The First Sunday in Advent

The Sunday nearest the 30^th November is the beginning of the time of Advent, the four-week-period before Christmas in the Western Christian calendar.  It is a very special season in Germany and my favourite time of year.

In the afternoon, after early night had fallen,  Mother lit  the first candle on the Advent wreath, the first slice of Stollen (German Christmas cake) was cut and a plate of spiced biscuits appeared on the festive Kaffeetafel (German tea table).  There was music too, either Hausmusik, played and sung by members of the family, or more likely, special collections of old-familiar music associated with the time of year, on CD etc.

The Advent wreath was always homemade then, the same large, horizontal, circular frame was used every year.  Florist’s foam and thin wire fixed twigs and swags of evergreens like pine, ivy and holly to the frame. Four candleholders for thick candles were attached to it and any unevenness in the final design was hidden with red ribbons tied into bows.  The wreath either sat in the middle of the table during meals or, if very large, was suspended on red ribbons above the table. Some houses had a hook in the ceiling the whole year round just for this purpose.

The origins of the Advent wreath are not altogether clear. Some believe that the wreath is much older than Christianity, and was, in fact, a symbol of the eternal circle of the seasons and the lighted candles signified the persistence of life in the darkness of winter.

A story told about a Protestant theologian by the name of  Johann Heinrich Wichern (1808-1881) says that he was the inventor of the first modern Advent wreath. He was a good man who had taken a number of poor boys into his home, to bring them up and educate them. Apparently, these boys gave him no peace in the weeks before Christmas, always asking when the feast would finally come (an early version of “are we there yet”) and he decided to create a wooden wreath with as many candles as there were days left before Christmas so that the boys could count the days themselves.

Lately, the Advent calendar has taken over this role, although I cannot find the garish monstrosities sold in shops with a cheap chocolate hidden behind every door in the least bit attractive. We had the old-fashioned sort, at first home-made; and when the windows in the large cardboard calendar with its amateurish,  hand-painted pictures finally came off their folds and were beyond repair, we bought a calendar, a pretty snow scene, depicting a rather kitsch Christmas market and an imaginary cathedral, which was also in use for many years.

It won’t be many days before I start digging in my own box of Advent decorations;  although I swear every year, that I will go easy, save myself the trouble, and ask myself ‘why bother’, the wooden figures, the pyramid, the candles and candle bow (Schwibbogen) will shortly make an appearance.

At this time of year, sentimentality rules okay!  And there’s a glass of Glühwein to go with it.

Stray Dogs

A recent post by English Rider brought the good news that the second of a pair of temporarily homeless dogs she had taken in quite some time ago had found a new, permanent home. This is the time of year when thoughtless idiots, looking around for a Christmas present, hit on the idea of 'giving' a puppy, often to a child, or a current girlfriend.  After Christmas, when the novelty has worn off, the puppy has soiled the carpets, or the daily routine of school and work starts again, the puppy is suddenly no longer wanted and ends up in a shelter or rescue centre, if it's lucky, or abandoned on the streets, if not. Or even worse, it is taken to the motorway and abandoned there, soon to be hit and killed.

As most of you know, I am not exaggerating.

My own Benno was one of those dogs given "as a present" to a
girlfriend, for Valentine's Day, of all things. Both young people were
working and neither really had much time to look after the dog; he was left alone for days on end and never learned to play or socialise properly.

Benno, who was then called by a different name, is a labrador and soon grew into a large dog, much too large for a small two room flat.  Labradors also like their food, the couple hardly had enough money to feed themselves.

Things got worse for the dog;  soon the couple had a baby and while the child was still a toddler, they split up. The woman moved into an upstairs, one room flat with baby and dog: money got even tighter. The dog was almost skeletal for lack of food.

Eventually an interfering bystander (thank goodness for busybodies on this occasion) realized that the situation for all concerned was untenable, the dog was removed and re-homed with us. Our previous dog, also a rescued dog, had died and we were in need of canine companionship. As so often happens, Benno adopted us rather than the other way round and we have been a very happy family ever since.

I don't believe that any of you reading this will be tempted to have a dog unless you are able to take care of it; however, let me just remind everybody of the RSPCA slogan:

A DOG IS FOR LIFE

NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS

THE PARTY'S OVER

Towards the end of last week my visits to blogland were a bit thin on the ground. The reason was that we had a big party chez nous, at Valley’s End.

