On being unable to sleep aboard a National Express coach.
'The lucky bastards'
I think
when I see them
slumping and nodding
despite the spangling of a mobile
or an Iphone inside which
some twigs
seem to be having sex
or else there's a fire in a pet-shop.
Despite the terse 'hullo',
the non-consequential
fired into the back
of a headrest.
Despite the shoved seat
and fizzed coke.
I long to no longer long
to be drawn along
the mysterious
undertow
as they are,
pushed (or is it pulled)
along that nameless grey corridor,
part of a vehicle
that is going somewhere
magically by standing still,
along that strange trajectory
which is not a straight line
or an arc
but charms
all the way
like some kind
of white lie.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Climate change deniers raise temperature 30.09.2010
Source: The Times
The Royal Society has seen fit to rewrite its guide to climate change and states that ther is
'uncertainty about future temperature increases' after 40 of its fellows rebelled and questioned its earlier findings.
R.S. rebels rumour
revision re. regional
re-readings, rally.
The Royal Society has seen fit to rewrite its guide to climate change and states that ther is
'uncertainty about future temperature increases' after 40 of its fellows rebelled and questioned its earlier findings.
R.S. rebels rumour
revision re. regional
re-readings, rally.
Miners haiku 30.09.2011.
Source The Guardian.
Thirty three Chilean miners have all been rescued after over a month of living far underground.This is a testimony to the human spirit and to human compassion, of faith on the part of the miners whose courage never wavered and who took up Bible reading classes using tiny bibles underground, of their compatriots and relatives as well as a tribute to the hard work and dedication of those who brought them up safely from the San Jose gold and copper mine in Copiago. The world's media descended on them and their story and had hoped to make them into celebrities.
The capsule designed to rescue the miners was sent down a hole the diameter of a man-hole cover, or, if you prefer, a hole the diameter of an American pizza. Other items were sent to keep them alive. Pills, boots, collapsible beds in bits, crucifixes, food, water were all sent down a bore-hole.
All 33 trapped men were brought up via the capsule.
Crosses, pills, beds and
hope kept chilled miners alive
(story was mined though.)
Thirty three Chilean miners have all been rescued after over a month of living far underground.This is a testimony to the human spirit and to human compassion, of faith on the part of the miners whose courage never wavered and who took up Bible reading classes using tiny bibles underground, of their compatriots and relatives as well as a tribute to the hard work and dedication of those who brought them up safely from the San Jose gold and copper mine in Copiago. The world's media descended on them and their story and had hoped to make them into celebrities.
The capsule designed to rescue the miners was sent down a hole the diameter of a man-hole cover, or, if you prefer, a hole the diameter of an American pizza. Other items were sent to keep them alive. Pills, boots, collapsible beds in bits, crucifixes, food, water were all sent down a bore-hole.
All 33 trapped men were brought up via the capsule.
Crosses, pills, beds and
hope kept chilled miners alive
(story was mined though.)
Castro's prophecy's ignored09.09.2010
The Times reports, in a tiny 3"x 2" piece buried somewhere in its World News pages that Fidel Castro has warned, in an address to the Cuban Parliament that Israel and the U.S. are preparing to attack Iran with nuclear weapons.
Coming WW3
scenario reported
as 'News In Brief'.
Castro's World War Three
prophecy castrated by
edit catastrophe.
Coming WW3
scenario reported
as 'News In Brief'.
Castro's World War Three
prophecy castrated by
edit catastrophe.
Saab car crash probe 12.09.2010.
Source: Metro.
Greater Manchester Police were yesterday hunting two men who drove an old Saab along a pavement in Rochdale just after 2a.m., when crowds were moving to the next late night haunt because they'd been refused admission to the Dali Bar. Seventy five people were taken to hospital.
Det. Insp. Darren Meeks said 'to deliberately drive a car along a crowded pavement is incomprehensively dangerous and reckless.'
A GMP spokesperson said 'The person we are looking for knows we want to speak to him so if anyone knows where he is they should call us.'
Reckless rowdies in
wreck run riotous, rout
Rochdale revellers.
"If you know where the
man who knows we know about
him is, let us know"
Greater Manchester Police were yesterday hunting two men who drove an old Saab along a pavement in Rochdale just after 2a.m., when crowds were moving to the next late night haunt because they'd been refused admission to the Dali Bar. Seventy five people were taken to hospital.
Det. Insp. Darren Meeks said 'to deliberately drive a car along a crowded pavement is incomprehensively dangerous and reckless.'
A GMP spokesperson said 'The person we are looking for knows we want to speak to him so if anyone knows where he is they should call us.'
Reckless rowdies in
wreck run riotous, rout
Rochdale revellers.
"If you know where the
man who knows we know about
him is, let us know"
Caesarean section. 29.06.2010.
Source The Metro.
A target to reduce the ridiculous number of births by Caesarean section in Britain on the NHS (a surgical procedure which involves several nights stay in hospital and often leads to medical complications later) sometimes by mothers in their thirties and forties who want a baby but not the pain involved has been quietly dropped. The risks associated with this procedure have been dismissed as 'a myth' by 'experts'.
NHS cuts dropped
on Caesarean births, more
babies dropped through cuts.
A target to reduce the ridiculous number of births by Caesarean section in Britain on the NHS (a surgical procedure which involves several nights stay in hospital and often leads to medical complications later) sometimes by mothers in their thirties and forties who want a baby but not the pain involved has been quietly dropped. The risks associated with this procedure have been dismissed as 'a myth' by 'experts'.
NHS cuts dropped
on Caesarean births, more
babies dropped through cuts.
Another Bloody Sunday 29.01.10.
Source: The Independent.
Lord Saville's report on the Bloody Sunday (Northrn Ireland) killings of 1972, after being trawled through court, has finally concluded the verdict of unlawful killing (after twelve years and tens of millions) that we knew it was all along. Twelve innocent citizens, peacefully protesting, were gunned down by the British Army.
Exactly two weeks ago to this day, there was another Bloody Sunday, when peaceful protestors, amongst them Mairead Maguire, veteran of the Irish Struggle for independence, some children and old people, one or two European M.P.s, and a famous Swedish crime writer in a flotilla carrying paper, pencils, jam, concrete, sweets, hope and most importantly solidarity to Palestine were gunned down in international waters at 5a.m. by the Israeli Defence Forces, who first surrounded the main Turkish boat with gunboats then sent down soldiers from helicopters to blitz those on board the vessel. At least nine were killed, many were seriously injured and still many are still missing. Some were forced to watch as dogs were brought in to maul the dead. Others were cuffed and forced to lie face down in the blood and glass. One woman was sadistically shown a photo of her dead partner 36 hours after he was killed and asked to 'identify' him. His face was by now blown up. She recognised his mouth. Hundreds were imprisoned without charge and stripped of their possessions. Just another day, another dollar for Israel then...
That Bloody Sunday's
a paler pink version
of this Dirty Sunday.
Business as usual
for the IDF who gunned
down brave protestors.
