tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6140442432498257692024-03-13T22:51:40.039-07:00PETER DAVEY - ARTIST, WRITER AND POETPETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-14211746519847138442019-12-15T02:09:00.000-08:002019-12-15T02:16:18.814-08:00<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">VISITING STONEHENGE, 1958 </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we came first it was</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">old stones</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">standing in corn.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You reached it by a dusty, rutted track</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">and the wide white and golden downs</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">were born aloft by sky and skylark song.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We picnicked with our Thermos in the wild grass</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">on outspread rugs, devouring sandwiches my mother made,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">lay back and watched the forming and reforming clouds,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">the cricket's prance, the fleeting flight of butterflies and bees.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we came first it was</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">old stones,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">mute, mysterious, from somewhere lost in time,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">untold by science. You could run your fingertips</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">along each deep striation, feel the sun's warmth,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">the shadow's coolness, sense</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">our planet's poise, its massive substance</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">grabbed and grappled with</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">by our hands. </span></span><br />
<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-13802964835860160252019-11-20T23:57:00.002-08:002019-11-20T23:57:44.351-08:00<h2 align="center">
<span style="color: black;">OUR CHARACTERS - WHERE DO THEY COME FROM AND WHERE ARE THEY GOING?</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">One of the joys of writing is that it gives us a chance to play God. It allows us to shut ourselves up in our cosy little room with a cup of coffee and create a world which we (almost) entirely control while the ‘real’ world spins alarmingly out of control all around us. I say ‘almost’ because even our imaginary worlds sometimes run amok.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">One of our most vital functions as God is to give birth to our characters. Fortunately we are spared the mess and pain of actual childbirth, for our characters just pop up fully formed and fully clothed (unless you’re E. L. James) and going about the business of enacting our story. But where do they come from?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Most writers will answer that they somehow emerge from the very fabric of the conception, like living organisms miraculously forming out of the primordial soup. Speaking as one who prefers writing realist fiction set in the contemporary world, the seeds of most of my novels and stories have come from events in my own life or the lives of people I know. It is generally true to say, therefore, that the characters have been loosely based on the protagonists in those dramas, but only very loosely. For once he or she has been born, a character tends to take on a life of their own and often ends up unrecognizable as the real-life person who inspired them, their characteristics often redirecting the plot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Authors of science fiction, historical or fantasy novels may find their characters emerge in a different way. Historical novels often contain real historical figures who have been fictionalised – something which is possible since, however great the body of learning surrounding them, it is usually contradictory and they can thus be safely remodelled by the novelist. But whatever genre the author works in, I’m sure they would find (if they’re honest with themselves) a person, or people, they know - or a combination of people - at the root of their character. Scratch beneath the surface of your witch or vampire and you’ll probably find your parents in law. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then comes the task of naming our babies. My wife’s cousin has two teenage boys called James and Sam, whose names I always confuse (to everyone’s acute annoyance) since, to me, Sam looks exactly like a James and James like a Sam. It is bizarre how certain names seem to suit certain people, and I am not sure how far this is subjective or objective. In our novels, of course, we are free to call our characters what we like and if they look like a Sam we can call them Sam or we might call them something entirely different to make them less predictable and more memorable. Sometimes the character seems to be born with a name attached and sometimes it’s right and sometimes it isn’t. I certainly find that my characters acquire their names very early on in the process – seemingly out of nowhere – and then I’m stuck with them. To change a character’s name two months into writing a first draft seems almost impossible. You’ve got to know them intimately by then and to change their name would be like changing your child’s name when it’s five years old just because you’ve got bored with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is also true of the character’s physical appearance, although I usually find that the images I have in my head are rather vague and I like to keep my descriptions equally vague – apart from some precise but sparing pointers. To state that a male character has, for instance, ‘wide, hazel eyes with bushy eyebrows, a long straight nose and full sensuous lips’ is, I think, a mistake, partly because it’s hard for readers to retain all those details in their mind’s eye and partly because those features may remind them of someone they dislike.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Which brings us to another vital aspect of character-creation – the role of the reader. For a character is not wholly a creation of the writer, after all, but a collaboration between the writer’s and the reader’s imaginations. If the writer says nothing about a male character’s height, for example, the reader will tend to supply a man of average height – or a bit taller if they happen to like tall men. If the writer only mentions a character’s eye or hair colour, the reader will tend to extrapolate physical attractiveness since – let’s face it – most of us like our characters to be easy on the mind’s eye. And it is the reader’s experience, after all, which ultimately matters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I think this is why problems arise when books are made into films. It’s not simply that the character the reader has formed and grown to love in their imagination may not look anything like Angelina Jolie or Johnny Depp or Sir Ian McKellan <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but that these celluloid creations have a different essence, a different constituency to literary characters. This is also true when a writer introduces a ‘real’ person into the narrative as a cameo (Tony Blair, the Queen for example) because the glaring reality of these people in our minds eye throws the literary creation out of focus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Any writers who are kind enough to read this post will probably say I’m just stating the obvious, but I thought I would state it anyway. The great characters of literature – Jane Eyre, Mr Darcy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, James Bond to name just a few among thousands – have become so much part of our cultural consciousness that we sometimes forget that they don’t exist, that they’re just figments of someone’s imagination. Yet the workings of those imaginations – and those of all writers – remains endlessly fascinating and one of the great mysteries and miracles of human creativity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-50478630266210962552019-07-06T00:17:00.000-07:002019-07-07T15:42:19.691-07:00<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">SUMMER POEMS (from 'Glimpses')</span></h2>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">PENTRIDGE</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Three</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">trees</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">upon a far</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">hill,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">a road leading to them</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">green</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">green.