What's for Breakfast?

Even in the days when I was the right age to be a fan of Radio 1, I’d find myself passing it up, politely. I suppose John Peel was an exception, although I couldn’t include myself in that body of self-proclaimed ‘regulars’ that appeared to become artificially inflated on news of his death – oh man, he was the best. That man saved my life! I never missed any of his shows. Really?

But such is the clatter in the kitchen, as the BBC gives free rein to the incumbent breakfast chef, it’s almost impossible to remain oblivious to the comings and goings. From the unmanageable ego of Chris Evans, to the moans and misgivings about Moyles, the DJ’s chair in the breakfast studio is never less than hot.

Now I’m hearing that Nick Grimshaw has lost a million listeners. But apparently the lad is quite a ‘card’, and he has an “encyclopedic knowledge of, and endless enthusiasm for, all things pop.” Two essential prerequisites, I’d have thought, if you’re a DJ on mainstream radio, aiming at winning over a new audience of under-25s.

I get a little fed up with all this hand-wringing over whether the nation will fall helplessly in love with the new face of breakfast radio. Of course, we all want a half-decent presenter who is well informed, enthusiastic and savvy to the needs and wants of his or her audience, but there’s something missing, isn't there? I know, isn’t there suppose to be some music in the early morning equation?

Even if the powers that be could persuade someone to serve a breakfast that’s easy on the patter and heavy on the playlists, I still wouldn’t tune-in, but that might just be because I’ve never got over “Flowers in the Rain” from 1967.

Notes on a Samurai

I’ve been reading more than writing of late. Well, that’s only partly true I suppose. As is often the case, once I immerse myself in a stream of words written by others, those words that represent a large percentage of my being, tend to react to a change in pressure, resulting in improved buoyancy. In short, I’m floating. Sidetracked in sentences and carried carelessly on currents of conversation. Oh dear, does all that sound a tad theatrical? Sorry about that.

I blame the person who left this note under the dedication in a recently acquired copy of Helen De Witt’s ‘The Last Samurai’. What began life as a well-wishing note to Tim, has taken my imagination in all sorts of directions. Any number of plots might spring from those few handwritten words beneath the Shakespearian quotation and charming print.

“Good luck for the play, Tim – give those fairies hell!
Happy Christmas 2001, from Emma, Julian, Florence and Colette.”

But I have been busy with my own work. Honestly I have. And who knows, I might just find a spot for Tim and those rather vulnerable fairies.

Lit Love

we've always soared
above silence,
never jumped
at dropping pins,
never looked
for fond response.
too busy,
swapping grins.

we've loved in cloudy
exhalation.
post-coital
nicotine
held our nerve,
made others gasp
at a habit
so obscene.

we've aged between
exhausted breaths,
stained questions
flown with ash.
in acrid beauty,
we struck a match
that thrived in a sparking,
flinty flash.

More of the Mag

Building a Picture

Apparently, the architect John Portman was advised by Frank Lloyd Wright, “Go seek Emerson”. I suppose Frank could have cut to the chase and landed this Emerson quote on the young man, “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” But that would have been a little like presenting a valuable gift, unwrapped. Portman’s gift for being himself would only see daylight after layers of adverse architecture and disagreeable design had been unpicked and discarded.

Connor.carey at en.wikipedia [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Even though I’m someone who couldn’t erect a garden shed – actually, because I’m someone who couldn’t erect a garden shed, building and buildings hold a deep fascination for me. Whether I’ve stood in the shadow of some modern monument, or traced the battlements of a forgotten fortress, I always leave the site with an image in my mind. And I always wonder if it bears any resemblance to that which occupied the thoughts of the architect, before any stone was cut or concrete poured.

You see, I don’t get a buzz from knowing a building as an executed plan, concept configured, aggregate arranged and assembled. I need to imagine how it was built, purely as an idea in the mind of the architect. But perhaps that’s just me trying to be myself in a world that’s constantly trying make me something else.

Taking Five

We were out for a walk this morning, hoping that the warmth of the sun might melt away our sore throats and dry up our sniffles. I’m sure a scientist out there somewhere will tell me all about the physical benefits of the sun, but what I was most interested in today, was being lifted out of the trough of a cold and into a world of brilliantly lit greenery. Through watery eyes, we watched chaffinches flitting from tree to hedgerow, gently splitting the late spring air with their calls, and remaining oblivious that they had retuned our ears to a scale that Gerard Manley Hopkins would have been comfortable with.

I was thinking this was just what the doctor ordered, and almost immediately wondered what his prescribed dose might be. The answer came in the form of a tune. Take Five, to be precise. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head ever since. And if you’re not a Brubeck fan, Nigel Kennedy has a fair stab at it. Have a listen to track 2 of his new album, here.

Ugly News

When you walk in open countryside, you’re not only afforded the opportunity to stretch your legs, but to stretch your mind, as well. I do some of my most productive thinking under a big sky. There’s also a therapeutic aspect, in that much of the world’s ugly news is temporarily swallowed by the landscape. Yes, it follows you home and eventually seeps back into your consciousness. And although the horrendous admissions of an octogenarian celebrity, and the cruel hopelessness that shrouds bereaved Bangladeshi families aren’t made any the less depressing, you find yourself giving thanks for being granted the time and space to gain perspective.

It’s a process, and one that’s repeated over and over. Ugly news is perpetual and, for now, I’m able to match it step for step. But worldly issues are suddenly reduced to zero when the concentrated point of tragedy jabs you in the heart, unexpectedly.

Yesterday, we were walking home, when we met a neighbour out with his dog. We exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather and swapped a little gossip. All the while, the dregs of my preoccupations were sloshing about somewhere in the back of my mind, until the moment when our neighbour turned away and fell silent. I thought maybe he’d spotted something we’d missed, as he appeared to be tracking an object with his eyes, his mouth moving silently and slowly. After a long pause he turned back to face us, bottom lip buckling, his elderly head chasing the right words and struggling for composure. For a stomach-sinking moment he stared at us with watering eyes and announced, with the bleak calm of a man petrified, “We’ve had some sad news. My eldest son has been diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus.”

Flight of Fancy?

I may have mentioned it before on this blog, but I’m not a born traveller. I wouldn’t naturally join the ranks of competition winners who, when asked what they will spend the money on answer, “Oh, definitely a holiday.”

But does the fact that you’ve taken your place on this planet, with little or no desire to roam far from your home turf make you less adventurous? Oh, hang on, before you all rush to answer that, I should add that I also prefer wholesome but ‘plain’ food. Oh, and I drink almost no alcohol these days. Oh, and I’m incredibly selective when it comes to TV viewing. Okay, okay, try stifling your yawns for a minute. The fact is, I do have a wonderful imagination, where I can construct a set, create characters, build situations, see it come crashing down, and begin all over again.

You know the older I get, the more I appreciate my head-space. Sweep the clutter to the edges, make sure the area is kept well lit, and…action!

This may or may not be related, but yesterday I was driving through a tunnel of green tinted beech trees. There was nothing on the road ahead, and the strong sunlight was pushing colour at me with such intensity, it felt like I was entering an Instamatic ‘snap’. Some unidentified choral music was playing on the radio, and I began to wonder how a story might unfold if somehow, a driver on a lonely road actually found himself venturing deeper and deeper into a photographic representation of his surroundings. A little odd I suppose, but as I started telling myself that not all adventures begin in the airport departure lounge, I realised how wrong I was. Surely every traveller enters the image of their destination, long before touchdown?