXDRu0bzYmw_WhHljOBrEPObSYsJ9HGAh61U_zkyAlEkC_8rIL9FdYJUl_TtD_E-oYUoair241IsZu2_m2Ns9XN18LFFE89QIna5HZw_p8Tf__s3261otZhk4V5WXjQ45vjA8XcS1ldqg3GLTCIQVWaB73NVpDlLA/s3072/1ccf181b17f6e969d3a440dc1984e87377e9e6f8.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXrijMfwziy5aWos05eXDRu0bzYmw_WhHljOBrEPObSYsJ9HGAh61U_zkyAlEkC_8rIL9FdYJUl_TtD_E-oYUoair241IsZu2_m2Ns9XN18LFFE89QIna5HZw_p8Tf__s3261otZhk4V5WXjQ45vjA8XcS1ldqg3GLTCIQVWaB73NVpDlLA/s320/1ccf181b17f6e969d3a440dc1984e87377e9e6f8.jpg" width="180" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><p></p></div><i> </i><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><span><div class="GzjsW"><p>Satie was also an author. His writings were collected in one volume many years after his death under the title “A Mammal’s Notebook” (ISBN-13: 978-1-900565-66-0). Like some of his music these are fragments, indeed they were often woven into the music, leading to his instruction that, although these written pieces were integral parts of the music, they were not to be performed. They are written in idiomatic, almost untranslatable French, yet translated into English anyway by one Anthony Melville via Satie’s posthumous editor Ornella Volta.
<b>“</b><i><b>To whom it may concern</b></i><b>, </b><i><b>I forbid reading the text aloud in the course of musical performance, Any failure to observe this requirement will incur my righteous indignation against the presuming party. No special cases will be allowed”</b></i></p><div class="k31gt"><p>‘The sea is wide madame. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>In any case it is pretty deep. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Do not sit on the bottom. It is very damp. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Here come some nice old </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>waves. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>They are full of water. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>You are completely soaked! </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“Yes I am. Sir.”’ </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>There is a good deal more of this in A Mammal’s Notebook. We cannot recommend it highly enough:- we can hardly recommend it at all. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywH9gpDwQR9pe7WsPGAM5OcN5PJrRRKtGua8WdDlQcCRTw183Q4PPkIZmfawOP6NFvedku-mzNs6alYn5xmFt5bWkzdfM1FASWNBNSQW5g7zz7wDMIVGxl1yb5Yl_NL-LQoK9IRLFzEDsKOxYNvYvs0ZaiJWhA-H4pnR59VV7Md8b5DBG6Q/s3072/0cb554aafa825300b5057fbdfa19b46f8de85641.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1906" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywH9gpDwQR9pe7WsPGAM5OcN5PJrRRKtGua8WdDlQcCRTw183Q4PPkIZmfawOP6NFvedku-mzNs6alYn5xmFt5bWkzdfM1FASWNBNSQW5g7zz7wDMIVGxl1yb5Yl_NL-LQoK9IRLFzEDsKOxYNvYvs0ZaiJWhA-H4pnR59VV7Md8b5DBG6Q/s320/0cb554aafa825300b5057fbdfa19b46f8de85641.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><br /> <p></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><< My dream is to be played everywhere, not only at the Opera.>></b></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie never married, as we have seen, and his home for most of his adult life was a single small room, first in Montmartre and, from 1898 to his death, in Arcueil, a suburb of Paris and historically, intermittently, from Roman times until the 18th Century, a place of aqueducts. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><< I took to my room and let small things evolve slowly. >></b></p><p><b> </b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p>Present-day reluctant adopters of technology will sympathise with Satie, a man who would never listen to recorded music, and made only one telephone call in his life. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>He adopted various what we would call now “images” or “personae” over the years, including a period in quasi-priestly dress, the period of the velvet suits, and is well-known for his last persona, in neat bourgeois costume, with bowler hat, wing collar, and umbrella. He died of cirrhosis of the liver at the age of 59, and is buried in Arcueil. Despite his dapper public appearance, when friends entered his Arcueil apartment after his death they found “indescribable squalor”. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Satie is remembered today for his pieces for solo piano, the “Gymnopédies” series mentioned above, the “Gnossiennes”, and numbers of others in a similar vein. He was firmly of the avant-garde and is seen as a precursor to composers such as John Cage and Phillip Glass. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><b><i><<I came into the world very young, in an age that was very old >></i></b></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>His childhood home in Honfleur is now a museum. A recent <b>TripAdvisor</b> review of the <a href="https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.tripadvisor.co.uk%2FAttraction_Review-g187189-d243466-Reviews-Satie_House_and_Museum_Maisons_Satie-Honfleur_Calvados_Basse_Normandie_Normandy.html&t=OTUxMDRjZDQ2MDNiODA0MWM1YTRlMmZmYjEzNjY1MzRkZGFmZDQwNyw5NWEyOWU5MjUzYjEzZDg3OWE2ZTZkZWQ1NTdmODljMDhhNjhmMWZk&ts=1673358818" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Satie House Museum</a> records: </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“<i>This museum is very strange, which suits the man it's an homage to! Before you go you should read a bit about Eric Satie and his time. Besides, you might profit from a couple of audio excerpts of his works.</i>
<i>Don't go in without an audio guide or you'll be lost in space.</i>
<i>There are a couple of exhibits which you can touch and work, such as a merry-go-round that you can mount and which you have to power yourself like a bicycle. If you do that you'll see Satie's unplayable instruments such as the dictionary accordion. Take enough time to imbibe the atmosphere”.</i></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><< “<b><i>I liked the bit about quarter to eleven”: no-context Satie.>></i></b></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><i>“ What I would like to see, is all Frenchmen, actually born on French soil, of parents that are French, or at least look it, have a right to a job as a postman in the Paris post-office”.</i></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><i>“The more musicians we have, the more madmen we have”</i></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><i>“ Drinking absinthe means killing yourself sip by sip ”.</i></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><i>“The more I know about men, the more I admire dogs”.</i>
<i>.</i>