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hot fields of corn had drawn us onwards, upwards</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">and the clouds cried and skies</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">soared with buzzards</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">and earth below lay wide beneath our feet</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">and distant seas bore ships of sunlight</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">vanishing. I thought only</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">how to understand, enshrine,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">in each moment of this life,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">this moment.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">SMELL OF SUMMER</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Smell</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of summer</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">smell</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of dry </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">dung, the fleeting dragonfly</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">alighting on my jeans</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">smell</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of barely beaten air</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">eyes</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">beaded by a mirrored sun</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">not meeting mine</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">smell</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of dry</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">earth, of husk and dust and death and briefest</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">life</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">NORTHIAM HAIKU</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">In the churchyard, here</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">behind the hedge, lie flowers</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">for the dead, dying.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">IN A MARSH CHURCH</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Cries of sheep and rooks,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the drone of tractors turning hay,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">reach here where cut flowers in a plastic vase</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">have not been changed</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and Christ is always crucified</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in dim glass.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">MIDSUMMER NIGHT AT TYNEPITS COTTAGE</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">The curtain stirs</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">against the bright west</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">a moth purrs</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">WASHMORE HILL ON THE BERKSHIRE DOWNS, JUNE</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Wind moves</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">unhindered on these open, empty hills,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">its ripples, tides and currents</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">echoed in the convolutions of the turning corn;</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">now deepest green is swept with silver grey</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and warmer green with russet, russet gold</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and gold with cream.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">The downs are swirling, seething like the sea</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">about a stillness held within the grain</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of everything.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5A4rvd1dadA/XSBIqVCV1aI/AAAAAAAAAyU/V1bdP-6K3WMiaTXq6BJM1_ZzYa0SqtU3ACLcBGAs/s1600/Drawing%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="611" height="237" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5A4rvd1dadA/XSBIqVCV1aI/AAAAAAAAAyU/V1bdP-6K3WMiaTXq6BJM1_ZzYa0SqtU3ACLcBGAs/s400/Drawing%2B1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">IN AN ANCIENT WOOD ON FAWLEY DOWN</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Sunlight only</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">penetrates, transforms</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">this tangled mound of thorn,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the wild clematis.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">One leaf</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">bears all the sun's radiance,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">bears all the shadows of the earth</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">about itself.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">ENTERING A WOOD ON THE HIGH DOWNS. SUMMER</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Sudden coolness</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">sanctity</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">each footstep snaps the silence</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">vision</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">bone</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">a stone</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">engrained by sunlight;</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">ancient Liddington</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">a speck beyond the farthest far horizon</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">silhouette</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of cones, of branches,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">foliage</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">PETT LEVEL. JULY 5th</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">A heron</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">just</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">riding on the wind</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">TRAVELLING IN AUGUST</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">West</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">a hot wall of light</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">snapping ears of corn stand static</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">in the throbbing air</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">iron tracks converge, evaporate</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">among convolvulus and buttercups</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">setting off,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the journey stretches into possibilities,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the rockhard road</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">leads into mirages</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">AUGUST</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Cobalt shadows</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">crosswise</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">over white dust</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the