Lord Saville's report on the Bloody Sunday (Northrn Ireland) killings of 1972, after being trawled through court, has finally concluded the verdict of unlawful killing (after twelve years and tens of millions) that we knew it was all along. Twelve innocent citizens, peacefully protesting, were gunned down by the British Army.
Exactly two weeks ago to this day, there was another Bloody Sunday, when peaceful protestors, amongst them Mairead Maguire, veteran of the Irish Struggle for independence, some children and old people, one or two European M.P.s, and a famous Swedish crime writer in a flotilla carrying paper, pencils, jam, concrete, sweets, hope and most importantly solidarity to Palestine were gunned down in international waters at 5a.m. by the Israeli Defence Forces, who first surrounded the main Turkish boat with gunboats then sent down soldiers from helicopters to blitz those on board the vessel. At least nine were killed, many were seriously injured and still many are still missing. Some were forced to watch as dogs were brought in to maul the dead. Others were cuffed and forced to lie face down in the blood and glass. One woman was sadistically shown a photo of her dead partner 36 hours after he was killed and asked to 'identify' him. His face was by now blown up. She recognised his mouth. Hundreds were imprisoned without charge and stripped of their possessions. Just another day, another dollar for Israel then...
That Bloody Sunday's
a paler pink version
of this Dirty Sunday.
Business as usual
for the IDF who gunned
down brave protestors.
Bloody Sunday 21.06.2010.
Lord Saville's report on the Bloody Sunday (Northrn Ireland) killings of 1972, after being trawled through court, has finally concluded the verdict of unlawful killing (after twelve years and tens of millions) that we knew it was all along. Twelve innocent citizens, peacefully protesting, were gunned down by the British Army.
Exactly two weeks ago to this day, there was another Bloody Sunday, when peaceful protestors, amongst them Mairead Maguire, veteran of the Irish Struggle for independence, some children and old people, one or two European M.P.s, and a famous Swedish crime writer in a flotilla carrying paper, pencils, jam, concrete, sweets, hope and most importantly solidarity to Palestine were gunned down in international waters at 5a.m. by the Israeli Defence Forces, who first surrounded the main Turkish boat with gunboats then sent down soldiers from helicopters to blitz those on board the vessel. At least nine were killed, many were seriously injured and still many are still missing. Some were forced to watch as dogs were brought in to maul the dead. Others were cuffed and forced to lie face down in the blood and glass. One woman was sadistically shown a photo of her dead partner 36 hours after he was killed and asked to 'identify' him. His face was by now blown up. She recognised his mouth. Hundreds were imprisoned without charge and stripped of their possessions. Just another day, another dollar for Israel then...
That Bloody Sunday's
a paler pink version
of this Dirty Sunday.
Business as usual
for the IDF who gunned
down brave protestors.
Exactly two weeks ago to this day, there was another Bloody Sunday, when peaceful protestors, amongst them Mairead Maguire, veteran of the Irish Struggle for independence, some children and old people, one or two European M.P.s, and a famous Swedish crime writer in a flotilla carrying paper, pencils, jam, concrete, sweets, hope and most importantly solidarity to Palestine were gunned down in international waters at 5a.m. by the Israeli Defence Forces, who first surrounded the main Turkish boat with gunboats then sent down soldiers from helicopters to blitz those on board the vessel. At least nine were killed, many were seriously injured and still many are still missing. Some were forced to watch as dogs were brought in to maul the dead. Others were cuffed and forced to lie face down in the blood and glass. One woman was sadistically shown a photo of her dead partner 36 hours after he was killed and asked to 'identify' him. His face was by now blown up. She recognised his mouth. Hundreds were imprisoned without charge and stripped of their possessions. Just another day, another dollar for Israel then...
That Bloody Sunday's
a paler pink version
of this Dirty Sunday.
Business as usual
for the IDF who gunned
down brave protestors.
Blair's security costs us
Source The Guardian
Security for Tony Blair, the ex-Prime Minister and now 'Middle East Envoy' costs the taxpayer over £250, 000 per annum. Claims of more than £1,200 per night on accomodation were made by security officers, running up a bill of more than £20,000 during a two-week holiday taken by Blair in Borneo.
T.B. is protected by Metropolitan Police Officers wherever he goes.
He earns millions of pounds and dollars for his talks and appearances, not least from his book royalties, owns lots of property and is filthy rich.
His Blairing, his lies
his ill-gotten gains cost us,
the taxpayer, dear.
TB spreads throughout
the Middle East. Taxpayer
pays for wealth disease.
Security for Tony Blair, the ex-Prime Minister and now 'Middle East Envoy' costs the taxpayer over £250, 000 per annum. Claims of more than £1,200 per night on accomodation were made by security officers, running up a bill of more than £20,000 during a two-week holiday taken by Blair in Borneo.
T.B. is protected by Metropolitan Police Officers wherever he goes.
He earns millions of pounds and dollars for his talks and appearances, not least from his book royalties, owns lots of property and is filthy rich.
His Blairing, his lies
his ill-gotten gains cost us,
the taxpayer, dear.
TB spreads throughout
the Middle East. Taxpayer
pays for wealth disease.
Blair's Faith Foundation. 14.03.2010.
Source: The Times
The Times highlights the growing influence of Tony Blair on the religious 'community' in America and Canada. He's busy forging links with the most dubious, affluent and economically strategic 'religious' leaders/foundations/billionaires.
His Foundation, however, is on rather shaky ground as he has presided over FIVE wars and the murder, during those wars, of hundreds of thousands of people, plus a few hangings(no wonder he joined up for Confessional). Moreover, he did so with a perpetual grin. As Shakespeare would have it 'one can smile, and smile and still be a villain.'
He is preparing to launch a Faith offensive after the launch of his book 'The Journey', for which he netted a cool 4.5m advance.
Blairing about God,
his Faith Foundation's really
on dead shaky ground.
The Times highlights the growing influence of Tony Blair on the religious 'community' in America and Canada. He's busy forging links with the most dubious, affluent and economically strategic 'religious' leaders/foundations/billionaires.
His Foundation, however, is on rather shaky ground as he has presided over FIVE wars and the murder, during those wars, of hundreds of thousands of people, plus a few hangings(no wonder he joined up for Confessional). Moreover, he did so with a perpetual grin. As Shakespeare would have it 'one can smile, and smile and still be a villain.'
He is preparing to launch a Faith offensive after the launch of his book 'The Journey', for which he netted a cool 4.5m advance.
Blairing about God,
his Faith Foundation's really
on dead shaky ground.
Birmingham games 22.10.09
Source The Observer. Sports Review
The Times reports that after enduring tiresome jokes when it was bidding for the 2012 Olympic games, Birmingham is to host a training camp for two of the most sought-after teams in the month leading up to the event itself.
The U.S. and Jamaican teams will visit schools, athletic clubs etc and Usain Bolt's cricket-mad brother is hosting a bowling session at Edgbaston Cricket Club.