I am still mad enough to do most of the work myself; when the idea first comes to me , say two weeks beforehand, the whole thing seems a doddle, something I can do in between shooting off blog posts, running the household and winning the Nobel prize for services to the advancement of mangelwurzels.

The rough guest list in my head gets an airing; I also decide which kind of party it’ll be: the stand-around-with-a-drink-in-one-hand-and-a-sausage-roll-in-the-other sort, or the grab-a-plate-and-a-chair-and-if-you’re-lucky-a-table sort.

By about a week before the event the guests have been invited; unless Fido has just died or the whole family is in quarantine due to an outbreak of galloping gypsophila everybody accepts. Believe me, all you good folks living near the fleshpots of civilization, you do not turn down an invitation to any kind of jolly when even a visit to the village hall, where they are showing last year’s blockbuster movie with an interval for a choc ice on a stick while the DVD player is cranked up for the second half, is a major social event.

Now it’s time to make lists; food lists, drinks lists, nibbles lists; you count the glasses that haven’t got broken since the last party, the paper napkins left over from the charity coffee morning, the crockery and cutlery. If you are short, you borrow. From bitter experience you know whose cutlery is not dishwasher-proof and whose crockery is a family heirloom. Glasses we have plenty ourselves; the local supermarket has an everything-for-£1 aisle; several years ago they had a special consignment of practically unbreakable glasses at 3-for-a-pound, which have since done the rounds of the village for every party going; no point in more than one household having a spare box or two containing glasses, each carefully wrapped in kitchen roll and tied with a piece of string for easy transport.

Three days before the party it’s time to panic. But it’s a controlled, well-organized sort of panic. Panic often enough and it becomes routine.

The decision was to serve a-plate-and-fork dinner, cottage pie and vegetables for the main course, apple and plum tart for pudding and cheese and biscuits for any one still hungry. And believe me, my cottage pie is filling. The guests numbered twenty seven, that meant 27 portions of everything, at least, with a bit extra for unforeseen emergencies, like somebody saying, at the last minute, auntie Gwen is visiting, can she come too?

Would the Aga cope? Of course not, it never does. So cooking has to happen in stages. Stage one, two days beforehand, cook the meat part; stage two, one day beforehand, cook the potato crust and grate the cheese topping. Also, defrost the tarts and prepare the vegetables; here Beloved comes into his own, he is a mean carrot baton chopper and his peeling and bottom cross cutting of the Brussel’s sprouts is second to none.

As it is November, the party day dawns wet and windy and the river ‘is almost out’, which means, that if there’s a lot more rain during the day, half the guests won’t be able to come because they live on the wrong side of the bridge, i.e. the side away from our side of the bridge, if you get my drift. A detour of many miles would become necessary, all adding to the by now almost unbearable excitement.

Seven-ish is kick-off. There’s always the couple arriving just a touch too early, catching you swearing uncontrollably at each other because neither of you will accept responsibility for having forgotten to cook the French beans, or unwrap the cheeses or not having thought to get the alcohol-free juice from the shop, thereby turning any driver present into an instant criminal. Beloved invariably falls back on his favourite ‘but I thought you said’ routine, looking extremely hurt and innocent of all wrong-doing.

Suddenly, at 7.20 there is a huge commotion at the front and back doors, half the guests are arriving in a bunch, all divesting themselves of their wet overcoats and rubber boots in your pristine lobby and scullery respectively. You rush to welcome them, carrying piles of coats and shedding coat hangers like matchsticks from an upturned matchbox on your way to the coat cupboard. The rubber boots remain behind to trip you up as you rush to the scullery freezer to unpack the forgotten juice and shove a kilo and a half of French beans into the microwave.

From now on all is organized and orchestrated chaos, glasses have been filled beforehand, nibbles have been distributed, further guests let themselves in singly and in pairs, are greeted and swallowed up by the throng. Noise levels rise steadily, the party is up and running.

An hour later everybody is eating, you have found a quiche for the chap who has become vegetarian since you last met him and there are plenty of bottles of wine distributed around the rooms for guests to help themselves.