harvest valley</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">out beyond this cage of coolness</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">burns</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">THE ESTUARY</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Dead</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">land,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">a shattered window rattles in the wind</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">where gulls rise</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">above the dead water and the dead sand;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">dead land,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the city murmuring</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">across the sea exhales its columns curling</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">to the clouds;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the earth burns -</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">one ship</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">specked upon the blue</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">emptiness</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">IN A WOOD ON THE DOWNS</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Thorn on thorn on thorn,</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">this web of sunlight holds</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the spider spinning in its universe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-65032282875965280242019-06-29T00:14:00.000-07:002019-07-04T05:38:23.900-07:00<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v42O0n3mck8/XR23U6tDwLI/AAAAAAAAAyA/-It_LHLmD_sD-Vr28IcBwjsdZ-iD_okcwCLcBGAs/s1600/Stunted%2BThorn%2BBush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="311" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v42O0n3mck8/XR23U6tDwLI/AAAAAAAAAyA/-It_LHLmD_sD-Vr28IcBwjsdZ-iD_okcwCLcBGAs/s320/Stunted%2BThorn%2BBush.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">WINCHELSEA STATION, MARCH</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Spring</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">is the thorn burning</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in the dark wood,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the sky's chasm</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">slashing green across the hills;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">spring,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the freshly gleaming</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">speck</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of each unfolding leaf, </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">each blade of corn</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">incised upon its own shadow.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Spring</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">is the crow suspended gold above the cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">field,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">furrowed trunks aglow beneath the hedge;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">dogwood, willow, bending booming writhing</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in the east wind, the sky soaring,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">driving sleet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">ON A WALK WITH TERRY HULF</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Secret lanes near Snargate,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">hazy February afternoon;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">pausing, twigs of hawthorn mesh in sunlight,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">moving on, the mesh dissolves, resolves;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">someone has cut some firewood,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">stacked it neatly,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">leaving it to moss and woodlouse;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">here the fence is broken, through the hedge</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">some bullocks stand around a field</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">motionless; beyond lies kale</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and beyond</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the empty Marsh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">FEBRUARY - TWO HAIKU</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Dying winter sun</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">glints and glows on thorns probed</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">by frail infinity</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">One sheep sharp upon</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the skyline; winter sunlight</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">floods the scarred valley</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">7/2</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Crows calling</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in the vast hollow</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of the sky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">DUNGENESS</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Wind</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in rigging,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">gulls</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">erupting,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">crash</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and boom</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and thump</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and hiss</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of sea;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the shingle shimmering</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">beneath our feet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">LONG-TAILED TITS</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Sudden sunlight,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">sounds that barely brush the silence,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">flitting silhouettes on webs of twigs</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">with pencil tails</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">everywhere</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">then gone</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in bouncing, chirping squadrons grouped</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on gleaming clouds; a mist before the sun,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">a crow</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">calling on a cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">February day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">PARTING AT ST PANCRAS STATION</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">(Before the refurbishment)</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Iron</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and its monstrous sweep</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">defining emptiness</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the echoed</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">throb, roar</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">of voices, sliding feet</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">to dim glass</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">against the sky's</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">gape.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">February winds</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on empty platforms</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">coal, diesel,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">not in words</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">the cold</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">absolute reality of things</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">MEMORY AND MEMORIES - THREE HAIKU</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Notes float through blossom</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">from his old pipe - drapes drifting,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">slipper beating time.