Spaghetti Junction
will host games (peas and rice
may be Bolted down).
The Times reports that after enduring tiresome jokes when it was bidding for the 2012 Olympic games, Birmingham is to host a training camp for two of the most sought-after teams in the month leading up to the event itself.
The U.S. and Jamaican teams will visit schools, athletic clubs etc and Usain Bolt's cricket-mad brother is hosting a bowling session at Edgbaston Cricket Club.
Spaghetti Junction
will host games (peas and rice
may be Bolted down).
Bilge Producers 06.06.2010.
Source: The Times
More than five weeks since the Deep Water Horizon rig collapsed and oil started spewing at a rate of 2.4 million gallons a day B.P, that's BRITISH Petroleum have been busy poisoning the whole of our waters, the waters of coral, of plankton, of porpoise and of dolphin.
BP are still unrepentant. In fact they're trying to buy off anyone with a mouth, a fishing permit and a Gulf of Mexico address. They've got money to burn you see, as well as to poison. May their consciences take them to a watery grave.The consciences of all who consume the stuff and demand it must be shamed also.
Water will never
be deep enough to drown those
Deep Bilge Poisoners.
More than five weeks since the Deep Water Horizon rig collapsed and oil started spewing at a rate of 2.4 million gallons a day B.P, that's BRITISH Petroleum have been busy poisoning the whole of our waters, the waters of coral, of plankton, of porpoise and of dolphin.
BP are still unrepentant. In fact they're trying to buy off anyone with a mouth, a fishing permit and a Gulf of Mexico address. They've got money to burn you see, as well as to poison. May their consciences take them to a watery grave.The consciences of all who consume the stuff and demand it must be shamed also.
Water will never
be deep enough to drown those
Deep Bilge Poisoners.
On discovering a failing bee-hive 06.06.210.
They were general bees
coming and going
to the trenches
dressed in livery,
marking out their time and duty,
sliding, charmed, down the crevasse;
burring out luxuriously.
I watched one,
smaller than the rest,
paler, labouring his way out,
saw his particulars,
his clambering doom.
They were all marked men
marching out
from that moment
onwards.
coming and going
to the trenches
dressed in livery,
marking out their time and duty,
sliding, charmed, down the crevasse;
burring out luxuriously.
I watched one,
smaller than the rest,
paler, labouring his way out,
saw his particulars,
his clambering doom.
They were all marked men
marching out
from that moment
onwards.
At the Nurse's Station 03.06.010.
Julie, the duty nurse
In green scrubs
Has burst out of the sick bay
In stitches. She has accidentally
filled in two triage reports
Of the same case.
“I’ve seen two of that gentleman”
she tells the registrar
in blue.
”Funny, that.”
“Errr, time to go home, love”
shouts the triage nurse from Bay Three.
“You’ve had one more than the patient.”
Close at hand,
Mr Malik’s safe, brown Specialist
arms are bent over the file, the screen.
They are sturdy,
standing him at ease.
As Julie’s laughter
Reaches him.
A smile starts to slip up his face
like the sun trying to slip out
from abiding clouds.
A slight shade of blue
and dismay
has tinged the whites of
his downcast eyes as
he reels off the figures
internally.
His glinting stethoscope is still neatly
Curled around his neck,
a hard-won badge.
A yawn blooms in his mouth.
He half suppresses it, half allows it.
It’s still only three in the afternoon;
(time and space in the triage bays
has stiffened, too)
Elsewhere, nurses fly about.
The man in Bay Five
notices their agility,
their freedom of movement
because he has none.
On the only monitor not currently in use,
the acronym P.R.O.U.D unfurls itself,
shimmers on the light-filled screen.
The following lines form slowly
out of nothingness, then slide away
over and over again,
as shoals of fish from a tank.
P…patients are at the heart of all we do.
R..respect for others at all times.
O…our hospital is for you.
U…united in all our services.
D…dedicated to public healthcare.
The registrar writes up
Mr.Malik’s report with
a white pen.
There may be four hours
to kill before x-ray, so
I puzzle over the pen.
It is a replica of the bones
of a human leg.
The tibia and fibula are the part
gripped by the living carpals
of the registrar’s hand,
the nurse’s hand,
the specialist’s hand
Julie and Mr. Malik alight and depart
as deftly as swallows on a wire
at either end of the nurse’s station,
stoke up the ‘to be seen’ crate.
The triage curtains swish closed
and the fallen man is divided from
his care by blue fabric and the afternoon.
In green scrubs
Has burst out of the sick bay
In stitches. She has accidentally
filled in two triage reports
Of the same case.
“I’ve seen two of that gentleman”
she tells the registrar
in blue.
”Funny, that.”
“Errr, time to go home, love”
shouts the triage nurse from Bay Three.
“You’ve had one more than the patient.”
Close at hand,
Mr Malik’s safe, brown Specialist
arms are bent over the file, the screen.
They are sturdy,
standing him at ease.
As Julie’s laughter
Reaches him.
A smile starts to slip up his face
like the sun trying to slip out
from abiding clouds.
A slight shade of blue
and dismay
has tinged the whites of
his downcast eyes as
he reels off the figures
internally.
His glinting stethoscope is still neatly
Curled around his neck,
a hard-won badge.
A yawn blooms in his mouth.
He half suppresses it, half allows it.
It’s still only three in the afternoon;
(time and space in the triage bays
has stiffened, too)
Elsewhere, nurses fly about.
The man in Bay Five
notices their agility,
their freedom of movement
because he has none.
On the only monitor not currently in use,
the acronym P.R.O.U.D unfurls itself,
shimmers on the light-filled screen.
The following lines form slowly
out of nothingness, then slide away
over and over again,
as shoals of fish from a tank.
P…patients are at the heart of all we do.
R..respect for others at all times.
O…our hospital is for you.
U…united in all our services.
D…dedicated to public healthcare.
The registrar writes up
Mr.Malik’s report with
a white pen.
There may be four hours
to kill before x-ray, so
I puzzle over the pen.
It is a replica of the bones
of a human leg.
The tibia and fibula are the part
gripped by the living carpals
of the registrar’s hand,
the nurse’s hand,
the specialist’s hand
Julie and Mr. Malik alight and depart
as deftly as swallows on a wire
at either end of the nurse’s station,
stoke up the ‘to be seen’ crate.
The triage curtains swish closed
and the fallen man is divided from
his care by blue fabric and the afternoon.
Aspirin for bowel cancer 16.09.2010.
Source The Metro
Researchers at the University of Edinburgh have discovered that a daily dose of the painkiller aspirin or other non-steroid ant-inflammatory drug can significantly lower the risk of bowel cancer.
Inflammatory
findings prove that scientists
gut feelings were right.
Researchers at the University of Edinburgh have discovered that a daily dose of the painkiller aspirin or other non-steroid ant-inflammatory drug can significantly lower the risk of bowel cancer.
Inflammatory
findings prove that scientists
gut feelings were right.
Ashes for cash 01.05.2010.