You have done it, you could even grab a bite and a glass yourself now, except it’s time to cut the tarts. If you don’t want fruit splodged all over the kitchen you had better load the cake plates yourself, you are probably the only one still sober enough to manipulate a cake slice and a sticky, fragile cake. Not to mention pouring the cream.

Beloved has disappeared into the mêlée, he has been very good and introduced the one couple who insist on being out of things and sitting on the sofa next to each other instead of mingling, to the hostess’ favourite guests, the trio who can be relied upon to judge any situation nicely from the initial friendly smile and warm handshake to the eventual telling of risqué anecdotes. Actually, you have made a mistake inviting the couple, this party is probably going to scar them for life.

Country people keep early hours, even on a Saturday the last guests are ready to leave by midnight; once you have locked the doors behind the last of them you survey the battlefield. There is rarely any damage, you can shut your eyes to the mess for the present, the two of you can put your feet up and wind down over a final, small drink before going to bed.

Once you’ve cleared up the next day, all that remains to be done over the next week is await the pretty thankyou notes and watch the invitations flood in.

Sunday Quotation

Water

Nothing is lovelier than moving water,

The diamond element, innumerable jewel,

Brittle and splintering under the sharp sun,

Yet softer than doves' feathers, and more smooth

Than down of swan.

Nothing is lovelier than water lying still,

When the moon takes that stillness for her glass.

Gerald Bullett

Poems in Pencil, 1937

Photos Jeremy White

The Scraper's Diary, Friday, March 28th, 1947

On the Bank of the River Aller

A pleasant, peaceful spot, the river swift-flowing-by, a slight icing of bubbles skating downstream, a protective huddle of old, multi-coloured houses across the river, to my left, screened behind a road of countryside trees, that somehow are a parade, and make the scene German. The sun has temporarily resigned to the rain; bulbous clouds, which, flowing effortlessly beyond me, show no sign of their inherent boredom. The grass ahead is rarely green and trodden to the grey earth's humility; away, by the turn of the river, two bare trees stand guard over a deserted cottage, and beyond, the fringes of a forest hide the horizon behind their skirts.


When I sat here, a small boy, muddy clogs in hand, came and sat nearby, and watched me with a grave intent. Three of his playmates have now joined him and they are chattering their supremely important matters in their incomprehensible tongue and lying on their bellies, watching a backwater's sloth.


Two disdainful chickens are beachcombing closer and closer to me; the children are paddling in the shallows.


I must get up and turn to the Barley bridge with its damaged stonework and I must go up to the old philosophical track to the road, and travel. I must move on again.

o-o-o-o-o

We saw some rather nice handbags in a shop window, and so we went inside, saw two more on a shelf and started negotiations. I started conventionally;

"Do you speak English?"

"No".

"OK".

Stumped, we thought a minute, while the assistant leaned on the counter, rather embarrassed. I pointed to the handbags and looked 'query'. She handed me one. We inspected it and approved.

"How much ?" I said.

"?", she said.

"How much ?" I said, "Combien ?" "Marks?"


"Ah," she said, "Zwanzig Mark".


"Twenty ?", I said.


"Ja".


We went into a huddle then.


"Nein Deutschgeld", I said. "You take cigarettes?"


"Zwanzig Mark", she said. " Und zwei kilos paper".


"Nix paper", I said, "cigarettes?"


We went on at this for ten minutes, neither of us understanding much of the other's talk and giggling wholesale. We gathered that one gave twenty marks and two kilos paper for a bag. She gathered that we had enough marks, no paper, and a few cigarettes. She also gathered that we were a bit daft.

Eventually we bribed her with soap and bought a bag each for twenty marks and twenty cigarettes each.


We retired to a pub and bought some foul German beer that tasted like acorns and coca-cola. Armed with a glass of this, I went into an alcove and asked a German if he felt any inclination to purchase some cigarettes. He didn't seem too keen, in broken English, but condescended to give me a low price for seventy.


Next, we went to another shop and bought some nice brass ashtrays. I asked the lady if she had any rings. She said something most Aryan, and "and an actress said 'after Easter' ".


