Square Sunshine

Magpie Tales: Roter Fleck II

2012-01-29T17:26:00.000Z

Horns and plates,
planets and gates,
a tongue, a boomerang too.
Ol' Roter Fleck
gives a crick in the neck,
with colours and shapes all askew.

More Magpie Tales

Changing Education Paradigms

2012-01-27T07:47:00.000Z

Do take a few minutes to watch this clip. I'd be very interested to hear what you think.

Out of Sorts

2012-01-22T13:45:00.000Z

Cast your mind back and try to remember how it felt to be ill, when you were a child. Try to avoid reiterating those stories recalled by your parents. For instance, I have been told that having contracted influenza as an infant, I was delirious. Consequently, I almost remember that fevered state of mind. I can almost feel the beads of perspiration being sponged from my brow, even though the entire experience remains forever locked in my delirium, with only parental testimony to give it credence.

I do remember being confined to bed, only leaving it to sit shakily while my clammy sheets were changed. I remember the waves of unpredictable heat that raced through my small frame, leaving me listless and tearful. Also, the uncontrollable coughing, retching, and the ever present white enamelled bowl, perched ominously on a nearby chair.

I remember how the house felt, on a day when I should have been at school. The daily chores, that unfolded like hopeful auditions, and the sounds of innocuous invasion. A milk float, hauling to a hum, its tinkling load running rings along the the unmade roads around about. Barely audible passings of the day merged with birdsong, quickly evaporating after the effort of squeezing through a cracked window.

A snowscape by Speckly Woo, created during a moment of respite.

Then, oddly, there were occasional pulses of energy. Respites that tricked me into thinking I was over the worst. Brief spells when I would lose myself in a comic or utter something cheeky, before watching my world float in and out of focus once more. I remember wondering if I would ever get better, then, as the signs of recovery became undeniable, half-wishing for a relapse to the land of extra cuddles and soft pillows.

TLC

2012-01-19T20:46:00.000Z

It's been a day of offering a little extra TLC to our SW. She's been quite poorly (it looks like chicken pox) so we called round, with soup, date and walnut loaf, and a box of unseasonal strawberry split ice-lollies.

Only a couple of days ago, she was happily exploiting a little app on my phone. Today she was all hot and bothered, and struggling with a persistent cough and raised temperature. Hopefully, she'll soon be on the mend.

While their sister was tucked up on the sofa, the twins were their usual busy selves. One minute, laying wooden train track in the hall, the next dressing up in Cinderella sling-backs and princess gowns. At one point we were treated to a musical interlude (I knew those little keyboards were a mistake) accompanied by a few improvised ballet movements.

Although it gets a little worrying when our diminutive duo leaves the room to discuss their next surprise.

Panda to the press

2012-01-18T15:27:00.000Z

Spare a thought for poor Tian Tian (aka Sweetie). In case you haven't already heard, there are those who think it inappropriate to have a panda included in the BBC's female faces of 2011. What do you think, does she outclass the BBC's choice for April, 2010, when they went for Peppa Pig?

Dragon's return

2012-01-16T17:10:00.000Z

I posted this a little over two years ago. This seemed an appropriate time to give the icy beast another outing.

I once saw you in a cloud, your belly full of setting sun,

Your open jaws and scaly frame descending over fields of wheat.

Then you were lost, a sunken shape, a monstrous form undone,

'Til winter's blast brought you to claim a place here at my feet.

Magpie Tales: Not Raving, but Frowning

2012-01-15T16:40:00.000Z

Somewhere on the dial
my signal was strong.
Careless cooing,
first formed phrases.

Somewhere in the mix
my voice vanished.
Calls corrupted,
discourse dissed.

Somewhere on the surface
my notes, floating.
Words in the swell,
ideas limp, and soused.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Head lines

2012-01-13T22:21:00.000Z

I'm following on neatly from matters concerning what grows on the the head, to what goes on the head. Your choice of headgear speaks volumes, you know. And, that which caresses the cranium may also prove to be an indicator as to what's going on inside. For instance, we have Sherlock Holmes and his deerstalker, and the dear ladies of Ascot and their magnificent millinery. Then there was my maternal grandmother, who sometimes donned a battered sun-hat when sitting in her makeshift conservatory but, more often than not, settled for The Sun to protect herself from...well, the sun.

It would seem that our daughter was influenced by her great grandmother from a very early age. I was tempted to insert a speech bubble for Mags, but I think she was probably lost for words.

The bald truth is, it's you...isn't it?

2012-01-12T16:14:00.000Z

Someone, not a million scribbling miles from me, has just mentioned that feeling of surprise we can experience when a stranger approaches and announces, out of the blue, "I know you." Apprehension levels intensify if the claim is followed up with, "I've seen your photo in the paper."

When I was writing a weekly column, many moons ago, my editor decided there should be a photo of me included with the byline. I remember him joking about not wanting to receive bills for repairs to the camera. Ho, ho.

A few days later, after the first photo (below) appeared, I was stood in the queue at the local butcher's. An elderly man entered the shop, nodded a greeting, and I acknowledged him. He began to smile, and I noticed that his eyes had started to grow large with excitement. He was definitely about to have a 'eureka' moment. "Hey, Fred," he yelled to the tall, mustachioed man behind the counter, "you know who this chap is, don't you?" Fred looked me up and down and slowly shook his head. The elderly man became more insistent. "He writes for the paper. You know, the Sunday Independent" Fred wore the expression of a man unimpressed, and returned his attention to wrapping my sausages.

I paid up and was about to make my exit, when the elderly man caught my arm. He leaned into me and whispered, "Us scribes should stick together, you know." He turned his head, checking to see who might overhear him, before leaning in closer, "I used to write up silver band events in my younger days." With that, he left without making a purchase and headed off up the road, pushing his bicycle with some urgency.

On the negative side, one of our daughter's teachers - an Alopecia sufferer - took me to task over the first article to carry my mugshot. Poor woman, she accused me of being provocative and hurtful. Perhaps, subconsciously, I had been infected with a touch of the tabloids. You tell me.

Shredded Tweet

2012-01-09T16:50:00.000Z

Like many, I occasionally find myself steadily working through periods of assessment and reassessment. The process can be triggered by any number of things, and may take several days or weeks to complete.

Just before Christmas I was seriously thinking of closing my blog, but that old blogger's chestnut was summarily roasted on an open fire. I realised that I was merely experiencing a malaise that can creep in when the writer's eye has wandered off the ball.

As it happens, my mental clear-out hasn't claimed too many casualties. Some minor adjustments to the priority list, and the relatively small sacrifice of my Twitter account. So, thank you to all of you who followed me, mentioned me, retweeted, etc, etc. I tried to fall in love with the concept, but failed miserably. Consequently the button served only as a reminder of my incapacity to engage meaningfully in 140 characters.

So, having shaken some conversational sand from my shoe, I continue along Blog Beach, scanning the tideline for surprises and resisting the temptation to imagine that the best things are always just a little beyond the horizon.

I should have guessed

2012-01-04T21:25:00.000Z

SW - Grandad, let's play Scooby-Doo.

Daphne's been kidnapped by a monster, and she'll marry whoever rescues her.

Me - But what if it's Scooby who rescues Daphne?

SW - Then Daphne will marry a dog.

You, boy!

2012-01-03T15:32:00.000Z

The world outside is working its way through elemental costume changes today. Howling winds, skies collapsing in heaps of grey, and slanted rain too over-the-top for any gothic hero to face. So it's a good day for reading, especially my neglected blog list. At first, Tim Footman's post raised a smile, but out of the murky roots of Ronald Searle's humour, a few ghosts materialised from my own schooldays.

When I hear myself telling a tale of how I had my ears boxed, witnessed classroom comics being dragged from seats by their hair, turned away as a sadistic Maths teacher took a run up to slipper boys backsides with a size ten, even I remain slightly sceptical. Surely, somehow, time has tricked me. The distance across all those years has afforded me room to exaggerate. But, no, unfortunately my recollections are all too accurate.

The twisting of my ear for chewing in a biology lesson was executed perfectly, like an artist signing off a piece of work. The Master in question, a former member of an RAF bomber crew and pugilist of some note, regarded it his duty to prise potential out of his classes, with hard discipline. If it couldn't be twisted, poked, or slapped free, there was always humiliation. Snide references to an awkward boy's pubescent physique would draw forth more than enough earth-swallowing embarrassment to do the job.

Those who compiled the tables of grips and tortures at my old Secondary Modern, were definitely more Scarfe than Searle.

Holmes is Our Sheer Luck

2012-01-02T23:11:00.000Z

Can it really be true that Christmas is still centred around a selection of naff seasonal extravaganzas recorded in the dying heat of summer? I think I know the answer. So, just before the festivities began, I picked my way through the carcass of Christmas Past, by way of the schedules, and highlighted a few programmes to save for a rainy day. Most of my chosen items were old films, leaning heavily towards B&W, the Ealing productions of David Copperfield and Nicholas Nickleby among my favourites. In fact, these little gems vaguely set the trend for some subsequent browsing I did, for free eBooks in the public domain. Almost as if I was creating the dots and joining them simultaneously, a series of Sherlock Holmes titles came to light. And, in the kind of blinding flash that sends your magnifying glass into a spin, I was reminded how quality television can rise from the ashes of the over-cooked seasonal offerings we've been served for decades. Series 2 of the thoroughly modern Sherlock returns to our screens, and in some style.