Source: The Independent
Lots of claims are being made by disappointed would-be flyers against the natural disaster in which an Icelandic volcano thankfully stopped the perpetual orgy of flying that goes on across British skies. Well, for a few precious days.
Ashes to money,
cash to gold. Payouts may reach
volcanic levels.
Lots of claims are being made by disappointed would-be flyers against the natural disaster in which an Icelandic volcano thankfully stopped the perpetual orgy of flying that goes on across British skies. Well, for a few precious days.
Ashes to money,
cash to gold. Payouts may reach
volcanic levels.
Let's hole trump in one
29.06.2010.
Campaigners of the pressure group 38 Degrees have bought a piece of land slap bang in the middle of the Balmeanie Estate, an SSSI, which the self-aggrandising popinjay billionaire Donald Trump is buying, grace of Aberedeenshire Council. Under a CPO, those living there are to be evicted from their own houses and land. I have signed up to the ownership of the patch of land, known as 'The Bunker' (for obvious reasons) and ANYONE READING THIS CAN DO IT TOO.
The idea of buying a piece of land technically owned by a very large number of people is that it makes the business of selling the land technically (legally) very expensive. This was the reasoning behind the initial purchase by a few buyers, followed by additional purchase by hundreds of other people of a piece of land inside the proposed siting of the Third Runway. Greenpeace and Plane Stupid were the architects of this idea. Et Voila BAA have cancelled. But watch out, they could just be lying low in an aircraft hangar!
Tee-ed off by Meanie
Council's Trumpery? Let's hole them
in one big bunker.
Campaigners of the pressure group 38 Degrees have bought a piece of land slap bang in the middle of the Balmeanie Estate, an SSSI, which the self-aggrandising popinjay billionaire Donald Trump is buying, grace of Aberedeenshire Council. Under a CPO, those living there are to be evicted from their own houses and land. I have signed up to the ownership of the patch of land, known as 'The Bunker' (for obvious reasons) and ANYONE READING THIS CAN DO IT TOO.
The idea of buying a piece of land technically owned by a very large number of people is that it makes the business of selling the land technically (legally) very expensive. This was the reasoning behind the initial purchase by a few buyers, followed by additional purchase by hundreds of other people of a piece of land inside the proposed siting of the Third Runway. Greenpeace and Plane Stupid were the architects of this idea. Et Voila BAA have cancelled. But watch out, they could just be lying low in an aircraft hangar!
Tee-ed off by Meanie
Council's Trumpery? Let's hole them
in one big bunker.
An Anorexic's morning
Louise Stothard.
'The icing on the cake'.
An anorexic describes her morning (a monologue).
Stage directions:
A bare wooden chair, the sort that could be described as rather uncomfortable, sits centre-stage. It is lit from above by a central stage spotlight.
An anorexic girl walks from the wings onto the stage and as she sits down carefully on the chair, the central spotlight is joined by other side stage lights in flooding the area where she sits, now bathed in bright, white, revealing light. There are no shadows, as the convergence of lights does not permit this.
She's wearing a calico brown smock over dark denim jeans but it's obvious that she's anorexic, though not quite at first glance, since her choice of clothing creates a semblance of normalcy. The smock billows, and the jeans are turned up at the ankles, cuff-style. These are the tricks of the trade, the anorexic's trade. She's wearing a pair of desert boots which she plants squarely on the floor in a masculine sitting posture.
She rocks from one side to the other on the hard chair she usually sits on to read, or write, or watch television, or eat, or refrain from eating. One of the reasons she is rocking from side to side is that her 'seat bones' can feel the hardness of the chair, for she has so little 'padding'.
This feeling is one she finds reassuring.
She billows out the smock as she sits down, as she always does. It's another 'trick of the weight' as she likes to call it.
She tucks her hands, with their coarse, brittle fingernails under her thighs, by turns subconsciously then consciously feeling the gauge of her limbs.
She pauses, collecting her thoughts, then speaks in a clear voice, a voice which has become
a little husky on account of the flood of male hormone triggered by her anorexia.
She begins to talk, uncomfortably at first.
' So what's a typical morning like then, for me?
W-e-e-ll, the careful calibration begins more or less when I wake up. It's something I endure as well as relishing, bittersweet, like dark chocolate, dark thoughts. One of the first things I think about when I wake up is that there are three hours to kill (give or take an extra period of abstinence) before the first allowance, before I can eat. It's marking time in bite-size chunks, to coin a phrase! It's, kind of, an unfortunate game. Really! I tend to visualise the allowance as I'm lying there. To make things easier, and don't get me wrong, I'm all for an easier life, it's nearly always the same menu'.
She extends her arms in front of her as though in an act of supplication, cupping her hands to describe a small bowl shape.
' I take a dessert spoonful of cottage cheese and fluff it out on a bed of lettuce leaves, arranged in concentric circles that give the illusion of a full plate. It's a question of fooling the mind, this diet business.' (She refers here, and elsewhere to her anorexia as 'dieting').
' I normally scatter some flaked almonds or a few cherry tomatoes generously onto the lettuce bed. That way, I get the vitamins and a bit of protein thrown in. And a bit of colour. And shape. That's important. It's not as daft as it looks or sounds, and there's iron too, in the lettuce. Oh, and Laudanum, apparently! Woooh. There are drugs in all these natural things, aren't there! So maybe it's something I should be having at night instead of first thing in the morning ! Really!'
She laughs, then strokes her chin with the bony fingers of her right hand. Her cheeks are downy but here and there a hirsuteness has produced one or two bristly chin hairs. Her face is sculpted, waxy. She has once possesssed a rare beauty. Her head seems too big for the rest of her frame (something of a giveaway, she often thinks).
She shifts on her chair uncomfortably.
'There must be, I feel, some order to life, to the way of doing things. No, really. Some sort of regularity. Like cottage cheese and lettuce. The pleasure of small things is definitely not lost on me, though, even though you must think I lead a miserable existence!'
(She laughs, and the laughter turns into a slight clearing of the throat, as if in embarassment).
'Then there is the dressing game, a thing which is also part of the daily calculus, that is part of the fabric of those three hours, the preparation for going out, for the walk.
The walk is one of the most important parts of the morning. Well, it's all important, really.
Really is one of her favourite words.
I have to check the mirror first, admire the clean lines, the svelte body (I'm being sarcastic, obviously!) see how athletic it looks, how athletic it IS. I know, you've got to laugh, though! Really! To keep myself in the manner to which I am accustomed' ( she laughs) 'I always have to do press-ups, star-jumps and various aerobic movements. These are to top up the output, the exercise.To discharge the batteies. They're... like, the icing on the cake, so to speak.
I pull on my heavy, floaty, linen black dress. It's a bit shapeless, really, but that's the whole point. I have thick, non-stretch jeans as well. They help your legs not to look too obvious, not to look like the licorice sticks they actually are! I like to make an impression when I go out so I have these suede desert-boots, the kind with the tab so I can pull them on. (I need a tab... they're so damn heavy!) They've got castellated soles, they make a mark, I can tell you. Boots like that carry authority. And, for all my complexities, I DO actually have authority.