I realized that she'd understood all my linguistic attempts at their true banality, and beat a hasty retreat.






footnote: the Scraper never did work out what he had been told in either of the two shops
but did his heroic best to repeat the words as he heard them in his diary.

A Poetic Meme in November

November Skies

Than these November skies

Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;

Into their grey the subtle spies

Of colour creep,

Changing that high austerity to delight,

Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.

And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers

Ere a thin flushing cloud again

Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.

The huge grey clouds move slowly, gently, as

Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,

Holding in bright caprice their rain.

And when of colours none,

nor rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green

Is truly seen, -

In all the myriad grey,

In silver height and dusky deep, remain

The loveliest,

Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.

John Freeman, Stone Trees, 1916

Photo Florian Werner

And now it’s time to tackle Wipso’s MEME which she slipped into my in-tray at the same time as the Over The Top Award. Why do people insist that I work for my treats? Not only that, but work hard, as in giving one word answers only!

Where is my cell phone? Hall

My hair? Tinted

My mother? Stars

My father Ditto

My favourite food? Chocolate

My dream last night? Flying

My favourite drink? Champagne

My dream/goal? Laughter

The room I am in? Study

My hobby Blogging

My fear? War

Where do I want to be in 6 years’ time? Alive

Where was I last night? Home

Something that I am not? Drowning

Muffins? Maybe

Wish list item? Talent

Where did I grow up? Germany

Last thing I did? Walked

What am I wearing? Clothes

My TV? Off

My pets? Labrador

Friends? Please

My life? Amazing

My mood? Varied

Missing someone? Terribly

Vehicle? Wheelbarrow

Something I am not wearing? Wellington boots

My favourite store? Bookshop

My favourite colour? Sunlight

Last time I laughed? Today

Last time I cried? Today

My best friend? Mate

A place I go over and over? Past

Facebook? No

Favourite place to eat? Kitchen

The Garden in November

In between heavy rain, showers and the gale-force winds which lashed the valley for the whole of the weekend the garden beckoned; what would I find outside? Donning the family raincoat, my own wellington boots, pulling my hood down and grabbing the camera, I set off outside, starting with Mimir who guards the entrance to the hollow tree stump at the bottom of the drive.

Mimir seems to have protected us from the worst excesses of the storms; I could find no structural damage; naturally, a lot of wood has come down from the trees, but that happens every autumn, it's the trees' way of regeneration. Luckily, the hybrid tea rose border got away with only minor root disturbance; it is high time for the bushes to receive their autumn cut-back. I have found whole bushes uprooted in other years after the first autumn storms. Each new storm weakens and pulls further at the root system, until the bush loses its hold in the ground completely.

The mixed shrub border is protected by the wall behind it. Daphne, Cotinus and Weigela are doing well. Only the Cotinus is deciduous, the other two will keep their leaves, giving me something to look at out of the kitchen window for the whole of the winter. The stiff, upright, stems of the michaelmas daisy in front of the shrubs are turning a deep dark brown, the flowerheads are fading to the palest purple, but I won't be cutting them back until early spring. I prefer to grow herbaceous plants which give pleasure even in death; I'm afraid, the ones whose foliage turns a mushy, slimy, mess are chopped off as soon as the flowers fade.

Grasses are good all the year round but some of them really come into their own in autumn when they turn a lovely colour, sandy, deep straw, russet or ochre. The blood grass and wavy hair grass here are particularly attractive when there is so little else left. Grasses are easy to grow, they certainly earn their keep; I don't mind them spreading and self-seeding; they seem to have a knack of popping up only in those places where they add to the display. And, if not, the smaller ones are easy to pull up. In a gentle breeze the quiet rustle of the larger grasses, like miscanthus and calamagrostis, is wonderfully soothing.

A high wind will make the plumes flutter like streamers.

I also love hydrangeas, of all sorts. They have been out of fashion for years now and it is true, they take a long time before they emerge to their full splendour, but once the huge, blowzy, flowers are out, hydrangeas shout out their presence until the following, early spring when they need pruning. No shrinking violets here. I love all hydrangea flowers, be they mophead, lacecap, the cone shaped paniculata, or the plate shaped petiolaris. I prefer white and blue flowers to pink ones, but, hey, live and let live, in the garden as well as everywhere else. The one shown here is a petiolaris, dying back beautifully.