A tale of mystery that was...

dramatic

comic

and occasionally dreamlike.

Paradoxical Android

2011-12-30T22:04:00.003Z

Where do the days disappear to? I remember floating painlessly through the season of give and take, and now I discover I've landed close to the eve of a another new year. I posted my Christmas message, like so many bloggers do, but without giving any real thought to when I might post again. The days passed and I realised, with some alarm, that I hadn't actually missed the act of writing for the blog. And, until today, calling a halt with a Christmas wish was beginning to seem like a perfectly reasonable Square Sunset.

Photo by Speckly Woo!

So, what happened? The truth is, I can't put my finger on it. And when I get close to explaining the way I feel, I'm reduced to seeking refuge in nonsensical theories. Perhaps Santa did a spot of rewiring on the naughty boy who forgot to leave out a glass of sherry and a mince pie? More likely, I've soft-landed in a place of new discoveries. Descending under a parachute, strapped into my holiday harness, the familiar has taken on a fresh and appealing look. The new comes tied with ribbons of promise. In short, there have been distractions, and even though they have positioned themselves some distance apart, around our home, their power is unrelenting. Haruki Murakami on my desk, Paul Murray in the lounge, and my new Samsung Galaxy phone preoccupying me in the same way Dinky Toys would have done, in my childhood. Whilst the attraction of good books comes as no surprise, the phone phenomenon caught me out. Mobiles have never really done it for me. But this little cutie lights up at the merest touch and has no inhibitions when it comes to displaying a dazzling array of apps. I guess when you finally have proof that the world can fit into your pocket, it's little wonder things get a bit strange, while some sections of the old grey matter play catch-up. Bear with me, I'm sure I'll be feeling better in 2012.

Happy New Year!

Christmas Post

2011-12-20T06:40:00.000Z

A very Happy Christmas to one and all!

If you have five minutes to spare, why not pop over and take a look at the
Poetry24 Review of the Year 2011.

Magpie Tales: Exposure

2011-12-18T20:13:00.000Z

You squeezed me in this photo,
caught me with your lens.
You crushed me with embarrassment
as I exited the 'Men's'.

You snapped my desperation,
and sure as eggs are eggs,
my arms in imitation
of my awkwardly crossed legs.

You sharpened up your focus,
and after the third take,
reminded me, hysterically,
of my obvious mistake.

But, as I made off for the 'Ladies',
I overheard someone
call out to you,
"Hey Mister, your flies are all undone."

More Magpie Tales

The Towered of the County

2011-12-15T21:25:00.001Z

Building a tower with dominoes

is a doddle...

...but kids just have to up the ante

don't they?

They even install security

to protect their interests.

Miserable and the Unmissable

2011-12-14T22:26:00.001Z

I once read a quote by Bob Geldof that rubbished school productions of Christmas nativity plays. In fact he said, "School plays are total complete and utter sh*te." I suppose he's entitled to his opinion. I felt much the same way about his creative output, until I heard his most recent effort, entitled, 'How To Compose Popular Songs That Will Sell'. I suppose, if nothing else, this album went some way towards proving that, behind the self-styled image of 'grumpy old man' there really beats a heart of vinyl.

As we took our seats in the village hall, this afternoon, for a school performance of 'Tinsel and Tea Towels', Geldof's words were still echoing far off in the distance. But his whinges were blown away as we were confronted with a sea of small children, haloed in tinsel, craning their necks for a glimpse of a friendly relative, and desperately trying not to get their angel's wings tangled up.

Speckly Woo and her classmates were dressed for the donkey dance. Complete with plaited tail, long ears, and a streak of stubbornness usually reserved for real donkeys, they entertained us, along with the rest of the cast, for almost 40 minutes.

Yes, there were moments when someone's lines deserted them. The singing wasn't without some collective drifting off-key, and one of the three kings gave a long yawn and removed his hat, near the end, before replacing it back to front. So what, Bob?

Unforgettable

2011-12-13T19:58:00.000Z

About a year ago, we drove to Somerset, armed with a bottle of single malt and a tray of Belgian chocolates. The recipient, my friend of several decades, who was bravely living his last few weeks. It was a special visit, on a number of levels. We probably both knew that we wouldn't get to swap old stories anymore, share a past or raise a glass.

We found him having one of his better days, and he insisted on drinking a couple of decent measures before his wheelchair ride around the block. He was very patient with me as I got to grips with crossing roads and negotiating kerbs, and gave me a running commentary on each area we passed through. About twenty minutes into our outing, he asked me to stop. I was worried that he was feeling some discomfort, but he simply wanted to roll a cigarette. He'd quit smoking for a long, long time, but…

Today, we received a Christmas card from his wife. Enclosed, was a letter of thanks to family and friends, for their support during such a difficult time. She is slowly rebuilding after her loss. Grief is an unpredictable state. While Mags was moved to tears, I couldn't quite place my own feelings. They hovered for several minutes between numb sadness of his passing, and the sheer joy of having known him as a friend.

I wrote the following, to be read at his funeral. They are just words, but something of me is caught up in them, and hopefully, he knows that.

From where you are, beyond a Winter moon,
I hope you can still share my memories.
I hope the clear air plays the sweetest tune
In strains that put your gentle soul at ease.
I wept a wish for you, my dearest friend.
From where you are, you'll come and join us still,
To stroll along a coast without an end,
To watch the sunset over Portland Bill.
From where you are, beyond our future days,
I hope you can still sense how much you mean
To those of us who loved your quiet ways,
And revel in the man that you have been.
From where you are, your mark will stand out, clear.
I hope you know, we miss you being here.

Magpie Tales: Sand in Hand

2011-12-11T21:13:00.001Z

After you left,
I stood, still,
waiting to take
my first breath
of loneliness.

No single tear
was teased,
no resistance
to the weight
of departure.

Shreds of sighs
choked my lungs,
rattled my heart,
trampled lines
of thought.

Salt of fear
trickled down
in laughter lines,
once kissed free
of exposure.

More Magpie Tales

Rows by any other name

2011-12-09T20:18:00.001Z

Anyone who has tried to outwit a five year old will have also experienced that wilting feeling, as some piece of silliness is dissected, examined and neutralised with a logical one-liner. When I downloaded some photographs from Speckly Woo's camera, recently, I began to wonder if there might be a connection between the order she's currently drawn to through the viewfinder, and the analytical processes that help her to see her world so clearly.

Let there be music

2011-12-08T21:43:00.001Z

I've just caught up with the latest documentary in the Imagine series, on BBC One. This week we were treated to a feast of music from Rajastahn. The programme was centred around those musicians whose traditional repertoires, and supplementary incomes, may be threatened by a fast-modernising India. It seems the trick is to maintain the integrity of the traditional, without consigning it to the archives. The Jodhpur RIFF Festival seeks, not only to keep the music alive, but to raise its profile in the hope that it will flourish and evolve.

I found it fascinating. If you have a few minutes to spare, watch the clip below (2010 promotion video) for a tasty treat.

Tumbled

2011-12-07T22:11:00.001Z

I was rummaging around in my digital photography course folder, from four years ago, and found this...

...I wondered where I left my glasses.

Magic Forest

2011-12-06T19:50:00.001Z

Kids seem instinctively drawn to the weird and wonderful. So, perhaps the designers of the nursery rhyme characters we discovered in the 'Magic Forest' recognised an opportunity to test the boundaries.

What's the betting that Johnnie's new master will be straight out of a John Wyndham novel?

Tragically, Humpty's looks suffered after all the King's horses and all the King's men were ordered to go work on an egg.

If only the maid had been in the garden, hanging out the clothes, she may never have been disfigured in a preemptive blackbird strike within the close confines of the kitchen.

Peppa with Everything

2011-12-05T22:01:00.001Z

Speckly Woo was five on Saturday and, faced with the choice of a traditional party or a day out that included dinosaurs, a winter wonderland and Peppa Pig World, she asked that we all wrap up warm and head for the theme park just a few miles away.

This is a sample of what we saw...

...you can guess what's coming next.

Told you so.

We all got to meet the main man after this and, take it from me, neither SW or her sisters indicated that they had seen any similarities between me and Santa. Of course, I keep my beard closely trimmed.

Outside, PP, herself was popping up...

...all over the place.

After about five hours, it was back to SW's for dinner, jelly and ice-cream, and birthday cake. Lemonade for the girls and Winter Pimms for the frost-bitten grown-ups. I'm sure Peppa would have approved.

Magpie Tales: Inbread

2011-12-04T18:01:00.001Z

Lunch break,
a fault line.
Café crevice,
canteen crack.