You probably think I'm expending a lot of effort for what is, after all a bit of vanity. Yet somehow I've learned to expend the minimum effort for the maxinum result.Yeah, I thought that was kind of a cool thing to say, too.
I have a kind of curtain coat, you know. They used to call them swagger coats, didn't they? Or was it duster? One of the two. Anyway, this coat adds another layer of... I suppose you could call it deception. Really. Then I'm ready to float out into town. I say float because that's what it feels like. The term 'airhead' should really be applied to me, as most of the time I'm as light-headed a someone on top of Everest. And that's without the oxygen! Really.' (She laughs loudly, recklessly).
There's a good joke about Everest...I can tell you the gist. I'll probably mess it up, I usually do. A guy labours all the way up Everest, passing all the usual debris you see on the streets. Crisp packets, juice bottles, Kendal Mint Cake, dead climbers, bla-di-blah. Actually, did you know there are about three hundred of them...and that's just the ones they've found. Dead climbers, I mean. No, really! Not actually funny, though, is it? Anyway, he's nearly at the summit when a Scouser pops out from behind a rock and says 'Big Issue, mate?'
The warm gust of laughter from the audience sweeps through her too. She is clearly elated.
'Yeah, I know.' she adds.
She is sitting more comfortably now, getting into her stride.
'I always take a packet of these diet crackers with me. Don't worry, I DO put the wrappers in the bin! Anyway, I feel kind of voluptuous as I slowly take one out of the packet while I'm walking along.They're kind of like an emergency store. Each of these crackers is wrapped in its own envelope, and there are always eight to a packet, four in each compartment. So that's
one for every quarter mile completed. I did have a pedometer but the trouble with them is that they clock up the distance with every movement of your hips, giving false readings, so they're not a true measurement, are they? Anyway,so I'm very aware of the boniness of my hand as I unwrap the crackers, and also the set of my pale, angular face. Actually, I rather admire it. I allow myself an extra cracker sometimes, just for the hell of it. I know I'll have to pay somewhere else.
Sometimes, I drift round M&S, to have a look at the tiny bras I'm hoping to fit. As if.They're for teenaged girls, actually. It seems wrong that children are being sexualised with these bloody things, and those awful chat magazines... there's no childhood, really, is there?
I deliberately go through the food department. I suppose I'm a bit of a masochist really.'
(She laughs).
' I stay out as long as possible. The highlight of all this dieting, this regime is going to Waterstone's to read the paper and have a huge Latte. Really!'
She clears her throat.
'Yes, whooooh. You must be thinking 'what's the point? All that effort and she goes and has a Latte. Not even a skinny Latte!' Well, you've got to live dangerously sometimes!
I supose that's what this whole dieting thing is about...the danger of things.
'Anyway, that's once a week. I have a blackberry muffin too. Yeah, I know, but in actual fact I only have about a third of it. I wrap the rest in those lovely napkins you get in there with the crenellated edges, then I take it home to nibble at surreptitiously in weak moments. I ration the one-third muffin out into three pieces while I'm reading. Funny how I do things in threes and quarters. It seems to make sense. But I make it look random.
Anyway of course the grease of the muffin, those bloody transfats leave me feeling rather heavy and dull. The dullness is more to do with the failure, though, than the calorific value of the muffin and Latte even though, as everyone knows, it's huge.
Finally, I'll go into Home and Bargain, buy bleach for my scrubbing sessions, for the bathroom.
Scrubbing takes a bit of effort and you're cleansing things at the same time, so that kind of makes sense. It's useful exercise rather than just exercise for the sake of it!
A semblance of normality, I suppose you could call it.
So there you go, that's me, in a nutshell!.'
She looks wistfully at her audience.
Stage directions:
The overhead stage lights dim and narrow, revealing a stark figure, then close down gradually, leaving both her and the stage in complete darkness.
'The icing on the cake'.
An anorexic describes her morning (a monologue).
Stage directions:
A bare wooden chair, the sort that could be described as rather uncomfortable, sits centre-stage. It is lit from above by a central stage spotlight.
An anorexic girl walks from the wings onto the stage and as she sits down carefully on the chair, the central spotlight is joined by other side stage lights in flooding the area where she sits, now bathed in bright, white, revealing light. There are no shadows, as the convergence of lights does not permit this.
She's wearing a calico brown smock over dark denim jeans but it's obvious that she's anorexic, though not quite at first glance, since her choice of clothing creates a semblance of normalcy. The smock billows, and the jeans are turned up at the ankles, cuff-style. These are the tricks of the trade, the anorexic's trade. She's wearing a pair of desert boots which she plants squarely on the floor in a masculine sitting posture.
She rocks from one side to the other on the hard chair she usually sits on to read, or write, or watch television, or eat, or refrain from eating. One of the reasons she is rocking from side to side is that her 'seat bones' can feel the hardness of the chair, for she has so little 'padding'.
This feeling is one she finds reassuring.
She billows out the smock as she sits down, as she always does. It's another 'trick of the weight' as she likes to call it.
She tucks her hands, with their coarse, brittle fingernails under her thighs, by turns subconsciously then consciously feeling the gauge of her limbs.
She pauses, collecting her thoughts, then speaks in a clear voice, a voice which has become
a little husky on account of the flood of male hormone triggered by her anorexia.
She begins to talk, uncomfortably at first.
' So what's a typical morning like then, for me?
W-e-e-ll, the careful calibration begins more or less when I wake up. It's something I endure as well as relishing, bittersweet, like dark chocolate, dark thoughts. One of the first things I think about when I wake up is that there are three hours to kill (give or take an extra period of abstinence) before the first allowance, before I can eat. It's marking time in bite-size chunks, to coin a phrase! It's, kind of, an unfortunate game. Really! I tend to visualise the allowance as I'm lying there. To make things easier, and don't get me wrong, I'm all for an easier life, it's nearly always the same menu'.
She extends her arms in front of her as though in an act of supplication, cupping her hands to describe a small bowl shape.
' I take a dessert spoonful of cottage cheese and fluff it out on a bed of lettuce leaves, arranged in concentric circles that give the illusion of a full plate. It's a question of fooling the mind, this diet business.' (She refers here, and elsewhere to her anorexia as 'dieting').
' I normally scatter some flaked almonds or a few cherry tomatoes generously onto the lettuce bed. That way, I get the vitamins and a bit of protein thrown in. And a bit of colour. And shape. That's important. It's not as daft as it looks or sounds, and there's iron too, in the lettuce. Oh, and Laudanum, apparently! Woooh. There are drugs in all these natural things, aren't there! So maybe it's something I should be having at night instead of first thing in the morning ! Really!'
She laughs, then strokes her chin with the bony fingers of her right hand. Her cheeks are downy but here and there a hirsuteness has produced one or two bristly chin hairs. Her face is sculpted, waxy. She has once possesssed a rare beauty. Her head seems too big for the rest of her frame (something of a giveaway, she often thinks).