The Leycesteria is not a thing of beauty in winter. Neither is it particularly eye-catching at any other time, except for the dangly flower heads; I always think of them as large, colourful, flamboyant earrings the kind which looks good depending from the ear of a beautiful lady with a mane of upswept hair and bare shoulders.

Perhaps that's why the Victorians loved the Leycesteria.

The schizostylis is a South African lily, which flowers from mid-summer through to the first frosts in autumn. It is totally hardy and, in mild winters, I have even cut a few blooms for the christmas table.

Schizostylis spread easily, they belong in the give-away group of plants, until everyone you know has them, and your gardening friends hide when they see you coming with a bag full of spiky, green, strappy leaves. A bit like crocosmia, in fact.

Although there is much less to do in my garden from now until next spring, there are still a few tasks remaining. Once the roses have been pruned they deserve a light sprinkling of bonemeal. It is very important that the moisture levels of evergreen shrubs are kept up, as otherwise they will dry out. Both camellias and magnolias have refused to flower for me because I deprived them of water during winter. The compost heaps and leaf mould cage need attention and the ornamental elder bushes will have to be pruned between now and early March. A major task during the weeks ahead is the protection of slightly tender plants, either by means of straw and conifer cones and pyramids, horticultural fleece or just pretty, upturned basket cones stuffed with leaf mould or the fronds of ferns.

But the main work is to be done indoors; seed and plant catalogues are arriving in the post, there is a pile of gardening magazines kept back during the summer to read in the winter and envelopes stuffed with pictures ripped out of catalogues, garden brochures and advertisements are all waiting to be studied and dreamt over; some of these plans and dreams might even become reality next year. And if not, they allow me to dream of summer in the depth of winter.

photos can be enlarged

Eva's Tale

The story so far: Eva is a little girl living in post-war Germany. Because she might be in danger of contracting Tbc she is sent to a children's home, which is also used as a sanatorium, on the island of Norderney in the North Sea. She is away from home, on her own, for the first time in her life.



Eva Goes On Holiday # 3

Miss Manfred took the Heidi book away from me. I cried a bit because I like my Heidi book and I wanted to read it again. Miss Manfred said that she would read it to all of us, in the afternoon, when we are all lying on our beds having a rest.

My Mum sent me some sweeties because I asked for them but Miss Manfred

took them away too and she shared them out to everybody. But that’s all right because Miss Manfred shares out everybody’s sweeties and we get some every afternoon.

It is very nice to lie on my bed and suck a sweetie and Miss Manfred reads my Heidi book out loud and sometimes we all fall asleep after a bit.

o-o-o-o-o

This morning Miss Manfred asked me if I could go and clean the rubbish bin in the toilets. I said I would and found the Vim and a brush and some cloths in the cleaning cupboard. Then I took the things into the toilets. There was nobody else there. I shut the door and because the bin was full of rubbish and I didn’t know what to do with it I tipped it all out on the floor. The bin was very dirty. I tipped in the Vim and got some water on the brush and scrubbed the bin until it was much cleaner. I dried it with the cloths. It was lovely and white after I finished cleaning it.

There was still the rubbish from the bin on the floor. I picked it all up again and put it back into the bin. I left nothing lying on the floor because I wiped the floor with the cloths too. It took a very long time.

Then I went out to play with the other children.

When it was teatime Miss Manfred asked me if I had remembered to clean the bin. She should know without asking because it took me a long time and I missed a lot of playing time because I was in the toilets. When I said yes, she said, are you sure, and she looked at me like Miss Speer does when she asks why there are no names on the blackboard. Her face was all shut in and her mouth was closed and in a line and her face came right down to mine and she asked again, if I was sure. Well, of course, I was and I was a bit frightened because she didn’t smile and I told her to go and look and that I had put everything back in the cleaning cupboard afterwards.

Miss Manfred said, very well then, but she didn’t smile and she didn’t say thank you either, which Mum says you must always do when somebody does something for you.

Reminiscing

 Celebrating St. Martin's Day

Each year, on the 11^th November,  St. Martin’s Day is celebrated in Germany. It is a mix of Christian and pagan customs. While it is the day of a saint, it is also associated with the Roman Vinalia, a wine festival in honour of Bacchus. It is generally considered to be end of all harvest, including the late vines, and the beginning of winter.