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Wooden stairs climbing</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">to the dark loft, scent of hay</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">and dry apples gone.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Where does time carry</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">all the substance of our lives?</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Even stones dissolve.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">THREE RUINED CHURCHES ON ROMNEY MARSH</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">HOPE, ALL SAINTS</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">As you reach,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">through wiry, waving grass and scattered trees,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">this rubble henge against a vacant sky,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">it forms a church's shape.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Forgotten Hope</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">now shelters only huddled sheep and ghosts,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">restructured only in imagination</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on a mound among some roofless walls and stones.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">MIDLEY</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Wild grasses wave</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">where knees once bent in prayer,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">bones are scattered on the harrowed earth</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">where bread and wine were shared.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">EASTBRIDGE</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">As the daylight fails,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">as the ruined tower darkens</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on the fading clouds,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">as the blackbird, scolding,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">swoops among the bushes,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">in remembered voices and in silence</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">comes the moment of reconsecration</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on this empty land.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">SLOW-WORM ON THE ALLOTMENT</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">lifting</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">of a sheet of plastic,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">flash</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">of silver-bronze;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">the surreptitious slithering away</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">from light and scrutiny -</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">a length of living braid, her tiny head</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">in glimpses probing, parting weeds,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">so clean</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">within her home of rotting compost,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">gone</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">DAWN AFTER SNOW</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">The room</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">dignified by pale light,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">a bird chirping very softly</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">on a neighbour's lawn;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">by the vanished path,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">tips, stumps of things</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">beyond the window.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Earth</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">new, poised</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">to be discovered</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">by the cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A DREAM</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Such a small</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">thing to ask</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">such a large</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">thing to gain</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">simplicity -</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">the surf breaking on the sand</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">the cry</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of gulls</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-39422395218790300932019-04-10T02:39:00.003-07:002019-04-10T02:46:52.447-07:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">IN
PRAISE OF BOB</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pmMjngGvGRc/XK2sbIg5tYI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/o_009F_EuXESxYGEcJ4tZNHbSOIArZvNgCLcBGAs/s1600/May%2B17%2BWinchelsea%2B015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pmMjngGvGRc/XK2sbIg5tYI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/o_009F_EuXESxYGEcJ4tZNHbSOIArZvNgCLcBGAs/s640/May%2B17%2BWinchelsea%2B015.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">One of the joys of
allotment gardening is that it forces miserable, anti-social old sods like me
to emerge from their shell and connect with other miserable, anti-social
old sods. The fruits of this reluctant intercourse, I’ve discovered, is a
wealth of wisdom and practical advice, not to mention free plants and, as the
seasons roll by, some firm friendships. Sometimes – for a coy and quivering veggie-virgin
like me – one of them might become a kind of mentor and a role
model. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">Such a one, for me, is Bob
– Bob Wheel. We have so much in common, Bob and I – we’re both short, old and
ugly with bad backs, although Bob, despite his shortness, is built like an
outside convenience of brick construction with hands like JCB shovels. He
always wears a cap or woolly hat with faded camouflage fatigues and his slow,
thoughtful conversation is punctuated by repeated attempts to light an inch of bedraggled
roll-up dangling from his lips. He speaks a dialect of Hastings more ancient
than Basque, and our early encounters were fraught with a number of communication
hiccups. Opening up about his life, he told me he had once been an ‘odd
carrier’. What on earth, I wondered, is an ‘odd carrier’? Someone, presumably,
who works in close conjunction with an even carrier. I twigged when he added,
‘Some o’ them odds weighed over a hundredweight. Buggered my back.’ On another
occasion he advised me to improve my land in winter by digging in a bit of
‘arse shit’. While I was wondering what other kind of shit there is (apart from
the obvious) he added, ‘or kay shit’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">His allotment is a joy
to behold – the soil rich and dark and fine, his veg obscenely robust and
plentiful, his paths fitted with black matting covered in woodchips and not a
weed in sight. And where I have but one composter, this cheeky bastard has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">five</i>. On seeing his plot, I instantly lost
all desire to become as great a writer as Marques or as great a painter as
Picasso, my one aspiration being to make my allotment look like Bob’s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">I felt so flattered
that he took me under him wing – probably because he felt sorry for me –
offering me boxes of plants that he’d raised at home as well as copious
quantities of veg that I hadn’t dared to attempt – like sweetcorn and beetroot.