She shifts on her chair uncomfortably.
'There must be, I feel, some order to life, to the way of doing things. No, really. Some sort of regularity. Like cottage cheese and lettuce. The pleasure of small things is definitely not lost on me, though, even though you must think I lead a miserable existence!'
(She laughs, and the laughter turns into a slight clearing of the throat, as if in embarassment).
'Then there is the dressing game, a thing which is also part of the daily calculus, that is part of the fabric of those three hours, the preparation for going out, for the walk.
The walk is one of the most important parts of the morning. Well, it's all important, really.
Really is one of her favourite words.
I have to check the mirror first, admire the clean lines, the svelte body (I'm being sarcastic, obviously!) see how athletic it looks, how athletic it IS. I know, you've got to laugh, though! Really! To keep myself in the manner to which I am accustomed' ( she laughs) 'I always have to do press-ups, star-jumps and various aerobic movements. These are to top up the output, the exercise.To discharge the batteies. They're... like, the icing on the cake, so to speak.
I pull on my heavy, floaty, linen black dress. It's a bit shapeless, really, but that's the whole point. I have thick, non-stretch jeans as well. They help your legs not to look too obvious, not to look like the licorice sticks they actually are! I like to make an impression when I go out so I have these suede desert-boots, the kind with the tab so I can pull them on. (I need a tab... they're so damn heavy!) They've got castellated soles, they make a mark, I can tell you. Boots like that carry authority. And, for all my complexities, I DO actually have authority.
You probably think I'm expending a lot of effort for what is, after all a bit of vanity. Yet somehow I've learned to expend the minimum effort for the maxinum result.Yeah, I thought that was kind of a cool thing to say, too.
I have a kind of curtain coat, you know. They used to call them swagger coats, didn't they? Or was it duster? One of the two. Anyway, this coat adds another layer of... I suppose you could call it deception. Really. Then I'm ready to float out into town. I say float because that's what it feels like. The term 'airhead' should really be applied to me, as most of the time I'm as light-headed a someone on top of Everest. And that's without the oxygen! Really.' (She laughs loudly, recklessly).
There's a good joke about Everest...I can tell you the gist. I'll probably mess it up, I usually do. A guy labours all the way up Everest, passing all the usual debris you see on the streets. Crisp packets, juice bottles, Kendal Mint Cake, dead climbers, bla-di-blah. Actually, did you know there are about three hundred of them...and that's just the ones they've found. Dead climbers, I mean. No, really! Not actually funny, though, is it? Anyway, he's nearly at the summit when a Scouser pops out from behind a rock and says 'Big Issue, mate?'
The warm gust of laughter from the audience sweeps through her too. She is clearly elated.
'Yeah, I know.' she adds.
She is sitting more comfortably now, getting into her stride.
'I always take a packet of these diet crackers with me. Don't worry, I DO put the wrappers in the bin! Anyway, I feel kind of voluptuous as I slowly take one out of the packet while I'm walking along.They're kind of like an emergency store. Each of these crackers is wrapped in its own envelope, and there are always eight to a packet, four in each compartment. So that's
one for every quarter mile completed. I did have a pedometer but the trouble with them is that they clock up the distance with every movement of your hips, giving false readings, so they're not a true measurement, are they? Anyway,so I'm very aware of the boniness of my hand as I unwrap the crackers, and also the set of my pale, angular face. Actually, I rather admire it. I allow myself an extra cracker sometimes, just for the hell of it. I know I'll have to pay somewhere else.
Sometimes, I drift round M&S, to have a look at the tiny bras I'm hoping to fit. As if.They're for teenaged girls, actually. It seems wrong that children are being sexualised with these bloody things, and those awful chat magazines... there's no childhood, really, is there?
I deliberately go through the food department. I suppose I'm a bit of a masochist really.'
(She laughs).
' I stay out as long as possible. The highlight of all this dieting, this regime is going to Waterstone's to read the paper and have a huge Latte. Really!'
She clears her throat.
'Yes, whooooh. You must be thinking 'what's the point? All that effort and she goes and has a Latte. Not even a skinny Latte!' Well, you've got to live dangerously sometimes!
I supose that's what this whole dieting thing is about...the danger of things.
'Anyway, that's once a week. I have a blackberry muffin too. Yeah, I know, but in actual fact I only have about a third of it. I wrap the rest in those lovely napkins you get in there with the crenellated edges, then I take it home to nibble at surreptitiously in weak moments. I ration the one-third muffin out into three pieces while I'm reading. Funny how I do things in threes and quarters. It seems to make sense. But I make it look random.
Anyway of course the grease of the muffin, those bloody transfats leave me feeling rather heavy and dull. The dullness is more to do with the failure, though, than the calorific value of the muffin and Latte even though, as everyone knows, it's huge.
Finally, I'll go into Home and Bargain, buy bleach for my scrubbing sessions, for the bathroom.
Scrubbing takes a bit of effort and you're cleansing things at the same time, so that kind of makes sense. It's useful exercise rather than just exercise for the sake of it!
A semblance of normality, I suppose you could call it.
So there you go, that's me, in a nutshell!.'
She looks wistfully at her audience.
Stage directions:
The overhead stage lights dim and narrow, revealing a stark figure, then close down gradually, leaving both her and the stage in complete darkness.
Abortion fury! 20.06.2010.
source: The Observer
Marie Stopes International, an abortion charity, is putting an ad. on Channel 4 soon with the strap line'Are You Late?' The Pro-life Alliance is furious.
Pro-Life lobby wants
advert terminated, to
be 'The Late' ad.
Alliance fosters
hate for 'Are You Late' advert,
abortion 'Pro-mo.'
Marie Stopes International, an abortion charity, is putting an ad. on Channel 4 soon with the strap line'Are You Late?' The Pro-life Alliance is furious.
Pro-Life lobby wants
advert terminated, to
be 'The Late' ad.
Alliance fosters
hate for 'Are You Late' advert,
abortion 'Pro-mo.'
On Antony Gormless..iron men in the Alps
On Antony Gormley's piece in The Grauniad Review. 07 08 2010.
'Why I put 100 iron men in the Alps' by A.Gormless.
Not content with spreading replicas of himself all over Britain (the real one is bad enough!) the postmodernist A. Gormless, has decided to despoliate bits of Austria, the more unspoilt the better!
'In the summer of 2005' he writes, 'my wife and I went to wander in the mountains of Vorarlberg to see if it was possible to install a multiple-body work there.'
Describing the charm, the solitude, the pastoral beauty of the region, Gormley goes on
'There was something euphoric about the silence and clear air of those days spent walking.'
A shame, then that he had to come along and spoil it all!
'Horizon Field' he gargoyles 'comprises 100 iron body forms spread over seven valleys, creating a field that makes its own horizon, the latest of my attempts to ask a simple question in material terms: " Where does the human being fit in the scheme of things?"