First and foremost, during my childhood, St. Martin’s Day was a festival for children. Weeks before the day, we took stiff black paper, sheets of shiny, colourful transparent paper, glue, thin wire and all the wonderful artsy things, which we were not usually allowed to play with to school, where we were instructed in the magical art of lantern-making. We happily designed, drew and cut shapes and windows out of the stiff black paper. The red, green, gold, yellow, blue, scarlet sheets, and sheets of as many other colours as your parents were willing to purchase for you, became the “glass” for these cut-outs. A stiff piece of cardboard was used to provide the bottom for your lantern, while the top was left open, but held together with a wire with a loop in the top. A small tinfoil candleholder was securely glued to the middle of the cardboard bottom. The lantern was carried on the end of a thin, lightweight cane, which was furnished with a hook at one end, over which the loop was slipped.

It was an absolute matter of pride to have a good, sturdy and beautiful lantern; if you had managed to make one with recognizable shapes, perhaps even one to copy some of the stained glass windows in the church, you were a proud and happy child indeed. 

Legend has it that Martinus was a Roman soldier, born in Hungary, educated in Pavia, in Italy. On a bitter winter’s night, during a military campaign, he found himself in Amiens, France, astride his horse, a starving and freezing beggar on the ground in front of him.  Martinus drew his sword, cut his cloak in two and flung one half of it down to the cowering beggar.

The following night he dreamt that he saw Jesus wearing his cloak, saying to the angels,  "Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptized; he has clothed me." (Sulpicius,ch 2)

Martinus became a Christian at the age of 18; in 371 he became Bishop of Tours, in France. According to his legend, he was unwilling to become bishop. He hid in a stable filled with geese, whose noise betrayed him to the people coming to look for him. Perhaps that is the reason why goose is the festive fare traditionally eaten on his day.  Martin, the Bishop, is said to have led an exemplary life and to have done many good deeds.

Each year, on the Saint’s feast day, the beggar scene is re-enacted at the end of a long procession of children through German towns and villages. Children from all  local schools get together with their teachers and parents; men with flaming torches line the route of the procession,  the children carry their sparkling lanterns, the small candle inside now lit, singing traditional Martin’s songs, singing about the holy man on his white horse, the lights in the sky and the lantern lights in their hands. At the head of this procession rides St. Martin, always on a white horse, dressed in Roman costume, with a cloak fluttering about his shoulders; he leads the procession to the doors of the church where a huge Martin’s fire has been lit and where a beggar awaits him, crouching on the lowest step in the dark. away from the fire.

St Martin arrives at the head of his procession; the children spread out across the front of the church to watch him cut his cloak in two with a grand flourish, lean down from the saddle and hand the half-cloak to the beggar. Each procession goes about the play-acting at the end differently, using a different script for the short scene in front of the church, but always the beggar is invited to step closer to the fire and wrap himself in the good man’s gift.

It was a magical evening of walking in procession, carrying lights and singing old familiar songs, the flames of the big Martin’s fire strangely frightening and seductive at one and the same time and all of us pushing and shoving, craning our necks and listening intently; we did not want to miss a word of what was being said during the play;  after all, we believed every word was true. 

We children too received a gift to take home at the end of the evening: a cone-shaped paper bag filled with a few sweets and a piece of fruit; each bag always held a small sweet wheaten loaf in the shape of a man, with raisins for eyes and a white clay pipe stuck to the front.  Never did a piece of sweet bread taste better.

SLEEP

Sleep is good for you. Sleep is necessary.

Without sleep you stop to function and eventually you die.

Sleep deprivation is a preferred means of torture by those who go in for that sort of thing. However, I am not talking about torture inflicted by others here, but the torture of involuntary sleep deprivation, the torture of insomnia.

Day is over, you’re home from work and, if you are lucky, you have had a pleasant evening. You’ve done the million and one chores that belong in the realm of daylight, your evening has been spent doing a few more, but let’s assume you’ve had a spare moment for the kids, a book, a favourite TV programme, your blog, a chat with a friend. It’s getting late, you are yawning, time for bed.