Free time,
make a mark.
Sink teeth,
eat words.

Trade desks
for Times tables.
Sip slowly,
swallow lines.

See clock
swill the hour.
Feel full,
not fulfilled.

More Magpie Tales

Images of Dymaxion

2011-12-02T16:31:00.001Z

I was very interested to read what Rog had to say yesterday, about the Cambridge Guided Bus. Then today, as I was driving to get the weekly groceries, I remembered the Dymaxion I drooled over at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, earlier this year.

I managed to get these two snaps when a very laid back jazz combo started up close by, and people were suddenly more interested in chilling out with a Pimms, whilst appearing to be overwhelmed by 1930s elegance.

Was Fenton here?

2011-12-01T08:17:00.001Z

Is there anyone on the planet who hasn't heard of Fenton? After seeing the video clip, I started wondering if this canine cause célèbre had ventured as far as Cornwall.

According to this sign at Siblyback Lake, someone was prepared for a possible appearance...

...or disappearance.

Tunnel Vision

2011-11-29T19:53:00.001Z

Well there I was, explaining how I am fascinated by philosophical perspectives on life and death, and up pops Speckly Woo with a dinnertime theory guaranteed to make us think, and splutter a little.

SW - I suppose our bodies are like tunnels, aren't they?

Mum - Tunnels?

SW - Yes. I mean, we put food in one end and…

Mum - Ah, yes, I see where this is heading.

SW - The food we eat is a bit like a train, isn't it?

Mum - Don't forget to finish your peas.

SW - But isn't it, though? It goes in our mouths and comes out of our…

Mum - Peas! Don't forget to eat your peas.

A short pause ensues.

SW - When we parmp, that must be the train sounding its hooter in the tunnel.

Is it Me?

2011-11-28T22:59:00.001Z

When, as a mature student, I was faced with choosing a course for my final year, it seemed appropriate to take Philosophy of the Arts (aesthetics) as it promised to consolidate my previous studies in humanities. The course did pretty much what it said on the tin, but after graduation I began to feel some regrets about not having taken the ethics (life and death) option, instead.

It seemed to me that I might have got more from aesthetics if I'd given careful consideration to another set of questions, namely those relating to personal identity, what it means to exist, etc. In the words of Thomas Nagel, "What does it all mean?"

A couple of things have refocused my thinking on the matter, of late. After watching the Martin Scorsese documentary film of George Harrison's life, I was intrigued to learn that the former Beatle regarded his meditations purely as practice for the time of his own demise. Apparently, he wanted to make sure that he would leave his body in the right way, when it finally gave him notice to quit. While I don't share Harrison's preoccupation with his own mortality, his spiritual quest to ensure the safe release of his soul tied in neatly with a set of philosophy lectures I've been working my way through for the past couple of weeks. Professor Shelly Kagan's lectures begin with arguments for the existence of the soul, and they're not as heavy as you'd think - the lectures, not the souls. To my delight, I discovered that I get a whole semester's worth from iTunes U under the banner of Yale Open Courses for free and, so far, it's been a fascinating ride.

There's a part of me that's drawn to investigating the way we can feel, as human beings, about what lies either side of the fine line. I can't help turning over a stone to see what lives beneath, or thumbing through layers of personal experience before holding an interesting one up to the light, for closer examination.

So, which big questions have you found yourself asking? And did you get any answers?

Magpie Tales: Back to the Wall

2011-11-27T19:22:00.001Z

He liked this spot,
when he wasn't too tired
to get there,

felt at ease with the traffic,
echoed in harmony,
waved at strangers.

Too kind to notice
furrowed brows,
sharp tuts, dull tongues,

the rattling roof
over his head,
his wall against the back.

We wanted a bench
in his memory,
a place for others

to rest and read
the closing pages
of his world.

He loved this sofa,
when he was too tired
to get there.

Now it's yours,
although we had to burn
the cushions.

More Magpie Tales

Really?

2011-11-25T16:21:00.001Z

It's been an interesting few days for discovering things.

Monday - There is a correlation between having flu vaccine and developing mild cold symptoms, just four days later.

Tuesday - Was more of a rediscovery, that small children can fill a bucket with vomit one minute, and be bouncing around as though they have springs on their feet, the next.

Wednesday - On the day of my birthday, I discovered that more good wishes now arrive via social networks, than by post. I also discovered, among my gifts, the complete collection of TINTIN on DVD, along with Jeremy Paxman's latest book - Empire: What Ruling the World Did to the British.

Thursday - I discovered that having pruned back my music collection, I can enjoy a less impeded view from my favourite listening chair - does that make sense? And it was a true delight to find that some things I planted many years ago, had obstinately refused to succumb to a jungle of dodgy hybrids and so-long suckers.

Today, I discovered that Angela Rippon and I really did write for the same westcountry newspaper, The Sunday Independent, albeit at different times. Although this doesn't mean that I'll be undertaking any spontaneous Latin dance routines anytime soon. I just don't have the legs for it. That, I discovered, way back.

Ever Decreasing Circles

2011-11-24T07:53:00.001Z

Back in July I signed up for Google+. My initial enthusiasms can still be read here. But after four months of mutual indifference, a parting of the ways seems to be for the best.

I have carefully deleted my Google+ account, making sure I've ticked all the right boxes, ensuring that my overall Google account remains intact. To be fair, the instructions are clear enough.

As I released myself from the 'circles' and 'sparks', I felt the slightest twinge of failure. And, I know that Google+ is sad to see me go because, like a jilted lover in denial, she is still sending me messages as though nothing has changed between us. It seems that I won't be allowed to become a stranger, after all.

Make a Wish.

2011-11-22T22:05:00.001Z

I'm convinced that the great tick-tock of life is running slightly fast. I can't believe another year's gone since the birthday chimes last rang out. But, who am I to argue? Apparently, I'm twelve months older and, perhaps a little wiser.

Someone once told me that age is just a number. Okay then, I'm four, today.

There's an unavoidable intimacy in our relationship with the passing years. For me - never one to celebrate the notching of another birthday 'big time' - slipping past the post, in the company of nearest and dearest is perfect. In fact, I took the day off work when I clocked 50, not in a party-pooping frame of mind, but in the name of preservation. Somehow, I felt reluctant to shout too loudly about reaching a significant landmark. I put it down to a lurking superstitious foible that guards against tempting fate.

Anyway, no serious milestone reached today. As I said earlier, I'm four. A good place to be.

Magpie Tales: Lover's Leap

2011-11-20T16:15:00.001Z

Only one way off the ledge.
Our backs aching,
flat against the wall,
burning bridges
behind us.

Only one distinctive pulse.
Our hands trembling,
stretched in the air,
pointed fingers
behind us.

Only one weightless drop.
Our zig-zag bodies,
fall in perfect lines,
a crushing kiss
arrests us.

More Magpie Tales

How Dare You!

2011-11-18T11:47:00.001Z

I know it's relatively 'old news', but I just had to share this magic moment with those of you who may have missed it, first time around.

Who Gives a Hoot?

2011-11-17T20:31:00.001Z

For the past few weeks an owl has taken to hooting, in the trees behind us, at around 05.00. The calls are returned as a weak echo, from a distant wooded area, beyond the village green. This exchange has been known to continue way into our second cup of tea.

Stay with me, as there's a theme to this post, but we have to consider a character from 'The Gruffalo' en route. I've become familiar with the owl in the story, along with the other creatures - who wouldn't, after repeated viewings - and, I've learnt something else. Whilst one of our twin granddaughters is content to see herself as a little mouse, the other is a more fascinated with the role of the owl. Let's hope this isn't sibling rivalry taken to the extreme.

And then, there's this little creation. Okay, I've added a few stars, a moon and a tree, but the owl is the product of our daughter's five year old imagination. It had gone to roost between the pages of a 'schooldays treasure album' more than a quarter of a century ago, and has only emerged quite recently. So, who gives a hoot? Well, I do, of course.

You Won't Feel a Thing

2011-11-16T12:32:00.001Z

This morning we took ourselves off to Boots (the Chemist) and bought ourselves nice shiny seasonal vaccinations, against influenza, for £12.99 a shot.

Neither Mags or myself quite qualify for the freebie, so, always running the risk of being categorised as wimpy or 'worried well', we followed the signs, all the way to the consultation cubicle, and rolled our sleeves up. Or to put it another way - as could have been uttered by some who are eligible for the freebie - we coughed up and looked good. How is that possible?

Anyway, there's a serious side to this exercise. Last year, our daughter contracted swine-flu, and was very poorly indeed, for two or three weeks.

I haven't had flu (I'm not talking about the 'sniffles', aka man-flu) for 25 years, so the chances of avoiding it are becoming less favourable. On that far-off occasion, I was shivering in blankets, with the heat full-on, in late May. I vaguely remember the fever peaking with my spectacular collapse, sliding from a kitchen chair (I hate taking to my bed, no matter how rough I feel) and concussing myself on the concrete floor.