In his scheme of things, the human being known as Antony Gormless fits in anywhere he plants it and a good few other places besides. Crosby, Cuxhaven, London, New York have been overrun with lifesize and irremoveable Antony Gormlesses and the Austrian Alps, he is determined, will be no exception. At this very moment, the gritty Gormless is believed to be preparing a single asbestos 20,000 ft.'Gormless of the Desert' to dwarf the Sahara it will stand upon.
And that's not all! He will soon be unveiling 100 stainless steel Gormlesses, currently housed in an Asda superwarehouse which will withstand the lowest temperatures known to 'iron man' Gormless. They will be hauled by a team of 20,000 huskies backed up by snowskis and planted at the North and South Poles, sunk deep into the ice-cap. Gormless himself will be there to open the ceremony.
And there's more... several hundred titanium models are to be launched to the Moon and then Mars from Cape Canaveral in December. They are due to touch down in the next few months. The sculptures will be known as 'Yet Another Place.'
He's also planning a Satgorm made up of a cluster of Gormlesses welded together to orbit planet Earth in perpetuity.
'People may well ask' he rumbles, surveying the Gormlesses peppering the Austrian Alps, "What the hell is this thing doing here?" and the work returns that question and it responds reflexively "What the hell are you doing here?"'
He has a little reflection himself: 'Michi Manhart, the local hunter, farmer, landowner and ski-lift owner' he writes' decided that 100 iron men was just what the mountains...needed. So long as the helicopters installing them did not disturb the deer he intended to shoot.'
Operation cast
iron only shows Gormley's
self love and brass neck.
'Why I put 100 iron men in the Alps' by A.Gormless.
Not content with spreading replicas of himself all over Britain (the real one is bad enough!) the postmodernist A. Gormless, has decided to despoliate bits of Austria, the more unspoilt the better!
'In the summer of 2005' he writes, 'my wife and I went to wander in the mountains of Vorarlberg to see if it was possible to install a multiple-body work there.'
Describing the charm, the solitude, the pastoral beauty of the region, Gormley goes on
'There was something euphoric about the silence and clear air of those days spent walking.'
A shame, then that he had to come along and spoil it all!
'Horizon Field' he gargoyles 'comprises 100 iron body forms spread over seven valleys, creating a field that makes its own horizon, the latest of my attempts to ask a simple question in material terms: " Where does the human being fit in the scheme of things?"
In his scheme of things, the human being known as Antony Gormless fits in anywhere he plants it and a good few other places besides. Crosby, Cuxhaven, London, New York have been overrun with lifesize and irremoveable Antony Gormlesses and the Austrian Alps, he is determined, will be no exception. At this very moment, the gritty Gormless is believed to be preparing a single asbestos 20,000 ft.'Gormless of the Desert' to dwarf the Sahara it will stand upon.
And that's not all! He will soon be unveiling 100 stainless steel Gormlesses, currently housed in an Asda superwarehouse which will withstand the lowest temperatures known to 'iron man' Gormless. They will be hauled by a team of 20,000 huskies backed up by snowskis and planted at the North and South Poles, sunk deep into the ice-cap. Gormless himself will be there to open the ceremony.
And there's more... several hundred titanium models are to be launched to the Moon and then Mars from Cape Canaveral in December. They are due to touch down in the next few months. The sculptures will be known as 'Yet Another Place.'
He's also planning a Satgorm made up of a cluster of Gormlesses welded together to orbit planet Earth in perpetuity.
'People may well ask' he rumbles, surveying the Gormlesses peppering the Austrian Alps, "What the hell is this thing doing here?" and the work returns that question and it responds reflexively "What the hell are you doing here?"'
He has a little reflection himself: 'Michi Manhart, the local hunter, farmer, landowner and ski-lift owner' he writes' decided that 100 iron men was just what the mountains...needed. So long as the helicopters installing them did not disturb the deer he intended to shoot.'
Operation cast
iron only shows Gormley's
self love and brass neck.
Bono's slipped disk x 2 haikus 29.05.2010.
Source The Daily Mirror
U2's lead singer, Bono, who was admitted to hospital with a slipped disk, will, according to doctors, require eight weeks of recovery from surgery, thereby missing an appearance at the Glastonbury Festival's Pyramid Stage. Fans, and Bono himself, are said to be heartbroken.
Broken Bonio
leaves Bono's heart broken. Ur's
will be broken 2.
Bono and disk have
slipped off-stage; show must go on
With or Without them.
U2's lead singer, Bono, who was admitted to hospital with a slipped disk, will, according to doctors, require eight weeks of recovery from surgery, thereby missing an appearance at the Glastonbury Festival's Pyramid Stage. Fans, and Bono himself, are said to be heartbroken.
Broken Bonio
leaves Bono's heart broken. Ur's
will be broken 2.
Bono and disk have
slipped off-stage; show must go on
With or Without them.
30.06.2010.
Sir Hugh Orde, President of ACPO (Association of Chief Police Officers) and a former Police Chief was commented on the Home Sectretary's address to the annual ACPO conference in Manchester yesterday.
Theresa May revealed that cuts across the crime-fighting spectrum meant that public satisfaction targetting would be scrapped. Police needed to just fight crime rather than be seen to be fighting crime, she inferred. Sir Hugh suggested mainstreaming and sharing police resources and scrapping specialist units. 'We just don't have the numbers' he said.
We can't say 'we've got
your number' any more. We
don't have the numbers.
Sir Hugh Orde, President of ACPO (Association of Chief Police Officers) and a former Police Chief was commented on the Home Sectretary's address to the annual ACPO conference in Manchester yesterday.
Theresa May revealed that cuts across the crime-fighting spectrum meant that public satisfaction targetting would be scrapped. Police needed to just fight crime rather than be seen to be fighting crime, she inferred. Sir Hugh suggested mainstreaming and sharing police resources and scrapping specialist units. 'We just don't have the numbers' he said.
We can't say 'we've got
your number' any more. We
don't have the numbers.
BP Hayward's $10m 'sorry'
07.06.2010.
Doug Inkley, a senior scientist with the National Wildlife Federation is rightly infuriated and heartbroken by the B.P. continuing planetary damage and what B.P. has proclaimed as transparency in their press releases and their oleaginous statements.
They've just spent a cool $10m on a 'sorry' advert in which Tony Hayward, the British C.E,. who only yesterday, after three months of continuous massive oil gushing told the world that he was British and that he was therefore made of sterner stuff, (unlike the spineless crustaceans who have succumbed to the oil) wouldn't have his bones broken by sticks and stones (we can think of more fitting ways but would these be just like water off his back rather than oil off a duck's) and is now appearing to gush, to spill about how sorry he is.
You'll B.e P.aying for
my gush too. Oil on duck's backs
is water off mine.
Transparency by
B.P.'s even more glutinous
than their obscene oil.
Doug Inkley, a senior scientist with the National Wildlife Federation is rightly infuriated and heartbroken by the B.P. continuing planetary damage and what B.P. has proclaimed as transparency in their press releases and their oleaginous statements.