All is quiet, your bed is comfortable, you’ve had your cocoa, it’s time to turn out the light. Bliss!

Thirty minutes later there’s a band playing snippets of advertising jingles in your brain. Every humiliating conversation you’ve ever had with your boss/ex-partner/

her with the flash car down the road/the ticket collector when you couldn’t find your season ticket/the waiter in the posh restaurant/ that show-off at dinner with friends the other day who knew every word of the latest theatrical adaptation when you thought you could get by with having read the programme notes when you introduced the subject/ is replayed in your head.

Now, at one o’clock, two o’clock, two-thirty, three in the morning, you have that brilliant repartee at your fingertips; you have the perfect, witty, throw-away answer to fling in the face of these nobodies, these hopeless morons, who are not fit to lick your boots.

Now you are firing on all cylinders. Your blog pops into your head; you can’t believe how many fantastic and fascinating ideas for blogposts you have; you start composing them, they are easy, effortless works of art to astound every blogging-buddy you’ve ever had. There is no doubt about it, you will be a Blogger Of Note within days.

And why stop there. Your creative urges are at their peak around three-thirty in the morning; you can barely process these urges fast enough to accommodate their inventiveness and sheer intellectual brilliance. Before long, you have a short story, the synopsis for a novel, in your head. And the jingles play on in-between.

Unfortunately, you have also grown several unnecessary, extra limbs by this time, all of them causing you great discomfort. St Vitus’ dance has got hold of your legs, your shoulders ache with tension, that damned headache is back and there’s a ton of grit sitting behind your eyelids.

You’ve been up and down, have drunk enough water to float a battle ship and now, in desperation, you stumble to the bathroom to take a couple of paracetamol.

Why on earth didn’t you think of that earlier, but no, you had to finish grinding those morons into the dust, you had to complete the second draft of that wonderful post in your head.

The next thing you know is the shrill screech of the alarm going off at seven. You drag yourself out of bed, what there is left in your head of the night’s furious literary efforts makes damn-all sense in the grey light of morning. You feel exhausted; the only thing that keeps you going during the day is the thought of a nice early night tonight.

None of that ever happens to me.

Image: Insomnia
by NXFURY

While-U-Wait

A London Cobbler's Shop

from the inside looking out

something to look at

while I recover from the last post.

photo Jeremy White

"NOT ANOTHER BLOODY POEM"

 

I found this heading on a blogpost the other day and I realised how many different kinds of bloggers there are and how different our preferred reading matter is. Now, anyone who has read this blog before knows that I love poetry, it is a totally natural part of my life. I read poetry, discuss poetry in a poetry group and generally find it life-enhancing. I search out other lovers of poetry in blogland who introduce me to poets and poems hitherto unknown to me and I am grateful that they should take the time do so.

Certainly, the phrase “not another bloody poem” smacked me right between the eyes.

But there are blogs and blogposts which leave me yawning, irritated and even annoyed.

“Hi, it’s me again; a bunch of us went to the cinema/pictures and we saw xyz which was good/bad/indifferent. We had popcorn and ice cream and laughed a lot”.

Unless one of you choked on the popcorn, dripped ice cream down somebody’s collar or you were evicted for lewd behaviour, I don’t want to know.

“Freddie had football/soccer practice and he fell over in the mud and he was sooo muddy and I had to wash piles of muddy clothes. Kids, eh?”

Unless Freddy ran on his hands and headed three goals into the back of the net  or choked in the mud, I don’t want to know.

“Hubby was sooo cross when he came home from work because  traffic round the gyratory system was really awful and he was late for his favourite soap”.

No accident, didn’t write off the car, didn’t have sex with his secretary in the back of the car? Don’t tell me.

Right, all together now: YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THIS. Of course, I don’t.

But you, the poetry hater, don’t have to read the poetry blog either.

To end on a literary note, here's what Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859) had to say on the subject

Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry,

without a certain unsoundness of mind.

and that, friends, is good enough for me.

London in Black and White

Tramp sitting by Westminster Bridge;

It was Dickens' Mr. Mantalini

in Nicholas Nickleby

who said the words below, not the tramp.

I am a demd villain!

I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign

in half-pence

and drown myself in the Thames

who for her sake will become

a demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body!

Photo Jeremy White