But vaccinations aren't, it seems, without potential risks. Today, the kindly pharmacist invited us to stick around for five minutes afterwards, not for a complimentary cuppa, but in case either of us showed signs of anaphylactic shock…something they could treat in-store. She didn't mention a price, though.

WWW

2011-11-15T10:44:00.001Z

Waiting...

...withered...

...willful.

Magpie Tales: Is Anyone Sitting Here?

2011-11-13T21:04:00.001Z

Someone carved their love
into a tree, along our street.
Untidy heart, now almost healed,
initials scarred so neat.
Someone marked their passion,
a forever kiss, too sweet
to bear on luscious lips,
too true for bright conceit.
Someone left a message,
bold and indiscreet,
now locked in mutated rings,
holding love's lost seat.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Ten Tens, Through a Lens

2011-11-11T16:23:00.000Z

As is often customary on landmark occasions, one or two thank-you's are in order. So, I'd like to begin by thanking Alan Burnett and Kat Mortensen for dreaming up this wonderful idea of a place where living memories, carefully researched family histories, and speculative tracings that reach into the past, meet on a weekly basis. I've learnt so much from the stories of other contributors, worldwide, and enjoyed a privileged peep into treasured family albums and collections. Long may it continue.

Okay, now down to business.

For the second week in a row, I make no apology for re-posting. This slightly edited item first saw the light of day in January, 2010, and as Sepia Saturday reaches its first century, it seems perfectly appropriate to write about the very first centenarian I ever knew.

Captain William Clark, or ‘Pop Clark’ as he was known to neighbours, Spent more than fifty years on sailing ships, having left home at 12 years of age to work on a Thames sailing barge.

He graduated to seven week fishing trips on the North Sea and was sailing round Cape Horn when Queen Victoria was celebrating her Diamond Jubilee.

As youngsters, we would sit with mouths gaping wider and wider as he told tales of life under sail and towering seas that threatened to swallow the ship and all hands alike.

He captained a sailing ship for eleven years and took part in several transatlantic races.

I remember him walking up and down the length of his garden to ease his arthritis. For years, the doctors had been telling him his walking days were numbered. In the event, he was still managing the two mile round trip, with the aid of a stick, to tend the grave of his late wife, even after he had reached 100.

I have an abiding memory of him walking to his woodshed in the summer. The sun hat perched lightly on his head was always partially obscured by clouds of smoke from his charred pipe. His objective, to saw logs for the coming winter. He was ever the optimist, and eventually passed away aged 106. The pipe smoking stopped a couple of years beforehand though, as the medics considered it might damage his health.

Way Over Our Heads

2011-11-10T21:46:00.001Z

I just left a comment on another blog, which read, "This afternoon, we walked out into November, until it was way over our heads." That's exactly how it felt, the way autumn is running away with itself in these parts.

High up, on one side of the ridge, the farmland lays flat like water in a reservoir. On the other, it spills from the escarpment, in a cultivated flow that stretches and runs beyond stranded trees, and hedgerows going down for the third time.

Our big sky is smeared with seasonal change. Scrapes of cloud have blemished the blue and, the sun keeps his head down to compensate, with titian leaves.

Are there Pigeons in Paradise?

2011-11-08T22:14:00.000Z

I once worked with someone who insisted that stray feathers in unusual places could be an indication of an angel's visit.

These marks left by a wood pigeon that misjudged its landing point, certainly look angelic.

Inevitably, there were stray feathers. The tragic trajectory from oak tree to kitchen window could result in no less. But this impression of frantically flapping wings and splayed tail represents something altogether more poignant than any celestial visitation. It simply marks an end, a powdery full-stop. No more beating wings, no more beating heart.

Out of the Sun

2011-11-07T21:55:00.000Z

You don't think
about losing your sight,
speeding on seven year old legs.

No idea that the running colours
of your small world
might dry so suddenly.

A scrap of roof-tile
idly tossed,
then, partial eclipse.

No emergency dash,
only hand in hand
with mummy,

past the abbey ruins,
up the high street
for the doctor's opinion.

Torn iris, fifty-fifty,
means nothing to you.
Only later, the fear

of staying alone
in a childless ward
of nocturnal, shifting shapes

brings home the gravity.
Floating on waves of nausea,
you whisper a brave, "night night."

Another boy, your age,
is punished,
beaten at school,

beaten at home,
crying himself blind
while you

are gently warned
not to shed a tear,
so they may save your sight.

Magpie Tales: Lost the Plot

2011-11-06T18:22:00.000Z

A gravedigger, prone to digress,
Was forced, in the end, to confess,
"I'll give it a shot.
I believe it's the plot
Where he rests…well, Moore or less."

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Musical Refrain, or...I'm Repeating Myself

2011-11-04T22:15:00.000Z

I've shown this photograph before, but I make no apologies for posting it one more time. It was taken, back in the day, as they say, and like much of what occurs during rites of passage, it all seems so unreal now. Then, all things were possible. Grab your guitar and play the world. The working days may have been mundane, but they were little more than tolerable pops and crackles on the vinyl of our dreams.

Endless hours of toughening up our fingertips, ignoring the time, leaving the doors to our minds on the latch, and laying a 'welcome' mat outside for ideas that turned up, unannounced. We were always home to inspiration.

I posted this poem in January of this year. I think it goes some way towards explaining what occasionally drives young men to frame their feelings in little more than three chords.

The Rocker

You came into town on a big tune,

Trod the boards, and raised dust,

Struck the chords and freed the rust,

Thrilled the hordes and became a must.

All across the sprawl, they danced,

Hung long and loose, and dropped their guard,

Hurled abuse and shook the yard,

Broke the truce and thought real hard.

You made your play with a forty-five,

Screamed and flipped, and stirred the loins,

Tore the script and blessed the joins,

Stood, curled lipped, and took the coins.

The First Lady

2011-11-03T21:42:00.000Z

While the grown-ups wring their hands over pensions they may never get, lose sleep in the Eurozone, and talk as though lives depend on who gets voted off 'Strictly Come Dancing', trust the children to be asking the sensible questions.

Yesterday, about mid-way between her home and ours:

Speckly Woo - "What did the first lady, ever, in the land, do?"

Mum - "How do you mean, 'do'?"

Speckly Woo - "What job did she do?"

Mum - "Oh…um, right. What job…well, she…I mean, perhaps…

Speckly Woo - "She would have been a nurse."

Freehand

2011-11-01T21:01:00.003Z

I once had the ability

to shift the sand,

to shape the sea,

to paint in all simplicity,

how the world

appeared to me.

Artwork - Speckly Woo!

I once could think

it totally fitting

to stroke bright pink

where folks were sitting.

Artwork - Speckly Woo!

And, butterflies,

aboriginal blues,

filled the skies

if I should choose.

Magpie Tales: Blind Starts and Coronets

2011-10-30T14:22:00.000Z

Stream of consciousness
hits the wall. Splat.

A pile of words
at your feet. Drat.

Nonsensical dialogue
in snappy rhythm. Scat.

Painted end
of your universe. Matte.

Coughed up,
suspended sentences. Spat.

What's the word count
now? Stat.

I know you're in there,
come on out. Chat.

Keys, untouchable
in the big freeze. Still...sat.

More Magpie Tales

Arboretum Ultimatum

2011-10-27T22:31:00.000+01:00

Believe it or not, some unkindly souls have, in the past, suggested to me, "you're out of your tree, Martin." Imagine how delighted I was, to find this slightly blurred evidence to the contrary.

Just for the record though, when I wasn't safely in my tree, I might have been out and about with my Voigtländer Bessamatic, taking pictures like these, or...

Philosophical Transactions

2011-10-26T21:53:00.000+01:00

If I tell you that the Royal Society has just given permanent free access to its historic journal, online, you may roll your eyes and move swiftly along to the next blog on your list. So, I'll try to grab your attention in the same way mine was, with 'urinating bullets'. There, that's got you thinking.

If your curiosity isn't sufficiently aroused yet, then can I tempt you with some 'monstrous calves' or even, the sorry tale of students struck by lightning? It's shocking stuff, I promise.

Outage

2011-10-25T22:29:00.000+01:00

We've had the electricians in for the past couple of days. Oh, and the plumbers were here for an afternoon, too. All nice chaps, cracking on with their respective jobs. They're polite, considerate, quick to vacuum the dust, and happy to be topped up with tea (white and one).

I could hardly refuse their request to leave materials in the room where I spend my creative hours. So forgive me if comments have been a bit thin on the ground. Tomorrow (Wednesday) is their last day, and normal service should be resumed on Thursday.

Magpie Tales: Helpless Hubbub

2011-10-23T16:30:00.000+01:00

Angels circle the urban clutter,
increased revolutions whine.
Architectural bread and butter
in dissonant design.

Hear the liberated mutter
freed from televisual shrine.
Cheap talk rises from the gutter,
comedic and divine.

Anticipated stop-go stutter,
metronomic I, me, mine.
Gridlocked hearts, built to flutter,
ultimately resign.