Finally, It is surely scarcely debatable that Satie would have chosen the original German language version of Nena’s 99 Red Balloons over the relatively insipid English version.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKr5PfYUMu1eQtLrRTdCJh0SE3TffVqImBXxFgdcNiLuy2PI5zZadzGZoJVhUpsDdW8ZmxQvZjslhP-5RvfQe3_EyB7XfyhZd47oeaR1YwBEaCBxh_8j_nK8N8el3B9o6tQRWsGIxZEV4FVgVKxfxztNhg8-nZUNeMY5-mwCIhwiLWZ4PXDg/s3072/d4cab42793f5065a76f301cd20a8607ba46b42f0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="1891" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKr5PfYUMu1eQtLrRTdCJh0SE3TffVqImBXxFgdcNiLuy2PI5zZadzGZoJVhUpsDdW8ZmxQvZjslhP-5RvfQe3_EyB7XfyhZd47oeaR1YwBEaCBxh_8j_nK8N8el3B9o6tQRWsGIxZEV4FVgVKxfxztNhg8-nZUNeMY5-mwCIhwiLWZ4PXDg/s320/d4cab42793f5065a76f301cd20a8607ba46b42f0.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p></div><div class="CQmeg"><button aria-label="Image: image" class="TRX6J k4_Vq seYEy"><span class="EvhBA" tabindex="-1"><figure class="DdFPj" data-login-wall-blog-name="bexhillperson" data-login-wall-post-id="690212115447955456" data-login-wall-post-slug="erik-satie-an-obituary" data-login-wall-redirect="/dashboard" data-login-wall-type="blogView"></figure></span></button><span><div class="k31gt"><p>Further Links: </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Life & Works <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.famouscomposers.net/erik-satie" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://www.famouscomposers.net/erik-satie</a></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Quotes by Satie <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.azquotes.com/author/19078-Erik_Satie" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://www.azquotes.com/author/19078-Erik_Satie</a></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>An Erik Satie Primer <a href="https://href.li/?https://ftp.wfmu.org/LCD/21/satie.html" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://ftp.wfmu.org/LCD/21/satie.html</a></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><i>Nena 99 Red Ballons</i><a href="https://href.li/?https://genius.com/Nena-99-red-balloons-lyrics" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><i> </i></a><a href="https://href.li/?https://genius.com/Nena-99-red-balloons-lyrics" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://genius.com/Nena-99-red-balloons-lyrics</a> </p></div></span></div><p></p></div></div></span></div><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-86868400152131159172022-04-27T12:45:00.004+00:002023-01-10T13:46:59.638+00:00Hit The North<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbf7_OYnODZhUjG_zpcdFYhKq1dHPg_jczURL2YexuffDrCTdfhnirfKjjHJuQflPyeeMwcCC8V4FkLGcztM7DZjb3xr7KzkfL-EYj5eX1rvosFyu01oKRV7WZEdOD0qTWfkGRubkL9nsXYoYOLSJ6VSiFLuqc7Ode-Fb3ef5PoymOc93HbQ/s2048/348bad399f3ef306802e949eb5806f8ad3eac852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbf7_OYnODZhUjG_zpcdFYhKq1dHPg_jczURL2YexuffDrCTdfhnirfKjjHJuQflPyeeMwcCC8V4FkLGcztM7DZjb3xr7KzkfL-EYj5eX1rvosFyu01oKRV7WZEdOD0qTWfkGRubkL9nsXYoYOLSJ6VSiFLuqc7Ode-Fb3ef5PoymOc93HbQ/s320/348bad399f3ef306802e949eb5806f8ad3eac852.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span><div class="k31gt"><p>Just what is The North? Writing from here, in Orkney, I have a valid claim to be In The North. Awaiting next week though is Shetland. Seems North to me. Orkney? Southern softies. </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>We passed through Yorkshire a few days ago on the way up. Yorkshire people think they’re in The North, but when we came through York we weren’t even halfway. So Rugby League Country is barely even The Midlands.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>We passed through Robertsbridge and Etchingham in East Sussex on the way up, 20 minutes from my house. They are not Northern. Roger Daltrey, who sang that he hoped he’d die before he got old and didn’t, lives here. Rudyard Kipling, who hoped his son would live to get old, lived here too. This is a marshy yet hilly land, firmly of the south, where the wind doth blow but it’s usually a warm South-Westerly: people take photos of the rare snow.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>This is more like it: this is the North-East coast, past the nearly-north of Newcastle, coasting towards Berwick:</p></div></span><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-59524526261086868902022-03-09T13:46:00.001+00:002022-03-09T13:57:09.165+00:00Wetherspoons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuOfNXz-PHrzsp40pxjAAwiMKxcJ0vcfs2NBK8zAv0i9cAXE7TddrYNohB4RPjg851eX8ZkTp8a6N8N0j5LWcbI_UqCN8-eTfKkcvv9AJQ5y4hoKW5DbtNySKZFbI2PKK2lSA/s1600/1646834191498165-0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuOfNXz-PHrzsp40pxjAAwiMKxcJ0vcfs2NBK8zAv0i9cAXE7TddrYNohB4RPjg851eX8ZkTp8a6N8N0j5LWcbI_UqCN8-eTfKkcvv9AJQ5y4hoKW5DbtNySKZFbI2PKK2lSA/s1600/1646834191498165-0.png" width="400">
</a>
</div><div data-pm-slice="1 1 []" data-en-clipboard="true">There's always a vague feeling of unease within. There's often a sort of anti-you activity among the bickering bar staff who find their bickering more interesting than the would-be customer. They are not Johnny Cash but they wear all black, apart from the manager who wears a white shirt and the demeanour of a disappointed non-commisioned officer in a disappointing batallion. He would like to shout at the stupid elderly half-pissed customers but knows he won't and can't. Behind a partition in the back bar a man groans continuously - imagine "The Scream" repainted as "The Lonely Groan". (This would be a good name for a Wetherspoons). A fat ugly couple dandle their baby. A baby that will come to know Wetherspoons, and groan in his turn. </div>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-59568537692875562412021-12-01T12:50:00.001+00:002021-12-01T12:52:03.607+00:00Eastbourne football clubs, and one other.<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> There’s a hierarchy of Eastbourne football clubs. It goes something like this:</span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p>
<ol class="Normal tm6">
<li class="tm7"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eastbourne United Association FC. </span></span></li>
<li class="Normal tm7"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="tm5">The </span><em>other</em><span class="tm5"> Eastbourne club in the town centre and which is handy for the pub and the second-hand bookshop.</span></span></li>
<li class="Normal tm7"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="tm5">The </span><em>other other</em><span class="tm5"> Eastbourne club, which isn’t even in Eastbourne.</span></span></li>
</ol>
<p><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eastbourne United have, in addition to the merits of being easy to park at and being very friendly generally, have been playing host to Bexhill’s own “other team”, who
represent an unimportant and easily-disregarded wilderness of old people’s homes, a roundabout, and a rather good cheese shop. These exiles have been scuffing up Eastbourne’s pitch for several seasons, hopefully
in exchange for a monetary consideration, but will soon be returning home to said wilderness, having built a stand for people to be in. I haven’t been up to have a look so I don’t know whether said stand faces
towards or away from the pitch. </span></span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="tm5"></span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrE-HjaMLhibvv00fEbqB0Ak2caJjcB2CsQVNac9jBNelFgvRE65XNCcd1EB5ze8eWyvo44R5ArZ2dAh8d7xin7HAg6YK4Lt-g1lKjlO5F5gnyMWSWxvWTCz2JpUWE-RglNkm/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" data-original-height="128" data-original-width="138" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrE-HjaMLhibvv00fEbqB0Ak2caJjcB2CsQVNac9jBNelFgvRE65XNCcd1EB5ze8eWyvo44R5ArZ2dAh8d7xin7HAg6YK4Lt-g1lKjlO5F5gnyMWSWxvWTCz2JpUWE-RglNkm/w86-h80/image.png" width="86" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We look forward to our visit.</span></span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"><span class="tm5"> </span></p>