That first summer, truth be told, we ate almost as much of Bob’s produce as my
own. It was in June, however, that he showed his true colours. Since I can’t use a
strimmer because of my back, I have to rely on hand weeding, and things got out
of control, the couch and nettles and hogweed on my paths and borders were running
wild to a point that I was being threatened with THE LETTER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Letter – or the formal notification from
the Parish Council to give it it’s full title – is the one thing (apart from pigeons,
caterpillars, clubroot, slugs and blackfly) that strikes dread into the heart
of every allotmenteer, the formal warning to shape up or ship out, basically. I
went into denial, hiding my head in the sand but, after a few days away in Dorset,
I wandered over to my allotment dreading what ravages nature might have wrought, only to find that the weeds had all been strimmed and raked away.
I knew the phantom strimmer had to be Bob and when I challenged him about it,
he told me to fuck off, which confirmed me in my suspicions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">Imagine my concern then
when my guardian angel, who’d practically lived on his allotment over the
summer, suddenly disappeared with the swallows in autumn. Of course, there’s obviously
less to do on a plot in winter than in summer, so people do tend to
disappear. What concerned me, though, was that Bob had left his leeks, beans
and sweetcorn unharvested, his beanpole trellis had collapsed into a heap and
weeds were reclaiming his perfect tilth. It seemed so out of character to allow
this to happen and, since he’s the same vintage as me, I was terrified he might
have fallen ill or even – I hardly dared think it – returned to the great compost heap
from whence we all came. I asked round the town to try to find out what had happened to him but
since he lives in Ore – a world away – the news was scant. Someone claimed to
have seen him drunk outside the Carlisle pub in Hastings but I knew that couldn’t
be Bob – it wasn’t his style.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">Then, one gloomy
afternoon in early March, I was bent over my digging when I heard the words, ‘You’re
doing that wrong, you old fucker,’ and looked up to see a beaming Bob – large
as life and twice as ugly – standing outside my gate. I felt so relieved to see
him and deeply touched to be greeted in such an affectionate way. I was sure Sir
Michael McCauley-Smith CBE – another allotment neighbour who uses his plot as a
place to smoke cigars in peace – had never been called an ‘old fucker’ in his
life – at least, not like that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">Bob flung open the gate
and lumbered over, scooped up and handful of soil in his JCB shovel hand and
held it up to his nose. ‘It smells good,’ he proclaimed, chucking it back on the
bed, ‘You’ve done well, Pete.’ I needed no greater accolade than that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">I didn’t ask him what
had happened to him over the winter and he didn’t tell me. All that mattered was
that he was alive and well and back on his land.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">I’m afraid this
blogpost hasn’t dispensed any useful horticultural wisdom but hey, you can get all you need of that from Monty Don, when he isn't gazing adoringly in the mirror. The only message is to value one’s
fellow allotment-holders and not be a miserable old sod. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span> </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wud5pVPI4Bs/XK2tMyGPzWI/AAAAAAAAAwc/C3aIpA1GQ78RXNDMrXJ6bd4Li6jNudE5QCLcBGAs/s1600/May%2B17%2BWinchelsea%2B010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wud5pVPI4Bs/XK2tMyGPzWI/AAAAAAAAAwc/C3aIpA1GQ78RXNDMrXJ6bd4Li6jNudE5QCLcBGAs/s640/May%2B17%2BWinchelsea%2B010.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A peaceful, rural scene or a candidate for THE LETTER?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-70104853826853116462019-04-04T07:18:00.000-07:002019-04-04T07:18:02.317-07:00
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">IN PRAISE OF BROAD BEANS<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the gardening year progressing,
I’ve decided to share some of my horticultural ignorance in a few blogposts
loosely based around my allotment. This one was supposed to have been posted in