More Magpie Tales

What it's all about

2011-10-21T16:45:00.000+01:00

When I started this blog, the intention was to focus on my thoughts and observations from a Grandfather's perspective, and I hope I've managed that to some degree.

However much I may digress from my original plan, posting about all and sundry, these three darling girls are, with the rest of my closest family, at the centre of my life.

You may think it odd that I've chosen photographs that don't reveal the girl's faces. It's just me, being over-protective. Nonetheless, from standing just behind them, you can share in the world they see stretching out before them.

"That's where we're heading."

Speckly Woo! on the path to a great adventure

Together twins

Broadleaf Blues

2011-10-19T09:01:00.000+01:00

I've got mixed feelings about pine woods. There's something about the way the trees stand to attention, almost in formation. The silence here is not just still, but distilled. No foliage within reach, merely an aloof array of needles, raised up in clinical consideration.

And then...

there are these characters...

and they don't make me feel any better.

Steig Gets Dumped

2011-10-18T11:14:00.000+01:00

I was just getting all geared up to read the final book in Steig Larsson's Millennium Trilogy, when I received a copy of Vicki Lane's 'Under the Skin', all the way from North Carolina. So, Steig is back on the shelf for the time being.

'Under the Skin' is Vicki's fifth Elizabeth Goodweather novel, and you can learn more about the launch over at Vicki Lane Mysteries.

To make this an extra special occasion, from my point of view, (ahem) I have received a generous acknowledgement for helping "...to make Giles sound properly English."

This is the second acknowledgement I've received this year. The first one appeared in Lynne Hackles' excellent, Ghost Writing: How to Ghost Write for Others.

Do you think it's about time I actually got on with finishing a novel of my own?

Espionage

2011-10-17T20:03:00.000+01:00

Here is where you start to think
cold shadows of the missing link
will freeze your steps, reveal the dust,
as needles fall in bracken rust.

Calling crows turn on the wing,
away from far metallic ring
of striking stones in shallow grave,
an ending finds a fabled knave.

Lines of betrayal, lonely exchange
of crossing spies, in pistol range.
Invisible masters will anoint
in secrecy, beyond vanishing point.

Magpie Tales: Vanity Most Fowl

2011-10-16T16:16:00.002+01:00

A chicken who'd lost her cluck,
Booked in for a nip and tuck.
She said ciao to her mien,
Now she's usually seen
Hanging out with a crispy duck.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Brothers in Arms

2011-10-14T19:37:00.000+01:00

Arthur and George were twins. They were called up to fight in 1939, aged just 19. They trained together and, for the most part, fought together in Italy and North Africa.

Arthur was my late stepfather. He passed away in December, 2009, aged 89. His war experiences never left him and, in his final months, the most poignant episodes were recalled again and again. He had been left puzzles to solve in his own mind, puzzles that had no clear answers.

We know about the special relationship that can exist between twins. Two of our own grandchildren share such a bond. And there's a particular wartime story about Arthur and George that I'll always remember. They had been involved in heavy fighting, at close quarters. As the odds turned against them, the order was given to fall back. Enemy fire rained down, and Arthur threw himself into a hole in the ground. He stayed there, waist-deep in water. Any attempt to haul himself out and make it back to his unit, would have attracted unwanted attention from the other side. In fact, the Germans were so close, just beyond a low ridge, that Arthur could hear them talking and slapping their sides in the cold early mornings.

Who else, other than George, would have crawled on his belly to get cold rations and water to his isolated brother? Time after time, he did so, under cover of darkness.

Everyone has stayed too long in the bath at some time. The crinkly skin is the tell-tale sign. Imagine how we'd look after several days too long in the water. Arthur was hospitalised after his eventual rescue.

As kids, we gently ribbed him about how smooth his legs were. We had no idea then and, in truth, we still have no idea today.

Disturbing Piece

2011-10-12T22:41:00.000+01:00

The first comment I received after posting about the Willow Manor Ball, began, "Is this an acid flashback Martin?" Rog, you got me thinking about those 'truth being stranger than fiction' moments.

Photo by Speckly Woo

I once worked with a guy who was an extremely good guitar player. He knew that I'd been getting to grips with the basics. You know, enough chords to career through popular numbers on those occasions when folks are past worrying about precision. So he casually invited me around for a jam.

Mags and I arrived at his address, on a run down estate, one summer evening. I remember it being eerily quiet. It was as though the inhabitants had melted in the extreme heat of the day.

Dave (what else would he be called?) shared a flat with his dad. About half-way up the kind of concrete tower that was meant to make life so much better for us, I knocked the door and, after a long wait, Dave appeared, smoking two cigarettes. He read my expression and explained, out the corner of his mouth, "Got a cold. I'm killing it off."

Inside, there was a noticeable absence of furniture. Just a couple of chairs, a coffee table that was more coffee than table, and piles of vinyl albums and sheet music scattered here and there.

Our host disappeared after checking that I'd be happy playing his semi-acoustic. He returned with a battered instrument, lovingly bound with tape. It had an easy action, and sounded rather mellow. Dave vanished once more. This time, when he returned, he was wheeling some serious amplification into the room. He plugged in, switched on and our jack-plugs connected with a sound like cracking whips. It was going to be loud…very loud indeed.

This all happened nearly forty years ago, and most of that evening is missing, believed wiped. But I do recall laying down some nice rhythms for his exceptional Santana covers. The room hummed and the windows rattled, but Dave ploughed on with little or no concern for his neighbours.

When we finally left the building, everything was still and quiet, as it had been on our arrival. It was as though the inertia was so powerful, our little outburst never even registered. At least, that's what I think it was.

Autumn Rendezvous at the Willow Manor Ball

2011-10-12T06:30:00.000+01:00

The Shrimp, and Sue Murray are both tied up with modelling assignments today, at least that's what they're telling me. My guess is, neither of them much like the company I keep. It's true, that some of those in my social orbit aren't exactly star quality, but business is business.

Still, it's irritating that this snap of me in a private drinking club, should have found a place in the newspapers on the very day I'm due at the Willow Manor Ball. There will be questions, but I'm sure my companion will help me avoid any real embarrassment. If I can just persuade Françoise to take up the mic for a couple of numbers, everything should be sweet.

We had agreed to arrive separately, after she insisted on two wheeled transport. In the end, she clocked the E-Type and wasn't bothered about cosying up to make room for her guitar.

Join the party of the year!

Look Mum, No Tripod!

2011-10-10T19:09:00.000+01:00

Our recent trip to Salisbury was a family affair...

which included the ever present, Mary.

Familiar countryside passed in a flash and,

very soon, Speckly Woo was lining up suitable subjects.

This ancient door-handle at the Cathedral, caught her eye.

As did this sculpture in silhouette...

and this rather fine sketch.

Magpie Tales: The Measure of a Ruler

2011-10-09T20:23:00.000+01:00

A Queen seeks to flatter,
Declaring that size doesn't matter.
But the King only flinches,
His short column inches
Are the butt of derisory chatter.

More Magpie Tales

Walk - Don't Walk

2011-10-07T20:28:00.000+01:00

We visited Salisbury today,

and these characters seemed to be vying for our attention.

Maybe they were alerting us to the fact

that there were women walking.

while the guys just stood around

or took the opportunity to crash.

A Worthy Winner

2011-10-06T07:05:00.000+01:00

Over at Poetry24 we have had the pleasure of publishing four of Helena Nolan's poems, to date - Speak Other Voices, The Shipwreck Grave, Sea Saw and, most recently, Day 44.

Last Sunday, Helena emailed with the news that she had won the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award 2011. It's a true delight to know that this gifted poet has received such well deserved recognition. Well done, Helena.

PRESS RELEASE

Kavanagh Prize Winner

The winner of the 2011 Poetry Prize is Helena Nolan

The winner of the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award for 2011 is Helena Nolan. Kilkenny-born Helena currently lives and works in Dublin, after a number of years abroad in London and Kuala Lumpur. In 2008 she received an MA in Creative Writing from UCD. Her work has been published in journals and anthologies and shortlisted in a range of competitions, including Fish and Strokestown. Last year she was awarded joint second prize in the Patrick Kavanagh Award. She lives in Shankill and is married with two sons.

The judge was the poet, novelist and screenwriter Brian Lynch. He described Helena Nolan’s entry, ‘The Bone House’, which was partly inspired by the 1937 visit to Ireland of the great American poet Elizabeth Bishop, as a leap upward in her work, a heartfelt bid to overcome the downward force of everyone’s everyday experience.

The €1,000 prize was presented by Peter Murphy, Chairman, Patrick Kavanagh Society at the Patrick Kavanagh Centre in Inniskeen, Co Monaghan on Friday, 30th September 2011.
Sharing the second prize were Michael J. Whelan, Tallaght, Co. Dublin; Cliona O’Connell, Phibsborough, Dublin; and Andrew Jamison, Crossgar, Downpatrick, Co. Down.