<p class="Normal"> </p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-31219920780354468332021-11-17T16:11:00.002+00:002021-11-18T09:35:39.377+00:00The Printed Football Programme<p> I am the programme editor at a Step 5 club, or, as the commentators like to say, the 9th tier of English football. We produce a printed programme: our print run was about 30 at the start of the season, but as we're having a successful one the print run has crept up to 45 and we're still selling out.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Why do we do it? It would be so much easier and cheaper to just have an online offering, and if we did I'd be able to do some really cool things with layout, content and interactivity, as well as have more relaxed deadlines. It's tempting.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">This is my routine for a Saturday game: using the last programme as a template I do us a cover. It might be a player portrait, an action shot taken by one of the many talented local photographers who are happy to give their stuff for free. There's the stats stuff, which I try to leave as late as I can, a bunch of local paper and social media snippets, and the regular manager and chairman columns. It takes an amazing amount of time considering how much is pure boilerplate. Visiting clubs often send you a bunch of history filler that you struggle to edit down, and you're tempted to insert lies just to check who's reading this stuff; "in the 1921-22 season we were relegated to the South Brighton League, which was odd because we're from Yorkshire". They are also liable, in lieu of anything resembling a team sheet, to send you a list of all 40 of their registered players, implicitly inviting you to "pick the bones out of that lot".</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CURGo_er0GI3XOyemPmgqXFPSAORPQGbhVjcb1GD-ZCK0_iIkRXeD8Sp-j3Jzo8pwB4o6PpZjR_Mb6tue_s94ARKvpLtXttT_Nl5FFXcIEdgV2_THtwRxuKi8pX1VMrS8qwH/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="954" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CURGo_er0GI3XOyemPmgqXFPSAORPQGbhVjcb1GD-ZCK0_iIkRXeD8Sp-j3Jzo8pwB4o6PpZjR_Mb6tue_s94ARKvpLtXttT_Nl5FFXcIEdgV2_THtwRxuKi8pX1VMrS8qwH/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I print at home. The printer belongs to the club, and I can claim back from the chairman for consumables (I hope!). I have to be conscious that the more big fields of colour (dark winter skies!) I print, the more expensive it all gets. It's nice to have a higher grade of paper for the cover, but that costs more. I acquired a ream of green A4 from a contact who probably nicked it from work and that gives a nice look to the fixtures/ results/ tables pages, but if I had paid for it that's another cost. To save money we have bought cheaper print cartridges, which would be great if you didn't have to take them out every 10 pages to wipe off excess ink from the nozzles. This whole thing's probably using up a whole working day of my time. I just finished folding and stapling for tonight's game and I'm going crosseyed. This, after all, is time I could have been spending on the sofa watching Diana Rigg in The Avengers.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQpaLvBt45IttItPfydgxVvBE_JWeuawd8VZyfIa3Iabk0LSC5NnRCxGzmuDVrZnjFYMEPshwbsV8PdMzuYhKez0jocKo_RnUKXuEdNgave7cDJvG6Lrncbmn-TgUb7WsGL0v/s4032/PXL_20211117_172048629.MP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQpaLvBt45IttItPfydgxVvBE_JWeuawd8VZyfIa3Iabk0LSC5NnRCxGzmuDVrZnjFYMEPshwbsV8PdMzuYhKez0jocKo_RnUKXuEdNgave7cDJvG6Lrncbmn-TgUb7WsGL0v/s320/PXL_20211117_172048629.MP.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">So why do it? Because people like printed programmes. Older supporters like them because they're "not very good with computers" - non-league football attracts quite a few older supporters who once maybe travelled to watch West Ham or whoever, but who can't manage it these days. Groundhoppers like them: it's a kind of certificate of attendance. Ordinary people like them: it's something to hold in their hand. Recently, helping out on gate duty I was really gratified at the number of people buying programmes, and by the number of people, especially visiting supporters, telling me how much they appreciate them. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">If we sell 45 programmes at a pound each, well I'm no good at maths but I can do THAT... deduct the costs above, and we're maybe making a few bob. If some kind soul sponsors the programme, why thank you, and of course we have a few advertisers, but they're mostly doing it because they're someone's mate or out of pity, and thank you to them too. Not to blow my own trumpet, but if the club has a retired person who can prioritise its interests over Mrs Peel on BritBox then a printed programme sort-of works. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuz1cfxsGb3BfcB0Xgcm5OQqil832MZtZJoVb-XK3mwh1f5a343JgPgMLoSwTYmxOBWnnBCwK861xInzMFLYHXZXYmeR9T88xFhDjJ2cIbLpxK1d8RWvK6UR5KxoCo42CyT52_/s4032/PXL_20211016_141302270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuz1cfxsGb3BfcB0Xgcm5OQqil832MZtZJoVb-XK3mwh1f5a343JgPgMLoSwTYmxOBWnnBCwK861xInzMFLYHXZXYmeR9T88xFhDjJ2cIbLpxK1d8RWvK6UR5KxoCo42CyT52_/w150-h200/PXL_20211016_141302270.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-76310383361461364272021-09-30T15:59:00.002+00:002021-10-01T16:06:52.974+00:00A football post<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>A brief return to Blogger to put in a little article which was intended for the Bexhill United programme of which I am the editor these days - 20 pages of footy goodness, ("not too much black pleeeze Colin"), but the piece grew in length and self-indulgence until it wouldn't fit. </i></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>We used to have a nice little community on Blogger, years ago. I expect they're all dead now. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b>Anyhow</b>... </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">These are good times to be a Bexhill United supporter: at the time of writing we’re 7th in the league when a lot of us expected a struggle. In fact, these are good times to support the club at all levels, and if Bexhill doesn’t float your boat, to actually support your local step 5 or 6 club, wherever you are. (Unless it’s Shoreham FC, obviously ☺). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> At all levels above, for sure you might see more skilful play, but even at Isthmian League level, just one step above us, you'll see players and staff who are only there for the money, who have no real connection to the club or the area. They don't know where the best chip shop or pub is, they won't tell you in private that they're too fat, old, slow or knackered (or all four) to compete any more. Your local hero might (no names!), but he's still a better footballer than you probably ever were and you should respect him, and this level of football, for that. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> You're here, if you're anything like me, to see solid football, to see tackles that mean something, passes and goals. Yep, their goalie's crap, the floodlights are poor, the pitch is hard and lumpy and the wind off the sea is cutting you in half, but this is the real game.