early March so it’s probably a bit irrelevant now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s been a funny old year on the allotment. January was
mostly warm and wet in this part of Sussex but February sent a heatwave that
had us all believing we’d time-travelled forward into July. Everyone was out on
their plots in tee-shirts and colourful sunhats, digging, hoeing and lovingly raking
their tilthings and feeling frustrated that, despite the heat, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>only February, winter could still
throw some nasty surprises at us and the orgasm of sowing that the weather
seemed to inspire was probably best resisted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;">One thing I did take a chance with was broad beans. Love them
or hate them, broad beans are tough old buggers and, if you can find<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a spell when the ground’s not too sodden to
get them in, they don’t mind taking their chances with the vagaries of the
English spring. I have to say that broad beans aren’t my favourite vegetable,
being one of that generation that was put off them (and most other vegetables,
especially cabbage) by our darling mums who, despite their genius with roasties
and Yorkshire pud, would boil the veg to within an inch of its life as though afraid
it might jump up out of the pot and attack them. Not to mention School Dinners
care of the School Meals Service – a kind of Meals on Wheels for Children and a
hangover from the war. Their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piece de résitance</i>
was spam fritters (or spum fluppers as we used to call them) though they did do
quite a nice high-density chocolate pudding with pink custard. What has all
this to do with broad beans? I hear you ask and the answer is nothing. The purpose
of school in the fifties, it seemed to me, was to systematically destroy any
budding passion for anything – nature, classical music, Shakespeare – and vegetables.
it’s taken me most of my life to discover that cabbage, for instance, doesn’t
have to be a slimy green sludge but – lightly cooked with a little butter and a
pinch of sugar – a delicious and nutritious vegetable. The same is true, to
some extent, of broad beans. The trick is to pick them young before they turn
into leathery old pouches and not overcook them. Also, if you lightly boil them
then put them through the fart machine (as we’ve affectionately dubbed our
ageing blender) you can make them into quite a presentable dip – a bit like
guacamole and even less appetising. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6W4PKCXJtuA/XKYOB1HFIvI/AAAAAAAAAv0/GH5bB3uOi_c3u5EfLylhK-lr9AI8mLj5gCLcBGAs/s1600/Allotment%2B007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6W4PKCXJtuA/XKYOB1HFIvI/AAAAAAAAAv0/GH5bB3uOi_c3u5EfLylhK-lr9AI8mLj5gCLcBGAs/s400/Allotment%2B007.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;">First Germination!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another advantage of getting broad beans in early is that you
avoid them being decimated (to some extent) by slugs and caterpillars and their
flowers being covered in that horrible blackfly shit. Although this doesn’t
seem to affect the yield too much, it does looks unsightly when you’re showing
people around your patch and trying to impress them – which I do all the time,
mostly unsuccessfully. Broad beans are also copious croppers – a couple of rows
should be more than enough to get the average family up to that ‘Oh God, not
broad beans <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">again’ </i>threshold although
any exess can be frozen. Also, since they’re early, you can get them done and
dusted by July when there’s still time to use the ground for something else. The
variety I’ve sown is “Masterpiece Green Longpod” but, quite frankly, they all
taste the same to me. A broad bean is a broad bean is a broad bean, after all –
unless it makes a drastic career move and becomes a Mexican Jumping Bean. The
geezer writing on the back of the packet – clearly a frustrated poet – says “harvest
when pods become swollen with succulent, tasty young beans!” Yeah, okay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Of course there are all sorts of fun things you can do off
the allotment at this time of year, like sowing French beans, leeks, courgettes
and all sorts of other things indoors in pots or seed trays then annoying your
partner by filling up every available inch of windowsill with them.