Getting a Feel for Migration

2011-10-05T10:19:00.000+01:00

I'm thinking of switching to Wordpress, having spent some considerable time weighing pros and cons. However, it's still all very finely balanced. Despite the fact that the regular Blogger gremlins are an irritation, there's something oddly reassuring about collective suffering. That's to say, I know I'm not the only one launching a verbal assault on the screen. It's a Google given that glitches, disruption and unexplained disappearances will occur in the name of development. Even GUI gurus have a tendency towards running before walking, when they get over excited.

Anyway, this is the point where I stop rambling, to pose the question, "Wordpress or Blogger?" I'd love to hear your own preferences and the reasons behind them, whether you're a reader, writer or developer.

Please leave a comment. It could make all the difference between Square Sunshine rising and setting in this, or another hemisphere.

Magpie Tales: Beach of Faith

2011-10-02T15:37:00.000+01:00

Walk with me,
along the crude coated,
unboated, snark-infested
sea.

Touch my fingertips,
across the breeze-blown,
unknown, industrial
collapse.

Feel the change
in our heat-stained,
deep drained,
mineral mélange.

Hitch the final thermal
above a monochromatic
fate, in stony static
wishes, pachydermal.

More Magpie Tales

Tangled Up in Kites and Cold

2011-10-01T21:05:00.000+01:00

Can a combination of unseasonal heat, Stieg Larsson bedtime reading, children's TV and a raging sore throat induce particularly surreal dreams? Quite possibly so.

I travel, with my wife, to Cornwall where we witness the flying of strange, black and white kites from an unidentifiable quayside. I have my camera at hand, so I begin taking photographs of the display. One of the kite fliers then asks me to write an article about the event.

For some reason, I can only write it up at home and I'm not sure how Mags will receive the news that our break must be cut short so that I can knock out 1500 words in familiar surroundings.

Before I know it, I'm standing alone in a car park (surprise, surprise, I hear you mutter) when Mags arrives, driving a team of brown horses at the head of a magnificent buggy.

Cut to the two us (not sure what happened to the horses) driving along a motorway slip-road. Up ahead is a man who used to be my next-door neighbour, but one. He appears to be engaged in a tussle, and we slow down. He recognises us and begins flagging us to a halt. He's still vigorously wrestling a man who's dressed in a dog costume, and who looks a lot like Scooby-Doo. I attempt to intervene, to rescue my former neighbour when he becomes extremely agitated. "It's all very well, you turning up like this," he says, "but how the hell will we get the dog in the car…he's dead drunk!"

Sepia Saturday: A Question of Balance

2011-09-30T19:11:00.000+01:00

This week I was determined to stay on theme, but in the event, this was as close as I could get.

The grass is not an ideal playing surface for polo and, judging by the laundry, resembling the aftermath of a bodiless lynching, I don't think our neighbours counted a glamour puss in their number.

So it's just little me, astride my first two-wheeler, safe within the confines of an allotted plot, fenced with hazel hurdles presumably made by my grandfather. Out of view, is the caravan I shared with my parents. I have vague recollections of it, but in the absence of a photograph, you can assume it looked similar to the one in the background - behind the laundry.

This was stop-gap accommodation for us. The post-war programme for the building of council homes must have started in the large towns and cities and spread outwards, eventually reaching the fringes of rural England sometime in the early to mid 50s. We didn't know it when this picture was taken, but such a home had our name on it, and that was still at the planning stage.

As I've suggested, this 'toddling' period of my life is not easy to recall. There is one memorable occasion however, when I was introduced to a refrigerator by a lady who lived in a house/bungalow of bricks and mortar, next to or nearby the caravan site. On a warm and muggy day, she offered me something sweet tasting, chilled or frozen, from what I regarded to be an ordinary cupboard, weakly lit from the inside. The precise item is lost to time, but that chilly surprise remains to this day.

Looking closely at my chubby face, you can probably detect a degree of apprehension in my expression. Not too surprising, cameras can have that effect on little ones. For me, it's more poignant. A snap of registered uncertainty. A small boy wondering, but not beyond the event. His life compiled of brief and, largely forgettable, episodes, yet learning how to keep his balance on the fringes of events that would turn his world upside down, when the stabilisers would come off for good.

Partial Recognition

2011-09-29T19:14:00.000+01:00

For as far back as I can remember, I've had a fascination for shadows.

In December 2009 I penned the following, and posted it with my own shadow as it appeared at barely five years old.

You have followed all this time, in between the ticks and tocks

That counted every growing inch whilst shaving off each dreaming day,

When we were breathless in the fields or scrambling over salty rocks,

And gambling in the playful light for stakes too high to say.

Out of Town

2011-09-28T10:27:00.000+01:00

Up there the sun is a big yellow duster

Polishing the blue, blue sky

With white fluffy clouds in a cluster

Hanging on a breeze to dry

OUT OF TOWNFrom the film "Charley Moon"

(1956(Leslie Bricusse / Robin Beaumont)

Magpie Tales: Ignition

2011-09-25T17:45:00.000+01:00

All through the needled night,
we moved beyond
the dust of dreams.
We, who dared
to detonate the dance,
start a rhythm,
become the song.

All through the retreating crowd,
we exorcised
our given rights.
We, who paused
to count lucky stars,
buck the trend,
fall in love.

More Magpie Tales

Unbearable Lightness?

2011-09-23T16:42:00.000+01:00

About ten years ago, I saw this image in an obscure, free journal. It's most likely very well known to some of you, but I admit to not having a clue about its origins, artist, or meaning.

What I do know, is the impact it made on me when I first set eyes on it. Those demonstrative hands, having just sent the bird on its way to freedom, gestures with splayed fingers, towards the heavens. The lightness and balance of the composition exudes a cautious optimism.

But it's the human expression that intrigues me most. There is a fascination and a longing in that gaze. A willingness for the bird to take flight, and yet, a close examination of the mechanics that gets a body airborne.

For me, it's inspirational and just the thing to have in your metaphysical medicine cupboard, for when the weight of the world gets a little too much for comfort.

Shedding One's Inhibitions

2011-09-21T22:45:00.000+01:00

I'm not exactly sure what started me thinking about sheds, but it could have been a programme about Lelung Rinpoche, that I watched recently.

Shed on the coastal footpath - North Cornwall

The humble shed has gained in popularity of late, although I hear of them being called 'garden chalets' by those who tart them up to use as office extensions or places to do their 'thing'. Lelung Rinpoche, one of Tibetan Buddhism's three principal reincarnations, has been living in a shed in North London for seven years or so and, very cosy it looks, too.

Shed with an agricultural leaning - just down the lane from me

Of course, I might owe my preoccupation to a friend and former colleague who mentioned that his pal, Jon Earl, is running Songs From the Shed. Or it could just be a sense of longing on my part…as I don't have a shed.

Handbags and Gladrags

2011-09-20T21:34:00.000+01:00

I've been a minority male in our family long enough to know that a girl isn't dressed if she doesn't have a bag in hand or over the shoulder. Though, I doubt I'll ever live long enough to grasp the complexities relating to the list of objects, carried in a girl's bag.

Our granddaughters have started early. Nan's handbag has always been a target for their little hands. Now, they have made their own, from used Jiffy bags, pieces of string, and a customised front panel, hand decorated with their own design.

Perfect accessories for discerning girls.

Magpie Tales: Serpentine Servility

2011-09-18T22:26:00.000+01:00

I am still, within the stillness.

Only the charmer's light breath breeze
reaches, soulfully,
beyond the trees.
Softly, the melodic oils,
tease the serpents from their coils,
to gaze upon a lake,
shed their scaly secrets,
to be obedient snake.

Shadow's soporific ease
draws ophidia
with each reprise.
Slithering subordinates submit
on aprons, lush and lunar-lit,
to taste the silver sound,
embrace a certain obscurity,
with trailing souls, unwound.

More Magpie Tales

Lucky

2011-09-17T22:34:00.000+01:00

When I phoned my insurance company, regarding the dent, a woman with a strong Lancashire accent broke the pattern of conversation with an unexpected remark. In the course of finding a recommended firm of body repairers close to my address, she said, "You do live in a beautiful part of the world, don't you?" I could only answer in nodding agreement at first, before saying, rather vacantly, "Yes, I'm very lucky."

I've never taken my present surroundings for granted and, in return, the big sky is always open, the seasonal changes aren't lost on me, and the two mile walk to the village shop and back remains a pleasure. The landscape holds me close, and whispers that it'll never let me go.

For a couple of years, I spent one day a week at City University, London. Tearing myself from the countryside was even more painful than competing for space on the commuter train. Caught somewhere between the chit-chat and clickety-clack, my mind was full of fields and trees. It was as if these two dominant, background rhythms should never meet, lest they squeezed the aspect ratio of my precious panorama into non-existence.

What I used to find surreal was, taking my place in the silent scenery in the evening light of a long day, when only a few hours previously, I had occupied a more hotly contested area on the platform of Farringdon station, waiting for a Thameslink to Wimbledon Chase. From there, a two hour drive to my 'beautiful part of the world', a place to commune with, rather than commute from.

Guess Who Bumped Into Me, Yesterday?