Nobody's doing it for much, or any, money, that tackle just generates some loud swearing rather than a theatrical attempt to get someone sent off - if he stays down he's probably broken something! If a piece of high skill is the exception rather than the rule, well we just
appreciate it when it comes and we forgive the blunders because that's just human. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The manager doesn't think he's a Tuchel or a Klopp, but he's in the same business and takes it just as seriously for those few hours, and his half-time "hairdryer" blows as hard as Fergie's ever did. The referee knows he's not Clattenberg or Dean, but don't ever doubt his commitment to his craft, or the pain that your abuse causes him. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> No matter what the level of the game, we all go home happy, sad or "meh" at the end of it, and it's the same degree of happiness, sadness, anger or indifference no matter who we support, be it PSG, Man U, or Hassocks FC. Truly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Thanks for reading, and as for Shoreham, we love you really. Madly, deeply, </span></div>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0Bexhill, Bexhill-on-Sea, UK50.8499062 0.466207122.539672363821154 -34.6900429 79.160140036178845 35.6224571tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-12891731409613022842020-12-30T13:42:00.004+00:002023-01-10T13:45:00.510+00:00Socks<p> <span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p>A fascinating read in the latest copy of ”The Bottle Imp” (<a href="https://href.li/?https://tinyurl.com/ycepv4u4" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://tinyurl.com/ycepv4u4</a>), about the poet Hugh McDiarmid and, more specifically, about the 1800 mile round-trip taken by his socks, and how it puts him not necessarily in a good light.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>Get “The Bottle Imp” (<a href="https://href.li/?https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/signup/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">https://www.thebottleimp.org.uk/signup/</a>) anyhow: it’s free, above all.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQTy_VBTwrFCYZ5DXBdBaqsVRpaAwFYOaMJkb0gF2TZQVBnuT-A0wrQbtPCMP9f0kWuWPuPyM_LVWWFss5sGwT2tdqj5b3cdqf5-_qtKAsmkgXerTwdY0mOXA73rVG1ko6g_ukO8yYjfbPZ97fXMDF6RXGsV_3dbav2pmcZX7ElCK2nvPXQ/s849/b93131e0e5b31ba6256d53a2c6efd79eece69ff6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="849" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisQTy_VBTwrFCYZ5DXBdBaqsVRpaAwFYOaMJkb0gF2TZQVBnuT-A0wrQbtPCMP9f0kWuWPuPyM_LVWWFss5sGwT2tdqj5b3cdqf5-_qtKAsmkgXerTwdY0mOXA73rVG1ko6g_ukO8yYjfbPZ97fXMDF6RXGsV_3dbav2pmcZX7ElCK2nvPXQ/s320/b93131e0e5b31ba6256d53a2c6efd79eece69ff6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p></div><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-84435907862827817802020-05-26T12:40:00.004+00:002023-01-10T13:42:30.319+00:00What Of It?<p> <span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p>This is a bit of Flash I wrote 7 or 8 years ago and have just found again in my Google Drive. I expect I entered it for something and that was the last anyone heard of it. I had added a dark ending - a <em>really really </em>dark ending - for some sort of shock value and which I’ve deleted, leaving this sort of anecdote thing behind. Apologies to anyone who recognises themself in this: it isn’t really them! The top & tail quotes are from George Gissing’s “The Private Papers Of Henry Ryecroft”.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>-------------------------------------------</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>“<em><strong>Nevertheless, my life is over</strong></em>”.</p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>The best bit about quiz night was choosing the team name. "The AS Byatt Rocketry Club For Men '' had been deemed “de trop”: worryingly for the team's prospects it had been demanded of him “who was this Byatt anyhow when he was at home?”. So it actually turned out that thinking of a good team name before you got to the pub was the good bit, the golden pie-crust, but that the reality more resembled the gristled disaster within.