Alternatively, you can just sit in a rocking chair, drinking a cup of tea and
mumbling wise old rustic remarks like ‘Get a root of Glossop-weed in your
tilthing and he’ll be there till Wythantide.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In my next blogpost, I shall describe my sod.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">My office is doubling as a greenhouse! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-83770289860380454162018-04-20T01:36:00.000-07:002018-04-20T01:36:37.675-07:00<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-87jmEiCXjUc/WtcTpRbNjaI/AAAAAAAAAss/st7m2j-YpbYba6We0OZIrAO7NlLnlXBjACLcBGAs/s1600/FRAUD%2Bcover%2Bupdate%2B%255B1%255D%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1173" data-original-width="1600" height="467" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-87jmEiCXjUc/WtcTpRbNjaI/AAAAAAAAAss/st7m2j-YpbYba6We0OZIrAO7NlLnlXBjACLcBGAs/s640/FRAUD%2Bcover%2Bupdate%2B%255B1%255D%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;">“It
held my attention from the very first page to the last.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></i> </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;">“I
gave up a night’s sleep to get to the end.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In February of this year, my novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fraud </i>was published by Signal Books of
Oxford. The action is set in the present day and follows the fortunes of four
principle characters – a beautiful, troubled Hollywood actress, a young editor
who is also an aspiring writer, a middle-aged unsuccessful author and his
solicitor wife. It extends over six years and it is suggested at the outset
that the star – Nicola Carson – has some dark secret in her past that is
contributing to her ‘troubled’ mental condition. This is the pivot around which
the plot revolves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;">In early April, on a warm, sunny evening rare in
this dark and inclement spring, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fraud</i>
was launched from The Rye Bookshop in Rye, East Sussex, at a gathering of
friends and family which brought joy to my heart since I was the centre of attention
and received lots of compliments about my book. I was especially fortunate in
having my brother-in-law, Nick Snelgar – himself a published author – give a
short speech. In it, he invoked the image of the campfire in prehistoric times,
with primitive, pre-literate people hanging on the storyteller’s every word.
Over the years I’ve been writing, I’ve become more than ever convinced that the
story – and the power and beauty of the words in which it is delivered – is the
most important aspect of any work of fiction. Of course you have to have vital,
well-rounded characters, a sharply-drawn setting and possibly some profound,
universal observation about life, but without an arresting story – that
constant stimulation of the need to know what happens next – the attention of
the audience wanders, whether they be modern readers or hunter-gatherers, and dissatisfaction
ensues. The storyteller would not be given supper by the tribe – in fact, he or
she might very well become their supper. I was thus delighted to notice, among
the numerous readers’ reviews on Amazon, the frequent recurrence of expressions
like “page-turner”, “gripping read” and “riveting”. “It held my attention from
the very first page to the last,” said one. “I gave up a night’s sleep to get
to the end,” said another. That is the highest praise I could have hoped for.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;">When it comes to characters, I’ve always felt drawn
to those who are flawed, whose lives are not easy and whose situations are
often determined by misguided decisions or circumstances beyond their control.
I am less interested in people who are super-successful and seem to have
everything sorted, though I suspect there are far fewer such people around than
one might imagine. Scratch beneath the surface of the most super-duper people
and you generally find some dark secret or some flaw or failing they’d rather
you didn’t know about. Even Nicola Carson, who appears to have everything –
beauty, talent, wealth and adulation – is a mess inside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;">I’d like to think that, in the course of what is
hopefully an arresting, amusing and entertaining story, some ironic
observations are made about the nature of modern life – indeed, all life – or,
at least, some questions asked. My main concern, however, is that reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fraud </i>should be an enjoyable and
uplifting experience – not a chore or a challenge. There are already enough of
those in life! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-62148312108585765052017-07-10T02:02:00.000-07:002017-07-17T00:12:29.122-07:00<div align="center">
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<div align="center">
<span style="color: black;">SUMMER HAIKU</span></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div align="center">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div align="center">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">1</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">The buzzard's cry, cry</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">of emptiness. On soaring skies</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">sunborn specks unseen</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">2</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">Raising roots of spuds,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">white orbs merging from the soil,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">quiet happiness</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">3</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">In the glowing tent</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">of the laburnum tree, a trembling</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">of bees</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">4</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Sudden flash of gold</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">through evening trees, the kestrel</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">hovers, vanishes</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">5</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">In the churchyard, here</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">behind the hedge, lie flowers</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">for the dead, dying</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">6</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Raising roots of spuds,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">pale orbs looming from the soil.