A wine glass from Belgium or "When did you last see your Father?"

As I begin this I realize that very soon you are going to see a pattern; certain themes will emerge (and maybe, just maybe you will think me shallow perhaps, or at best, sad in the pursuit of that which seems of such little consequence). Of course it's not intential or maybe that should be...it's not premeditated or planned. Mmm. Anyway, as I look through my journal, all faux leather and gilt edged, Christmas gift from my sister, I realize from reading the titles and themes I've written down for these forays into the ether, (assuming I write them as they suggest themselves to me) that they are all about the same things. Actually, that's not true and...aaghh! You know what, now I'm well and truly in 'tangent city' so...without further ado; the Belgian wine glass. I've never seen another like it; fluted and cylindrical with a rounded bottom and a crystal ringing tone when flicked. I've had it for as long as I can remember and it belonged to my father; he got it from his father who bought it when they were together on some kind of trip to Belgium, though why my father of 19 was with his father in Belgium I have no idea, but the photograph I have of that occassion is strangely evocative and absolutely delightful. Two men in suits striding out along the seafront, hands in pockets, perfectly in step. I have no idea what kind of relatiionship they had, all I know is that my father nearly always wore a suit, never a tie and always with plimsoles! (Well, after this picture anyway). I still miss him sometimes even though he died when I was 10 years old. He'd read me stories sitting on his lap by the coal fire; he'd take me to the park and kick a ball high into the air among the rows of tall trees, straining ever harder to break out into the empty sky above and I still have the drawings he sent me for Christmas from his hospital bed.

As I look into the Belgian glass, filled with deep red wine, I remember my father and wonder what life would have been like had he lived, grateful that I became who I am yet puzzled by the strangeness of a life cut short.

Here's to you Dad, wherever you are!

(As the dulcet tones of Roy Ebden used to utter at the end of his radio show: "If you have been, thanks for listening") Sorry the picture's so fuzzy.

The Girl in the Red Jumper

This is a story which needs telling in its completeness but to do it in one sitting would most likely test your patience and probably wear me out (well, it is 11.35pm and I have been up since 5.00am) So, I thought I'd start at the more or less ending and work my way backwards. All I'll say by way of introduction to the story, which is of course true; (I will never fabricate without telling you that's what it is; why would I? The truth is infinitely more intersting and fantastical I've always found), is that we had travelled the train to Totnes on a lovestruck mission; checked into the Youth Hostel and set off on our search. The following morning, down by the river I saw her for the second time, performing the early morning ritual of yoga though this time, she did not see me; that, (for me), third look came later that day as we passed in the street; literally crossing the road; she from her pavement and me from mine. What follows is the result.

THE SMILE       

Under shade of trees

Dappled by clear blue morning sun,

Poised, in the exercise of peace

She moves;

Lithe as a panther,

Graceful as clouds.

Between the night and day

She hangs in my mind,

Balanced in the sound of Bohemian beats,

Possibility pictured on the canvass of her smile.

Dusky dark in red,

Hair in waves like black silk,

She passes,

Warm and open.

And in the passing, heavy with recognition,

The world waits for the sound of a kiss.

As the delightfully dulcet tones of Roy Ebden used to utter at the end of his radio show: “If you have been; thanks for listening”

On the Beauty of Candles

An end of the day Gin and Tonic; a comfortable leather armchair kindly donated by the landlady of a very dear friend when she was studying in Cambridge; a small wicker table with a postcard of camels walking the Sahara; a pewter candlestick; an old copy of Brideshead Revisited; a brass candlestick and the hypnotic mesmerising effect of candles. This is a moment of pure pleasure; a moment of life too good to let pass without comment. Staring into the flame of the candle in a wine bottle, following the running wax whispering its way in liquid silence to solidify its streaks on a canvass of glass; the beauty of it; the almost sensual simplicity is stunning! and I was here; I am here. Enjoy

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

Well now; here it is! Only two weeks after the first one, but then there was Christmas and more relevantly..there was the flu, plus.. some considerable confusion on my part (no surprise there then I hear you saying) as to how to actually access this thing! Ah well, I'm sure it will get easier (please tell me that's true; go on, lie to me if necessary) Anyway, here I am again and one year older. It's such a strange thing having a birthday on the last day of each year: there's always a celebration but your always upstaged; there are always fireworks but they're always exploding for something new not something old and these days I defintely fall into the latter category although, as I thought to myself just the other day; "it's only my body that's old!" The essential me is actually ageless; no seriously..I try to think how old I am and I can't come up with even a ballpark figure; I'm just blank! (Don't you dare!) All that I've done; all that I'm going to do; all that I still want to do I do as a blank none age entity just being me. 'Ripcurl' is a state of mind; so too is 'Marks and Spencer' :-) You should try it if you're not already doing it; it's liberating.

As the delightfully dulcet tones of Roy Ebden used to utter at the end of his radio show: “If you have been; thanks for listening”

Resistance it seems, is futile

There’s nothing quite like Tom Waits to get you through the night and this night is no exception, although, it is an exceptional night; this particular night being the night that I lose my virginity. No; not that one. Sad to say that was a long time ago; or was it?  I know I was there and I could give you the date, but it seems unreal and so unimportant now, though at the time it seemed to matter. I suppose with the impending loss of my present virginity, it also seems to matter but this time it matters because I don’t want to lose it, not because I do! So, on the basis of this needing to be brief and snappy, (I’ve been reliably informed that this is essential) here it is; I’m losing it as you read this;  here it is; the final consummation of a much resisted imposition of technological passion to which I have finally succumbed; I have had my first blog.

Hmm; all seems a bit of a non event really. Still the more I do it I’m sure the better I’ll get and hopefully, the more I’ll enjoy it. Having begun, I intend to be prolific but not protracted; succinct but not shallow and wide-ranging without waffling! (Well; I can try)

As the delightfully dulcet tones of Roy Ebden used to utter at the end of his radio show: “If you have been; thanks for listening”

p.s the face in the wall is in a street in Paris; city I love most in all the world!

pps. Being the first time it's a bit basic I know but watch this space.