They've just spent a cool $10m on a 'sorry' advert in which Tony Hayward, the British C.E,. who only yesterday, after three months of continuous massive oil gushing told the world that he was British and that he was therefore made of sterner stuff, (unlike the spineless crustaceans who have succumbed to the oil) wouldn't have his bones broken by sticks and stones (we can think of more fitting ways but would these be just like water off his back rather than oil off a duck's) and is now appearing to gush, to spill about how sorry he is.
You'll B.e P.aying for
my gush too. Oil on duck's backs
is water off mine.
Transparency by
B.P.'s even more glutinous
than their obscene oil.
A cricket match in BirkenheadPark
A cricket match at Birkenhead Park.
North of the dark boards,
the big hand slips down the dial,
contented.
The hours, the minutes,
the overs are happily
segmented;
the men in white are pegged out,
sundial hands with strip shadows
at square or forty-five.
Skating swallows,
day-bats,
flit to the oaks.
Under the pavilion tents,
calm and creosote seep
from the dark boards.
Out there, Matty cries
'C'mon boys, one more push.'
Sparse handclaps
from the parchment palms
of old men echo their lives thinly now,
rising faintly, sweetly from the field.
Reedy encouragements are
scattered to the boundary.
The ball squirts away from the line.
The tide of men advances, recedes.
The constellation is reset
to shimmer, unwavering
on the field.
North of the dark boards,
the big hand slips down the dial,
contented.
The hours, the minutes,
the overs are happily
segmented;
the men in white are pegged out,
sundial hands with strip shadows
at square or forty-five.
Skating swallows,
day-bats,
flit to the oaks.
Under the pavilion tents,
calm and creosote seep
from the dark boards.
Out there, Matty cries
'C'mon boys, one more push.'
Sparse handclaps
from the parchment palms
of old men echo their lives thinly now,
rising faintly, sweetly from the field.
Reedy encouragements are
scattered to the boundary.
The ball squirts away from the line.
The tide of men advances, recedes.
The constellation is reset
to shimmer, unwavering
on the field.
A Carmarthenshire holiday April 2010.
A Carmarthenshire Holiday, April, 2010.
We swept through Mid-Wales, Jane and I, sucked down through three-lane and four-lane carriageways with stern, sculpted roundabouts as pauses for breath. This side, then that of Oswestry, Welshpool, Newtown. Which Newtown was this? The saddened Newtown of the Valleys fame, all grey-faced and holed up, holding itself up. Or the Newtown of market Mid-Wales where once all drovers paths met, the cattle clusters of Herefords and Welsh Blacks shifted, wayward? This was the Newtown now corralling the industrial cattle on Fridays; cattle pumped up with ballooning udders, delivering eight gallons a shot, twice a day to be routinely siphoned off by Tesco. Down the Wye Valley, Red Kites turn across the top left of the windscreen. Jane is implacable as the temperature guage swoops and soars. She calms me. 'We'll get there ' she tells me, telepathically.
At 'The Old Granary', there is no 'welcome pack' as promised, no tea or coffee, biscuits, milk as the website had gayly advertised. The converted slate barn is shaded by the big house where the hosts live. LLangrannog is the village it belongs to, whose grim Welsh greystones are always just a bit further down the stifling drop to the coast. The coast, you feel is about to reveal itself around the next bend, or perhaps the next bend but one.
The hosts, Judy and Erhardt Jungmayer were hard-nosed, well-off, fussing but producing no warmth. Mr Jungmayer stumblingly asked us for a shopping list, dutifully motored out to the mini-market petrol station we had passed three miles ago, had decided to ignore as we pictured the hot meal that we would be regaled with. He returned an hour later with the list, presenting us with a bill to the letter.
Hostess Judy, meanwhile had picked up that it was someone's birthday, had left a cheerless card on the small, wooden dining table in the galley kitchen. The card was meant to be meaningful but the meaning is poor. It's our birthday not my birthday.
In a small earthenware jar there were a few floor-swept tea bags. The TV control malfunctioned. The shower, with its miserable curtain blew hot and cold (lukewarm mostly).
The Cardiganshire coast is grey-strangled with dramatic and oppressive drops where the river flow has been cut off by something akin to glacial action. There's not much action around here, only that of brighly coloured humans screaming, plashing, dog-doodling, idling, licking the ice-cream upwards, pushing out the mini-boards on dying wavelets. I see the crumpled sedimentary rocks, see the herring gull settle herself, breast-first and brave on a chimney cowl, settle to her eggs, her task. She calls, gulling and this simple call humbles me.
We swept through Mid-Wales, Jane and I, sucked down through three-lane and four-lane carriageways with stern, sculpted roundabouts as pauses for breath. This side, then that of Oswestry, Welshpool, Newtown. Which Newtown was this? The saddened Newtown of the Valleys fame, all grey-faced and holed up, holding itself up. Or the Newtown of market Mid-Wales where once all drovers paths met, the cattle clusters of Herefords and Welsh Blacks shifted, wayward? This was the Newtown now corralling the industrial cattle on Fridays; cattle pumped up with ballooning udders, delivering eight gallons a shot, twice a day to be routinely siphoned off by Tesco. Down the Wye Valley, Red Kites turn across the top left of the windscreen. Jane is implacable as the temperature guage swoops and soars. She calms me. 'We'll get there ' she tells me, telepathically.
At 'The Old Granary', there is no 'welcome pack' as promised, no tea or coffee, biscuits, milk as the website had gayly advertised. The converted slate barn is shaded by the big house where the hosts live. LLangrannog is the village it belongs to, whose grim Welsh greystones are always just a bit further down the stifling drop to the coast. The coast, you feel is about to reveal itself around the next bend, or perhaps the next bend but one.
The hosts, Judy and Erhardt Jungmayer were hard-nosed, well-off, fussing but producing no warmth. Mr Jungmayer stumblingly asked us for a shopping list, dutifully motored out to the mini-market petrol station we had passed three miles ago, had decided to ignore as we pictured the hot meal that we would be regaled with. He returned an hour later with the list, presenting us with a bill to the letter.
Hostess Judy, meanwhile had picked up that it was someone's birthday, had left a cheerless card on the small, wooden dining table in the galley kitchen. The card was meant to be meaningful but the meaning is poor. It's our birthday not my birthday.
In a small earthenware jar there were a few floor-swept tea bags. The TV control malfunctioned. The shower, with its miserable curtain blew hot and cold (lukewarm mostly).
The Cardiganshire coast is grey-strangled with dramatic and oppressive drops where the river flow has been cut off by something akin to glacial action. There's not much action around here, only that of brighly coloured humans screaming, plashing, dog-doodling, idling, licking the ice-cream upwards, pushing out the mini-boards on dying wavelets. I see the crumpled sedimentary rocks, see the herring gull settle herself, breast-first and brave on a chimney cowl, settle to her eggs, her task. She calls, gulling and this simple call humbles me.
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