</em></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>He therefore felt difficulty heart-and-souling it as a representative of "Barbara's Big Beauties", - inevitably spelt "beauty's" - , and strove vainly against such areas of vital human endeavour as TV personalities' activities in a jungle scenario, the novels of Dan Brown, when Crystal Palace had last won the FA Cup*, or France's record in the Triple Crown**.</em></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>They came third, which they agreed Wasn't Too Bad, Considering. He had got the one about interest rates, insisting on his correctness in the face of dubiety, and was thus more pleased than otherwise, and walked the wet fag-butted street home with, not a song, a hum, in his heart.</em></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>“</em><strong><em>I am tempted to laugh; I hold myself within the limit of a smile</em></strong><em>”.</em></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>* hoot </em></p></div><div class="k31gt"><p><em>** v. funny, this.</em></p></div><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-34904696103216619612020-04-24T12:24:00.011+00:002023-01-10T13:29:50.681+00:00Valentine Ackland/ Country Conditions<p> <span></span></p><div class="k31gt"><p><a href="https://href.li/?https://www.scienceopen.com/document/read?vid=2821dce9-324c-46c6-8a64-f44f7dcee227" rel="noopener" target="_blank">From Country Conditions (1936)</a> </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p> Not much preamble here. The author writes vividly about the daily life of countryside workers - in the 1930s, so it’s scarcely ancient history - in the quaint country cottages that sell for hundreds of thousands now, once “done up”. Of course it’s beautifully written, has a lefty sting in the tail, and is taken from the estimable “Journal of the<a href="https://href.li/?https://bit.ly/2Y2XvCU" rel="noopener" target="_blank"> Sylvia Townsend Warner Society</a>” .</p></div><img height="320" 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er4f9n/5l2p0+Fs933gdgehxzipFNvCqqVTw7Rx9Xniu111c2enTGNuOv/ZrWtQkuriWWdh3jvzhvcYq4xHCyuSeCMbvlRkWRyI19h1+VLJ3bKSFBCkdPnQmds84Pp4aa4d5FJGQfXbio3DKyscAtilUjBVVYjgVDD3lwoZAF9MVC2IQQvjwc/nX8Ot1usr+MEhgVYCrVxu8X45+1TN4j5as2vZJDHIqRk8rhelW9m8akP48dfD9avo6rI2Y/Gevz+VTW67OhHi98f7NSXgWTYE5x5cZx+NaxOF06fKbjsPO3rU14pbbg7t3UHGefavhHvk16SdZFEkcZKhq0nthPcSXH0q7RZI2I7j7PNWrW+swldqybhk5Gf0r4wdibXSSt5bR7A4IZQMAfhV95XVVwPVfbiodPuG76VImKx8uR7YpmfMhVCN5BB9cYrJHPPC5P4Vt3Kyjy4JXjHy6/hUEY8bMFLHcp4yfT1q3hMaKw6Y8ucV3gQbgQAOCAM/rSTHaCM4AJ/Sv4b7pmj1DLbuQR8uKs1bazeLpXi/vqMDd0AHQEPjxetbjsy7cdOTkVJGWk3DIXbtwPSp7fcoQOQo609gGm71RtI4zu9q1e2/0WQyOQGUmrzYt5IoOX3FWOcf8c7q+D3Yl7axl1e5UoZhsijI2+EfW+dL2BsbfVHvWVV7xtxG7rUMEVmqmJV3Z55xXxL0e77TaeltbqFbcSzftn0zVp8MXitZ59Rjlt3hPhhEW/dg/93+7/KrTs7/7H3MVxYxWckIbuZE5Dg8jHt/x161LprmR49yK6dQRncc9KZtuRKGUngq5ww9hikUFtv2VyajTaoJPGd273rCRxiRQMn1xmsZkaPfnPi25x+lLcEKFVVwOPy9a/homZrq+jJULgMB/d6tVqw5JZSQevvXj/tplXdhWYehpdjQ8nn7PtXchWOGKg+ppldmfkLgcLTNMyqB588rxxWqs0qv3nKKOOVFXjQR6wzTMe7MuSoJ5HqOK0b4sWEiQaZYWU8yom3dEAQBxwc88GpL57i3XcrBxx4jgn8Kt2PeBWVgwXmu5jK7lGWrtF2gstFuo/pCM5bO3wZ3Njn9K7RarcalpN7M8T29qBmMYxnj2q4BW8kuGLNHvJI59SB6U0UUhWSSMhCDkMG3D76VI51QjwjOA23otNHDu2xuJUU437aEICA9VZvDxWJFLDafNxkUIyoLk4PtX8NLKmsXyt5RED0qGTEvh3Y83TFd63y/3qWOQ7DxgZ6H51Gkm5uCV+ZruX2+EAD1qSADGOtNDuZgpxkYPGau9Hje3dCWK+UDOPv4rtJo8UWoThQoZXIBb2rsDqFzourt9HihM8vAaQnb+NaQ91dQB7vuhMDndCWKH5AGpI9mGH1vq5xj8KkviFwvm+txWtNHJIjd3vXPHFXmmpe6bJCMEMhHHpxXaPS5tF1GWGWNu5EmFI++tzT7Q3hT7WPCeegrbKY2CqpjyQGxjHypbQou4SKqMAvUj156Vbx91uESr3kibQMA4X7zzS2p2lS4Kg449KkhHfAKpZcDH51/DzYPb65c5GVaPk+3NQ5eYBRlQQB4vamk8R8K9ftUzFG4Q528c1FPP3f8Aq8DpX0t16hh9WjIfE7bsV9KWPeADyPeptS7tQcYwPU12qujJq12GKsGJbFaE/fa9ZLuVV78A/duGajurOwso0idSAoHX05q47UA/00IJzgeKoWZsF+vrz71cxhlB5445qxZlyNoYewH1a+N1gLW8gn7srHICoO35Vt3Y3dMVDbPM6IsQYscBAM1IsUfeRzBoivHd+fH/AIUlw45BJcL7Y/SlumKbz69a+kMzkehwema+AmooO0TJ1cxbTzj9KhkKu3GGBwa3n+6pLd22qoKqeQSa+jyKcYz86MHhXPl9aZfEQwyKZVx4gML9YetXFnDI2cE7zjmu2UZj1y7UkBd23ArcYZBIudqnC5BNWPb657mOK5jEi42hlYqQPx4rS+0NvqF8trBFKG28FipI9eSK0OG6WTEjB1PQn1qaxW4tztVd3Nafp+1d8jnwjG1ak7K2Xagta3dqtwjRMNhTIGQcYNdq+z8/ZntJe6a4ZhFKVQovRPf8f2rT5hZ2juqE7m2yTAN4U9lz4cnpz71dMneN3AfZuJRWzu/2scZqNmLLhWx6/wCKlGZpBIrc8U0PouPCQOevWvgbqcVn2ojWVlUsvXiv59aoFaS5hjUbTudl4XB+dHtzoOedZtc//c/81d9u8j45+1QuGk5BJz1Oc13ijGR4ehXGMUyt9njy02U/psMCnjeNWyy4Ir4hW7Qa/PuA8RGFHpxUyPbuMKMN1zUFvczHuUjdi3omfL+FfCT4Z37TXN5qVtNahoAsLPjLE9d2ecdKWyvdHmNtLEoKnAx5SPtCrUsyAtjPsKgTvEVY0YsxxxXZ3R0sIQpkLXDvgk9SD1r4hfAG07a6pLqkc6w3ckS7g/QgZA/Wu0f8OfaHTjIUi7/nIWMg+nzrWOyOpaXKyXdjcQyDgrJEVA/Lg1DprrHwjL7+GotNuLiRDHFuA8JLHA/KptLhti4lcs452h8CkuJ7OQNBuVj6o3P50ZNSv5R3cVzNJnJHibOOfrH/ACr/AJF9o38X8puueen/AJq7kltuSceYk1HGe8G1hgjmggkJ5yfT/DSxqcELgDrV1GrRgLyN3/Z9KeMt0BAHscV2m+H+r9qNcD6datLEww0jAKB+fWuzH8OcDRCbW52bAwIYSwB9855/KtB7A6D2bkBsNNihYLt7xwC2PvPNcRs39MbQPTpV5o1tq1uwkVUmXyN86uoU0+87uR0jcHGWOBmrTSbWPTSXdZmkQkFWPt8uas7URlnBIPlIIJ9B6nmlJWPAK5ozEgk4wOOOtXGjwahEUurWCRDwUkjU4B/WtX+CGgaluaGGO2nJwAqAjGfY18SfhnqXZmZHeLdb4IWVGJzg/LgVqkbW8mXY4OTjOD8q+FaWd12wH0/Z3CI58Z2pn/D61ban2Ws3cJdWMTE5/wBYoP4fKh2r7PY/+J2X++tR7QqkhRk481aJDa3FwIrtvo8ZXwvjI61N2QkZO9srhLpc4Cg4P5Uun3Cs0WzY68OjdA1TWcq5yGBHAK+ldk+yv0xhc3n+pYDCNzub7VQ2McRdBGkUagbcCnQGPBGfY01uJnGCBz1rULRFjKLJ/UB3Cu0ct3Y6PcS2sh3bD0NXWoX95cS3F9cvM+cebO3g4rsC5/kds8rF2YH9vFQn7odNx9BUMzyL3YAEnm/D0rhR4FwfVsfWoyFZAWT8aXb3pffjHpXaLSbfW9NmtJ1VhIhGcZxnjNfFjsvP2b7SXFpIrFN29DjhlIyG/So1eHeCOfRveo5yuMfjX0oe9LCm4MOopWKnGQG6nFWd88YKxzMmRjaPTPFa1ovaG61ee+sdXE5lxm3myy8DGFI6V2ZuO1On3QS8it/oxwSFYOQPYE8g1oOo29xbrHBKOB5c4OfXd86wMBSMkeuaaFNmCcE/OhaiM7R0HJO6ri1IYsDy3Rc9FrtcFg0a73kAd2duKtY49S1RwCkuCNyL0X5muyOlpBots6yd6pQY9qj3LlWAVfenlUBW67T1pWEgLLwWpVk2+YVHhix3ct71NvdvEQWXnGcdK/iW0Evb2+pIv9RCYn4z15600Lxhi68444raUR/GN+OSPWtp96W4kYMjjD+tRksuGxnbtGKs9IY2MpO2EscBiMnp1qbsbcx3RFtrk8rhssu7CH5LWoaxrnZ7XLS3tGkZZFAZpxn19DWg6DFeaTb3k808d+yK3eRN4uh6j2rR9Y1GG47qYpdxZwDnD/nQXdnJPXcQTnH41uPd8ejVO53u7FQxG018XO0E9tatb2+5yqeJc4Fdk3R4xKkXdysf6nG3j1++vhn2hjaOXTy5bufEufQGpGXbyw2/KpVjaPIbJ+tVrcPDMEboelNMu7C45qObEzhuvpSt/pCn5ivippEWqdk9QBALd1ujx13DJH6itQtY1lbKnzevvlsfvUkkUTFJAu4dW29a7yL+3/druYywwTuxjd71HCisSGyBya1bttpml2P+k/8Ay1+f7VZ/ELs5qDF5kaynPCyqGjLH04PWtL1SO+uo7a6UXNsTujmXk5+a+lW6xx2MUa5VNo9MfpUji0vRIGzk7atb+N4Ruz096tZO+XP9+BzmruJmYuzsNoIA9OtdvLpZu0F1GxUjZjFRW405ZJIQoTOOuPFj3r4V3Rt9efvWPQI2Dkc89akhU+NW4PFSQp4c9anULIHUMa75++BQsM9RU2VuFYZx6ZFElpstjG72xWuWv07Tbm3OcSRuvDe6mr74Rp9KctJJtUkKufnX/M3p8zIrl2BO5j7tTfBnScnwtUiqdpUf1fKaQyN5cEDrWvWgS+R3RWhc+MP0q47AWOrW6pAO7XBcEDBzn0r4a9iZNL1CJGkaXxAnceMCr4CKSMF1CNwB9xrWPEpbAUg8Y9a02Zms4uowvvVme7hU5znxebNX0m63k9Ov+VdqLd5talldsru2v91ajIkjLChx3Y3dM8DkV2VaSz726U5kaQMecevtWg6g2raVFKGbBXJY+tCLbCAzZJPFNCrcJtzU1r4QVx86mRVmUHpjcajdWmbIBAb0q67tldgCN2RzWpW3d30gj+2QeM00RMik7SD05x+ld2/2FpmaTKk4bdxzUEbJkAZz61qHZGDUNKke6kVUZf6fXO/rXY+wezkkheXcBwBhutdl41t7zBxvZecLzWtRM0Zxu3LyK1YGa2gmDEFyFKbs45xWl2ZiVEPRRihEvgC9PWryNVtWznqetdrO5e5L4Utk4/Ou7jw0rL/Vx6dK0+I/Q4ph0wfD789K+F+si40+S2kKhhyP/wCaZtzKxGVFPCp3YUDPmwtNKke3Jxj7S8VqV0O+3gZyOoXio2PfKo643VJk4wMj1GK7QwqmqSoEw27dnbWzvGYdD0/4Fd2q8bm4/tqOSRZBv8+OahkxJjjJq9tZdQ02CZCxWNMGNDk/4sVodofpKtt8z8qvXnjkVoekrZqJHQfSCpA45Vc1qTDuWJOCFP8AlVnDHdSCFySu8Ov4DNRkIm0e+RUMiBWx1xXaCdV0uc+HiNj+lXkaXUkhbcT5m44xitRWS2mdQrbS6geLeNv7VbGJ4kiR1YKABzgg/dXYOdrHVYwWyS20/nVu3CqRuBB4pZM5PiUDw0ypL4iWOPSrxlKuGDD2OKhjEcm7cwbHPNRrvfzsflnNdsITHqJdAx3dRtrxKpYRsGPPl9q73dzjr/bU1s6xkjd/nUMbRkA5yfYY/WtD3W9lDuCkleAFyNvzqxs9PhvjdCFUk6vg4U/cKVZLhTIjg8YX5VqjMkbIzeIebw/vWnyrHfRsrHY2AKhk3yKG+qCNvtzU1wirwPCOua7SSGTTZ1UKF7tv8qjhDB3wpGML16gVrCPDOWYuIpAAAI2xuz7mtKt5Y58s39NvLleaspVs9QSQJnaQCa0+8S5s4pFODtHFKzrnPr4hTN4cgZ96v5ttwVY5K8g+1MxkYBd65549ato2jHkJfqSv712zT/SIioYNtzmtpwMlic9K7k/Zr6QvlYbmPOMUlrHJIMcMfSo9Pb+Xo0foB6Z9K7yWxUtcRIVHOWOP0q2uJbhVdF7qNhldrVfSMbja+WBHvUNt3jqqjEgOea08FZAWCngZ/wAVXVv/AFOVXltwrVrM3FnOjAbMFjxn0qW1WNMIuAD4Rt6c1cQb0ZQu5s9MVYsOcIoKnkVMvdybgAoyMEffXYu++laRGBJ5Qc5++sbV9G+6mkKxgDn13YxmryYyak6lSNq9M5xVr5TVvLvmHTjHpn1rtoUR4WPJYHoMetIwU8Kdvplq79Psr/vVtQnI4J4IqNjuJHGPDWg6jG2nxvK6qsa4Jziu1HaabWr2a2QLFbq20Luzn+6uy92l5pMJxmRVwTn24rUmiVwZjj0zurQLuOa8uVZuU8O32/uqHCMTu8HVaP8AXYs6lWPT51qcO2zkPXwn/KpiO+cMMDP71KpTOevrS3Cbi5wT8mq4kaWIABstya+HGTaTRDcY0+eKt1Xu8Bfv4/epVG04U9a1O0Ed6tx1VhtKkVEym0IIA8WAMYqzUibcEyBx5q7Zxk2PelMBTRkZowGGFz1rYp53daj1BpJCG8w64qOTyt4vFWh3kc1q1s+dqtlc1r1utrrMyjblvEK7G3zwwTQ+HcviFCx/nEDhiFTHUDPirTdBi05w0ZYtIPFk7v8A0qMtZh9nQnw5pL7cFB2/OriQ7STtO8Yx7/Ku1FkNMu5NoUI3Ofb+2o5zNDyy59K1BpYGCpja3Vh1rQ7GXVJoogrMzDA8P1a0bQ49K09IYh4gMs2OtOojGQcL6V4rjndwtTRx3EOHbOKuLiNXaNSzFeh96sF/okkYc9TXarnRZxuyqqSKkyuQPrEt1z7eld9B/b+VbxtACgHy0s5UjJwKsdQMMwYE4bjavUVrEn0yUSspWVRt3Kc7vkas79bWNoxM3eN1YDy/KuyfxGsY9Sl0+WbOzgs3kOfamKGOMhgyEZGG4powY1Ixj781DCWVT6Z9sVcMgX0yzY4Nduuzo1ZWSNmWTAKn8Qaa1n0t3juYyHCY3FqkKBS0m3qB+lfDvSzDC186qN/hRemF9Kmac52Lz64NT3028FgzemKhvVjOTlV9c8V2k7UQ2p+h2zqZz4mAPlWrW+7xVZpOp5qwzJAAAxI6mu0Cq2lzY5IQ+tSahGh8TbOMbd3Tmv5hF/1y1Jao7EnrTaexGevtxUkLLyy8r0zX04fR/GoDL7VdSLHHvVdzMfAMZyc1D2XaTUAijczSCW5bO7n7Py5zWi9qItJtu4uSiQjgMfRasO0NpeRLJbzxzxn2PWlvYMeZVU+IZpZLeWRCsoxnJwwxWualbWsU0rSwqypk73Uba1b4yXGpdqEhltIorUOYi6knI3efIrQex+l6t9Cu4L9Zo2Xc0e4c/Pj96s7O3hjEMBURqMCsCPOXUL99alqNpYxvJNMiIoyWZuBXbT+IKw066az0lkunbwyTYziuzvbz+Y6kDLPJLJPMFDMcN19q0yNuNwBIHJJ561YsqxgL9kDzVfxhrOUAA5XbgGu1uvXdvrV1bd4yNG7DbuPvX83vm576TnnzNQDx9Rn2r6SFfBXnFKrSIQvnHVvepkdMMdvB20qDvC/dgqOigdPnUt4tvDM6qpCqWPh5bHpXaL4kXd9LLtmaCJCQIjnP412X1fUbSFrmG/ls1zkKrkc9Oh49K1Ht92m7rY2qTMHHLDGcfeOasdW1f6QT/N7sZAziR/f5VoHZ2ftRqCRT3bTuqMwdnLgY54J5HSrPsLbyN3U7bnXcR+dXHw/tdD0ZL0X7WkzksAHIHFWPxMvtEkKDtEzcZ7sbmxX/AD7dywEusSY6k7MdeK1Dt7o+tWjm51cyHnwTP1/Cu0l3ZXV40tuihMYBX0r4fXxm7QWaMqgtMo3Z561pFvJGwDsTuPOTjire3TwqACo6cZ/WpmPdMoXI5HT5V8SGuYe1+p7lVf6pVTt+rmtk3vN/u090j+Nm8W35UNSi2tvdR9YeX9qh12AttDqT7bqW4W4XnBX5dauIwOcEe2auZJfEqhTnhun718S9SguO0T28CiPueHcE8t+HFfT57c4S4YjPXfjdS69fuykzNgDy5zj8atdSu4SzmZv/AMb8fjWm9o9Q0e4iura5eOTdkNk8f7I6Uvxk7SNeK8l1HISCBvhjb1/4612m+Imr9sJE+nTCVYxsQJGFH6cVd3zclsnHhz71JekMqFvGDnFW88rTRt6Nk8ffUc0iohGcMCDn767GyNaa1atDGu5ZVJOcetaPJNPDA+VCsuRkZ/WtJ37Tvb09OlTh2iYAZBBGfwr4x6VNF2v1AJLwZDhduNvSv5XJ/wDUtV99Jk/mYGqIiIv9LJ5jGep+VGJVm0oy6opDLgqvlk+YqKO0/k98Tq+RHKA0uCdnXC4H5V2fmjk0+J4m3rtPOGHtzipJGO0HrnitYvo7OxkmYsDEGf19Bn0q+uzfapcXIZtsjsfrHqc136NIzMGIPCnbUTeIAqzDbjH3c13ysQGGD1B96jkLRjJwfRvetxMh3MQOu09BUZXxbtpONwX2qVBLHuPKg9VXk0sQkdnKj5bTgfiKkjPeBnCrIfWrVvCSzKFHlX2rSb02t5E2QSGycV2N1Az6PbSh2dWj5b34rQZO9hWTaVbGDzjNXBYrtONuPUE/qK+Ny3Efba6VFTusLubxdDXeSLwu3aOBWpv3V9eQrp7briHxOTjfn0xSEv8AybbpwQBhvBP+rA4zUVrcR6bqsSWMO7O+PvPK4wfFXZ2KT+WxvKI0lxgiPoOlQwhY1ywJ68fLmviNeLpfZW+lZtpaPuwfvUmja95GQpVM87fxavoEkLdARnqKh7wIS3h3AgH8atMpKQWAyPEp9KjQJG4B3EcgPz+VNcCRiCQMckY+tSzBiv2hnH5U7OqHaWAP9v71G5UHByF5PP1qRmuAGIJUrz4vrUIu4Uhjj6wFWtx3cgdWyynPWvg3qxuuzscLkhoWIHOepz0rQf8A3dDu9PfH6VMo2MZGzu9jXx+kaHtc+DEAwXGTz0r6XL/1sdXvZ25utQ7037KWjCbNvh/Cv+SMskMC/TZ2eF9xdSBn2XBpOzJjjvN81ywnHIDkbW9+OK7MZtbFISGIiwnj8R6eallKYxnOfRa+N2o7ey8UW7BklX15bAJqS8eJgqAnP91Q6jJIwBOWzz04/OklM52bVADctz+3FRsqzMrNg7uPFxVrIWAYSDCqV83zpoyknIzuHXdTQssyqfLn2z+tSLwVTzqec1JamVI8Y8PiPFR7EhTcSHHUqvNTKJI2cPlWU7QevSkZRCRIdpUDBzjnHH4V8F9Ynh1aSANujdQuzGcH7/atKURQRKpxheRVzjaDnFfxE89sVJG1kgUnnr1rbM3Pvz5qR4pSsgU94ARyBjrUcYlADdG6HHP400aKBwST154/KrVVjXwjFd1iJcHliP1NfHu6kQaZEmACWY5P4V9GMnBIqO1DOW3HzbaiTxlGAC4wNtBUWUkgsG4APpjmmlEasVyG9PalZpIYyDgeYg+pqSQlmAAG0ZFBjNHk9QA345pQU2uAuSRTRKyE7QFzwPapnCbFA4PWolEszKOAviFfBOJpu11uA21SvI9+asIQscaYGAOPzorujZT0U5r+JGB4+2j733q4BHuOK7uL2b86/9k=" width="217" /><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-60894410160903136222020-04-22T11:10:00.007+00:002023-01-10T13:23:40.051+00:00Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun<p class="fake"><br /></p><div class="media-holder media-holder-draggable media-holder-figure" contenteditable="false" draggable="true"><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="482" data-orig-width="346"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="482" data-orig-width="346" src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/344ce8fe853bef85f3e6964711d77c2e/af4d0c553665c95b-71/s540x810/5365f01b23801202150326290ad96b8d7b3e4482.jpg" /></figure></div><p>Some years ago I came across this self-portrait of the French artist <b>
Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun</b> in the National Gallery (London). So
captivated was I that as soon as I got home I got stuck into the
sources. The owner of one website in particular had a scanned copy of a
biography written by the art critic Haldane MacFall (of whom <a href="https://darklanecreative.com/haldane-macfalls-whistler-2/">more here</a>).
The scan had not been edited at all and so contained a lot of scan
artefacts and imperfections. I offered to correct it and did so, and a
few weeks later sent him my HTML and text versions. </p><p>The only reply I ever got from the website creator was that he couldn’t look it over<b> just yet</b>
because he was going to Antarctica - which I thought was an extreme
form of criticism - but after a while I got over it, assumed he’d
fallen into a crevasse, dumped my efforts to Google Drive or whatever it
was called then, and forgot about it.</p><p>Anyway, <a href="https://batguano.com/vigeebio.html#1Begin">here it is </a>.