2011-09-15T20:14:00.000+01:00

If you're not the gullible type, is it still possible to have a premonition? If so, I may have had one, recently. The photograph I used in the post, 'Two of Us', featured the interior of a 1967 Austin Mini, owned by me, way back. There are only three shots of that car in my photo collection and this one seemed to capture the spirit of the piece best of all. Besides, the shot from the front shows some damage on the driver's side, front wing.

The dent came about after I took a bend too fast, slid and clipped the rear wing of a passing car - mea culpa. My boy's toy was spoiled and I moped for days. The car still drove perfectly well, but a depression the size of a tea-plate on an otherwise pristine motor, was not 'cool'.

Not being superstitious, I thought nothing of posting the dashboard shot on the 13th. The very next day, I noticed, with horror, that someone had put an almost identical dent - complete with vicious gouging - on the driver's side of my Honda. It looks as though a 4x4 or pick-up has reversed into the bodywork, and either didn't care, or didn't know. Either way, I'll be picking up the bill for repairs. When I called the insurance company today, I was told that my no-claims bonus was protected, but if I go ahead with a claim, my premium will be increased substantially next year.

Was I tempting fate with that photograph?

Blurred

2011-09-14T22:01:00.000+01:00

The crossover between dimensions can get pretty blurred when you're a grandparent to two year old identical twins. This afternoon, I was invited to follow our dynamic duo in a circuitous route around their house. I call it their house, because even though their parents pay the mortgage, the girls, along with their big sister, Speckly Woo, have staked an undeniable claim to the place. Every room displays evidence of their systematic and bloodless coup. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the circuitous route. Lounge to dining room to kitchen and lounge again, and each time I was handed a new toy to carry. In the end, I felt like one of those poor kids who made a hash of Crackerjack's 'Double or Drop'.

As if to emphasise who's calling the shots, they've recently taken to marching, just short of the goose-step, and shouting their intentions at a volume that would make any RSM call for mummy, between tearful sobs.

But I'm left wondering, if I find things becoming a bit blurry, how easy is it to maintain control whilst wearing a bucket on your head?

Two of Us

2011-09-13T22:20:00.000+01:00

Between there and here,
our stretched melodies
are playing
out of their resting place,

flagging down strangers,
rocking their souls,
getting them in the heart,
tripping the fan, light-tastic.

Between, you and me,
stretched between the covers
of love and 'let it be',
two road-weary lovers.

Magpie Tales: Missing Person

2011-09-11T19:15:00.000+01:00

Each time of his return
to where the crime took place,
his words have failed to burn.
He's an unforgotten face.

Each time, the same question,
the lifeless weight of doubt
that triggers a suggestion
time has written out.

Each time, feet just off the ground,
the eyes betray his pain.
He who has remained unfound,
above the scorched terrain.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Giggles and Dahlias

2011-09-09T22:15:00.000+01:00

In my last Sepia Saturday post, I spoke of life's 'markers', and used a photograph to illustrate my point. Of course, the pictures we hold dear are markers in themselves. Why else would we keep albums?

This happy shot of my maternal grandparents is extra special to me. Whenever I think of them, this how I see them dressed, in my mind's eye. The setting here, is the same as last week's, at the 'The Laurels', and you can see the 'lightning tree' just over my grandmother's left shoulder.

I suspect they're sharing a silly moment in front of the camera. My grandfather had quite a repertoire of corny jokes and funny voices.

The dahlias are just a small swatch of colour that swept through their garden, almost an acre in size. The place was crammed with fruit, vegetables and flowers, which my grandmother was passionate about.

More often than not, when he was saying his goodbyes, my grandfather would end with a cheery, "Happy days!"

Indeed they were.

TV Reality

2011-09-08T21:58:00.000+01:00

A sad consequence of having been seduced by television during it's 'golden age', is that, today's digital expansion seems altogether too bland and predictable. Automatic updates and upgrades, and not a single engineer in sight. No double-act fixing a reception problem. One with his head out the living room window, shouting instructions to his mate on the roof, while we watch in anticipation of the perfect picture.

The set that snuck in amongst the Schreiber.

Did a satellite dish ever induced the same level of smugness as a new UHF aerial? No, when you had one of these installed, it announced to the neighbours, the arrival of colour in your home, and I'm not talking about the decor.

When my step-brother and I arrived home from a lightning tour of England, Scotland and Wales, in 1970, we were astounded to discover that the deed had been done in our absence. Now, even those programmes that made us yawn, would take on a new lease of life, including trade test broadcasts, run by the BBC. The question is, how can we be persuaded to watch those programmes that send us to sleep, today? And, I'm afraid HD won't do. Sorry chaps, the game's up.

'Ride the White Horses' was a regular BBC Trade Test Film

Clear as Mud

2011-09-07T22:36:00.000+01:00

One of the great obstacles to true aesthetic pleasure can be the label, or worse, the explanation. I'm sure we've all encountered at least one work of art that could have held its own perfectly well without any kind of commentary.

It's one of the curses of adulthood, that we feel obliged to explain our every action, and come up with answers designed to impress, rather than inform. Living in the age of the constant rehearsal, we often settle for losing the 'moment' rather than face the humiliation of failing to communicate a concept correctly.

'Get it right, first time, and leave no room for ambiguity', a rule that young children rarely have difficulty following.

Who're They Kidding?

2011-09-05T22:28:00.000+01:00

Just a few days from when I was due to jump off the hamster's wheel, five years ago, a colleague posed the question over coffee, "But do we work to live, or live to work?" It's an old chestnut that usually gets an airing during one of those quasi-philosophical conversations, dominated by people of an earnest disposition.

I remember not taking the bait, as it was little more than a provocative gesture by someone who had painted himself into a 'professional' corner. He had risen to a level where he was rarely bothered by, or was bother about, others. He inhabited a lonely and lofty place with no plan for a way out, and had become a prisoner of an inflated salary, that kept the pain of a exhausted career at a tolerable level.

Whenever I recall this little episode, a track from Donovan's 'Mellow Yellow' album comes to mind.

On the sidewalk the people are hustling and bustling,
They ain't got no time so they think on the thing
That will fill in the space in between birth and death.
Who're they kidding ?
(Donovan Philips Leitch - 1968)

Magpie Tales: The Claim

2011-09-04T15:02:00.000+01:00

More often than not, this is how it goes,
We reclaim the land with spades and hoes,
Hold it in our hearts, raise scorn for our foes.

Lines of weeping, strung out long,
Across the times we got it wrong
With ill advice and tuneless song.

But oh, the harvest joy of days
When we hold hands in seasoned ways
And look beyond ourselves to praise.

We breathe the dust and pick up stones,
Merge in with the sepia tones
Of land that longs to hold our bones.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Markers

2011-09-02T21:40:00.000+01:00

I would never underestimate the importance of life's 'markers', the intimate relationships we have with items that help us to keep our place in a particular time.

This photograph, taken at 'The Laurels', home of my maternal grandparents, is packed with them.

The tree in the background, killed by lightning and somehow striking back, grey against the blue sky, with it's bare and brittle branches. An ancient apple tree that produced sweet red fruit, tailored perfectly for a small boy's hand. A water butt where I observed tiny life forms performing in summer's heat, and from where my grandfather released a wheel of ice near the end of the Big Freeze in 1963.

A conservatory (built for £92-15s-9d) heavy with geraniums and waiting for morning glory. Two pale green doors. One, leading to a pre-flush toilet, the other, opening into the sweetest of kitchens where grandmother grew her rice puddings and apple sponges alongside the chicken's 'mash'.

Finally, two kitchen chairs, painted bright blue in a moment of modern madness, and a rickety folding wooden table. This is where we sat, mid-afternoon, with cups of tea circling a beleaguered biscuit barrel. Royal Scot, Princess, and Lincoln biscuits, dunked in sunshine and eagerly consumed.

In this picture, it looks as though the breeze was getting up. You can see various papers weighed down with unidentifiable objects. Seems that my grandmother was one for not losing her place, too.

Odd Shots

2011-09-01T22:51:00.000+01:00

I was rummaging through my image folders

and these turned up.

Photo by Speckly Woo

Surprisingly, in the way one might find odd socks,

I now had two odd shots.

Photo by Speckly Woo's Grandad

They don't really match, but they feel extremely comfortable together.

Accommodation

2011-08-31T19:56:00.000+01:00

The term, 'gypsy traveller' conjures many images in the UK, from itinerant gangs of tarmac-layers, to the more romantic free spirits of the road, living off their wits and a practised line in fortune-telling.

There's a piece of common land within a ten minute walk from where we live, and once or twice each year, traveller's caravans and pick-ups wend their way along the lane and set up camp. Their stay can vary from a few days to a couple of weeks. During these times locals refrain from walking in the area because, many claim, they are subjected to an overwhelming feeling of intimidation.

In our quarterly parish council newsletter the language is quite emotive. Talk of us being invaded by travellers, and reference to the area being blighted. In fairness, the travellers haven't helped their cause one bit. They leave mountains of refuse, damage trees, and discard used propane cylinders in their wake. Someone has to clean up, someone has to foot the bill, and you won't find the culprits queuing up to lend a hand or contributing to the cost.