I don’t know if he took on my changes, or did his own, or just left it,
because I’ve just read my version and I don’t have the energy to read
it again just yet. But enjoy MacFall’s <i>unique</i> style and enjoy
<b>Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun</b>
‘s marvellous portraits.</p><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-44948057895450422382020-04-12T12:30:00.012+00:002023-01-10T13:35:22.150+00:00Lockdown reading<p> <img alt="Image" class="" /><img alt="Image" class="" /><img alt="Image" class="RoN4R tPU70 xhGbM" /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3mhHMo4T7-x2bHKa6n92d2GIeJkOiVm5QNTpynETJFSrZxuGMp1jcFtd_EFBRLNSpXNjRZFuyLO2aV24Inw4jQjkCScAcTiYHPJtfM8rDaGn5BpfhpaNH7rpLaUw2UB-gUlPHxsJjpNymBv01ztt0mBG8rbOR5Ki1COp1V_gOVKhHL0hzw/s380/2a96dbdab74837aa7734b57b670977dd4ea5afe9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="380" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3mhHMo4T7-x2bHKa6n92d2GIeJkOiVm5QNTpynETJFSrZxuGMp1jcFtd_EFBRLNSpXNjRZFuyLO2aV24Inw4jQjkCScAcTiYHPJtfM8rDaGn5BpfhpaNH7rpLaUw2UB-gUlPHxsJjpNymBv01ztt0mBG8rbOR5Ki1COp1V_gOVKhHL0hzw/s320/2a96dbdab74837aa7734b57b670977dd4ea5afe9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span>I’m seeing too many recommendations for easy or comfort reading: I
seem to swing the other way: when I was in for root canal work I was
reading <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.world-war-pictures.com/siegfried-sassoon.php" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Siegfried Sassoon’s War poems</a>.
It was an almost instinctive reaction, not calculated at all, to make
my trepidation and potential pain trivial. Since lockdown I’ve been
reading Franz Werfel’s account of the Armenian genocide “<a href="https://href.li/?https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09pkmpc" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Forty Days of Musa Dagh</a>” which has a similar anaesthetising effect against the inconvenience and boredom... as well as being a very very good book.</span>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-69016791761812223722020-04-11T12:35:00.004+00:002023-01-10T13:37:33.283+00:00Starlings<p> <span></span></p><h2>From this week's <a href="https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fnewyorker.com&t=OWU3OWNiMzZjY2VjMDAzYzZjNmQ1NjQ5MWZmNjZkODY3OGJmM2QwZiwyNjE3ZTViZTFiYmE4YjUxMDdiMDE0NjdlZjRhMWExNzNjN2U5ZGRk&ts=1673357398" rel="noopener" target="_blank">New Yorker</a> (Despatches From a Pandemic 13 April) "Starlings are an invasive species; in 1890, a Shakespeare enthusiast released sixty starlings into Central Park, as part of a whimsical mission to introduce to North America every bird ever mentioned in Shakespeare’s works; today we have two hundred million."</h2><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-91778710796955062912020-04-02T12:38:00.003+00:002023-01-10T13:40:15.037+00:00Some Writing, as in "that's SOME writing".<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3oUCvd8NizR2z3TzxlL2XK3zuTFxMcvDvlzmoaB9zfJ9-lFFnEwK-xanzupD_7DlWVn_8_fK2NzVVD82fX8yHeMaERsrYmwfGGPk99PyzpQpGOwrAvMwkiK239ohda0QyQv_cVG-Wp6U4GlU096QUz67IoIzi_XJYa5NxRC0InpA6OGj0A/s245/91582af33d7981f55075e1b557c2026d0aec697e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="200" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3oUCvd8NizR2z3TzxlL2XK3zuTFxMcvDvlzmoaB9zfJ9-lFFnEwK-xanzupD_7DlWVn_8_fK2NzVVD82fX8yHeMaERsrYmwfGGPk99PyzpQpGOwrAvMwkiK239ohda0QyQv_cVG-Wp6U4GlU096QUz67IoIzi_XJYa5NxRC0InpA6OGj0A/s1600/91582af33d7981f55075e1b557c2026d0aec697e.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> <span><div class="k31gt"><p>"A London charwoman does her work, takes her money and goes away, sterile as the wind of the desert. She does not spongily, greedily, absorb your concerns, study your nose to see if you have been crying again, count the greying hairs of your head, proffer sympathetic sighs and vacuum pauses and then hurry off to wring herself out, spongily, all over the village, with news of what’s going on between those two at Pond House." (from "Selected Stories (Virago Modern Classics Book 383)" by Sylvia Townsend Warner) </p></div><div class="k31gt"><p>For more, see <a href="http://sylviatownsendwarner.tumblr.com" rel="noopener" target="_blank">sylviatownsendwarner.tumblr.com</a></p></div></span><p></p>Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-25355003302914847562013-12-28T17:51:00.000+00:002013-12-28T17:51:29.018+00:00Twitter fun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
Today I made my own Twitter app. Find out how I did it at <a href="http://xmodulo.com/2013/12/access-twitter-command-line-linux.html">http://xmodulo.com/2013/12/access-twitter-command-line-linux.html
</a>. Linux only, btw.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-40157961985578326422013-03-14T22:20:00.000+00:002013-03-14T22:22:17.177+00:00Books & MusicIt's been a week of <a href="http://http://amzn.to/15PkOfu">Squid (The Curious, Exciting and Slightly Disturbing Science Of)</a> and <a href="http://http://bit.ly/ZrJK9g">Beck</a>. Until now I've liked the <i>idea</i> of Beck more than the actuality, but nearly 20 years on I'm getting hooked on his inventive way with sound.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-50262975081564622232013-02-18T18:22:00.002+00:002013-02-18T18:22:33.961+00:00Jolly Tunes.<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzRIiXG9E9Y">Amon Duul II - "Hawknose Harlequin"</a>. 9'52" of genuine 100% hippy shit; I love it. You will too, if you <i>try</i>.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-46388865103613932432013-02-13T10:17:00.001+00:002013-02-13T10:17:13.496+00:00Becoming PopeSome time ago my friend W----- decided that it was his ambition to become Pope. <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-21440743">Recent events</a> have almost certainly reignited this ambition but W----- is now almost 21 and has some catching up to do. The following is a list of first steps W----- needs to URGENTLY take towards attaining Popehood by the time he's in his seventies:
1) Start believing in God. This may or may not be optional.
2) Become a Roman Catholic. Probably compulsory.
3) Start training for the priesthood. It is well-known that only Cardinals can get to be Pope, and you have to do the grunt-work first.
Well, that's it for now. I'll report back when those 3 things are done. Please bless us in our endeavours.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-15852040342868510062013-02-12T09:52:00.001+00:002013-02-12T09:53:09.594+00:00Never worked for me eitherIn Last Week's News, <a href="Tortoise sex encouraged by French pianist Richard Clayderman at London Zoo - video | World news | guardian.co.uk">someone had the idea that Richard Clayderman could induce erotic behaviour in tortoises </a> and were proved wrong.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-80545969044404934282013-02-04T16:24:00.000+00:002013-02-04T16:25:34.241+00:00Louis v RickLouis v Rick: <a href="http://louisvsrick.com/">The Story of a Man Who Taught his Cat to Use Instant Messaging</a>.Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6947263.post-20317473647468336332013-02-01T11:29:00.001+00:002013-02-01T11:29:46.029+00:00Valentine's Day<p>is soon, chaps. The 99p shop has Valentine's posters in the window... what shall I buy?<br>
</p>
Colin Daveyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17576296718716123104noreply@blogger.com0London, London51.507336 -0.1276831