Perhaps more worrying than the justified objections raised by residents, is the barely concealed vein of prejudice in some quarters. Not something that has been fuelled by myth, legend or recorded crime, but a deep seated resentment towards a particular group of people, because they are who they are. Woe betide those who rattle the highly mortgaged cages of sensitive souls, hereabouts.

When travellers recently pitched up on our local playing field, the bailiffs were called on to serve notice, and quite rightly so. But I've been following the story unfold at Dale Farm in the past few days, where Basildon Council have spent an extraordinary sum of local tax-payer's money to have travellers evicted from land they actually own. Planning laws have, however, been breached.

Good communicators are so important in delicate situations, so I wonder if elected bodies are often too busy being accountable to find the right words. We have seen examples of it at parish level, but the leader of Basildon Council demonstrated his own clumsiness when making a statement following a Court of appeal ruling that went in the Council's favour. He said, "We are satisfied with today's High Court decision. We will now continue with our preparations for the clearance of Dale Farm…" 'Clearance' is an unfortunate choice when referring to human beings. It is also an inappropriate choice, in that those evicted will probably only be moved to various areas of common land and playing fields in the locale, which will put more even more strain on Council coffers.

Do You Have a Spare Moment?

2011-08-30T09:30:00.001+01:00

I'm a big fan of AbeBooks, and when I read this post on their Reading Copy Book Blog, I felt there would be those among you who might appreciate the following YouTube clip.

Magpie Tales: Seek Wet Agent

2011-08-29T12:01:00.002+01:00

Listen…beyond the beading rain,
above the uncertain Asian breeze,
your trained voice is choking.

Born in franked freedom,
now trapped between the heart
and cold cyphered signals.

See…beyond the cold trail,
at the wake of dead letterboxes,
the searching eyes of old friends.

More Magpie Tales

Sepia Saturday: Libyan Lament

2011-08-27T08:37:00.002+01:00

After seeing the horrendous news footage from the Abu Salim hospital in Tripoli, I was reminded that my late step-father spent time in the region during WW2. His experiences affected him until the very end of his 89 years. I never heard him brag about his exploits, nor did he glorify war. Rather, he was irreparably damaged by the human cost of conflict. So, although his accounts could sometimes be funny, more often that not, they were heart-rending.

He told of his time in Tobruk, shortly after the Allies had retaken it in November, 1942. "I buried a young officer," he said, "I'll always remember, his hands were soft and small, like a woman's." Arthur was only 22, but war made certain he was seeing life from a point, way beyond his years.

The images I see today, horrify me, but I'm not actually there. I am only qualified to give a distant reaction. I've never been called up to fight for my country, and although it's been said many times by men of my generation, it's worth repeating, we owe a huge debt to the likes of Arthur. He was at the sharp end. All I can do is write a poem. You can read it at Poetry24.

New Niche or Nordic Nonsense?

2011-08-25T19:44:00.001+01:00

When a highly acclaimed crime thriller opens with the victim - a teenage girl - running to escape her assailant, through the woods at night, I'm prepared for the cliché alarm to start ringing louder than blue murder.

However, my misgivings were short-lived after the opening sequence of BBC Four's re-run of 'The Killing'. I have been, am, totally gripped. And, if I miss any of the remaining fifteen episodes, I will be wearing the same look of despair as Deputy Superintendent Sarah Lund (Sofie Gråbøl), as she struggles to piece the clues together.

I'm a bit late getting on the Scandinavian crime thriller bandwagon, unless you count the soft option of watching a painfully unconvincing Kenneth Branagh, as Kurt Wallander. I have just finished Stieg Larsson's 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo' and, while I quite liked it, thought better of continuing with the trilogy straight away. Friends argue about who rates higher, Jo Nesbø, Henning Mankell or Larsson. The consensus seems to be Larsson at the bottom of the pile. I've yet to find out for myself.

In the meantime, I have another 15 hours of quality Danish drama to look forward to and, beyond that, the much heralded second season.

Have you bought into the Nordic Noir and, if so, who is your new favourite cop?

Full-frontal Phlebotomy

2011-08-23T22:43:00.000+01:00

I popped along to our local hospital this morning, for a blood test. Like a good patient, I took a numbered card from the reception desk and waited to be called.

Curiously, the only reading material available, apart from the guiding works of the NHS in leaflet form, was the last few issues of Bonhams Magazine. Thumbing through the glossy pages, and being ever so slightly preoccupied with needles and veins, the wrinkles of my anxiety were gently smoothed by the sudden appearance of Edvard Munch's 'Madonna'.

This was a first for me. I had never seen this particular painting before and, although it was reproduced no bigger than a 6x4 holiday snap, it still managed to demonstrate the power art has, to spring an overwhelmingly pleasant surprise.

Munch's 'vision', badly lit in a florescent light, had transported me to a world away from that where phlebotomists lie in wait. The colour, the pose, the exquisite expression…and somewhere, in the distance, a thin voice, repeating with increased exasperation, "Number 17!"

Magpie Tales: For the Love of Hank

2011-08-22T18:57:00.000+01:00

When the humming tyres stopped,
the question came, I should have popped,
along the way down south.
Instead, our future, closely cropped,
got lost amongst the looks we swapped
for words stuck in the mouth.

At the kerb, I stood a while,
cracked a joke and made you smile
before I turned away.
When your hand touched me, country style,
and slipped a number I could dial,
did you see my body sway?

More Magpie Tales

Home is Where...

2011-08-21T20:12:00.000+01:00

I've been feeling uncharacteristically 'down', these past couple of days and at first, I wasn't able to put my finger on the problem. A nagging sense of loss, like an exaggeration of that feeling you get when you know you've left the house without all that you need.

Yule Cottage, the place of my birth.

On rare occasions like this I tend to seek refuge in the shelter of better days, where I carefully count my treasured memories and check them for signs of wear. Yesterday, it was becoming clear to me that I was drifting unpleasantly on a sea of nostalgia. No mal de mer for me, but I was nursing a spot of homesickness. A mild pining for the place of my birth. There had been no obvious trigger, I just needed to revisit a simple, settled and secure marker in a terrain that's been shaped by a flood of unpredictability.

Yule Cottage, today, courtesy of Google Maps

It doesn't take long to cover the twenty or so miles that lay between me and the village where I first drew breath. Years ago, I unconsciously planted my flags of reminder. They still fluttered in the lanes and cast shadows on the flint. And, as I passed familiar cottages, sympathetic new-builds, all the way to the Church of the Blessed Mary and beyond the overgrown coppice my grandfather worked, the proverbial weight of uncertainty began to lift. This section of my past was still here...and somehow, I knew it wouldn't let me down.

Regular visitors will know that I have often waxed lyrical about Cornwall, and how it still remains very special to me. But I think what I'm beginning to realise is, there can be only one true place where my body and soul feel perfectly at ease. It's a force of attraction that's impossible for me to deny, an invisible, unbreakable tie that holds me fast as the world changes around and about. It may not be where I live, but it's home all the same.

Piglets and Posers

2011-08-17T09:03:00.001+01:00

Our daughter tells us that shortly after the Radio Four news, yesterday, Speckly Woo was deep in thought, then came the inevitable question.

SW - So, how are things with Olivia?

Mum - Olivia?

SW - Yes, Olivia. Are they still fighting?

Mum - (pausing for thought) Olivia, the piglet?

SW - No…the man said something about fighting and Olivia.

Mum - (another lengthy pause) Oh, you mean Libya?

SW - (silence)

Mum - Is that what you meant, Libya?

SW - How are things, are they still fighting?

Oh to be four years old, with a head full of questions, and no fear of failure.

Magpie Tales: Cosmetic Perjury

2011-08-15T16:42:00.001+01:00

An actress fiercely denied
That her paint was too richly applied.
But, rollers and brushes
Can't spare the blushes,
When looks begin to slide.

More Magpie Tales

Tracking Nagel

2011-08-14T22:04:00.000+01:00

On Saturday I celebrated the renewal of my university library card (retired staff status), by self-issuing three philosophy books. Nothing heavy going, just enough to keep my brain from refusing to start on cold mornings.

I started to reacquaint myself with a favourite, 'What Does It All Mean?' by Thomas Nagel.

Today, I used one of two complimentary tickets for a day at the races…truck racing, that is. Throughout the event, I was asking myself many questions. Not least of all, why did I part with £3.00 for two cups of tea?

As the day wore on, certain things were becoming clearer to me.

My life can be over-cluttered at times, no room to breathe.

I tend to pursue something with too much eagerness.

Often, I feel as though I'm swimming against the tide.

If I could just string things together, they might make more sense.

I look to the heavens for inspiration, only to be left with another question.

Is it all woolly thinking?

Monkey World

2011-08-12T20:32:00.000+01:00

See no evil,

hear no evil,

speak no evil.

On a recent trip to a rescue centre in Dorset, I was completely won over by these characters.