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Quiet happiness</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">7</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Sudden swathe of swifts</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">above my head, go screaming</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">high on summer skies</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-73470268179464819232016-12-28T02:41:00.000-08:002016-12-28T02:41:16.106-08:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">THE MYSTERY OF THE PINK PANTIES<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">(from Loved
and Lost in Lewisham)<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p><span style="color: black;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby was walking home from work under
a grey sky. She was depressed. She went into the Tropicana wine bar in the hope
of running into some friends who might cheer her up. If she didn’t, she’d have
to rely on a vodka and orange to cheer her up. Twenty to six might seem a
little early for a vodka and orange, but hey! She’d had a lousy day.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> She found
Trish and Debbie seated around a glass table in a kind of clearing in the
jungle vegetation.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Hi,’ she
said.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Hi-<i>yaaaa,</i>’
Trish and Debbie responded in perfect unison.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Trish and Debbie
were depressed too. The three girls cheered themselves up by discussing what a
crap day they’d all had and what total bastards all men are.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Doing
anything tonight?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nah</i>, I’m staying in and doing my nails.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’m staying
in and doing my emails.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’m staying
in and dying my hair.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I can’t afford
to go out anyway,’ Debbie sighed. ‘I can’t even afford this month’s rent. My
landlord wants to take me out for a drink to discuss “alternatives.”’ She stabbed the air with the middle and index fingers of both hands
to display the inverted commas graphically. ‘I know exactly what <i>that</i>
means.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘My laptop’s
packing up and I can’t afford to get it fixed or get a new one,’ Abby
contributed to the general gloom. ‘The letter E doesn’t type, which is a real
pain since E’s the mostly commonly used letter in the English language, isn’t
it? Or is it A?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I think it’s
F,’ suggested Trish, and they all laughed and felt better.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Get Jeb to
fix it.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘<i>Jeb</i>!
You’re <i>joking</i>! Jeb can’t change a light bulb.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well, he spends
all night on his computer, so he must know <i>something</i> about them.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘He doesn’t.
He knows nothing about everything.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Nothing about
everything? That makes him sound really wise – in a Zen kind of way.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well he’s not.
He’s a prat.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby’s mobile
rang. She fished it out of her bag and glanced at the display. Speak of the
devil. She lifted it to her ear.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘All right,
Babe?’ said a voice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He had this
annoying habit of calling her ‘Babe’ all the time. And now he wanted her to
fetch his laundry from the laundrette – it should have just about finished its
cycle. He thought he put it in machine number 7 but he couldn’t be sure. And
would she mind just slinging it in the dryer while she’s at it? He’d have done
it himself but he’s really on a roll with his writing.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby’s jaw
dropped. The <i>cheek </i>of the guy! It’s not even as though he was her
boyfriend. He was just this guy who lived in the flat next to hers in
Ravensbourne Court, who did shift-work in a packing factory and who fancied
himself as a writer. But he’d never published anything. In fact, as far as she
knew he’d never written anything. But he was doing a creative writing course so
apparently that made him a writer. She ended the call.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Her friends
were all looking at her expectantly. She drained her drink. ‘I have to go,’ she
said mysteriously.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Installed in
the laundrette, staring at Jeb’s clothes bouncing round and round in the dryer,
Abby pondered her life. She was twenty-eight, single and worked in the accounts
department of a company that manufactured reinforced rubber sprockets. She had
so little interest in her work that she was not even entirely sure what reinforced
rubber sprockets were, but they paid the rent – just. She’d recently made a
solemn vow never to have anything to do with men ever again, <i>ever.</i>
Experience had taught her that all relationships are cyclical – i.e. going
nowhere. Just like life. Or like Jeb’s underwear – churning endlessly round and
round and up and down and going nowhere. The cycle comprised about twenty
phases and she’d been round it so many times she knew them by heart. Most
recently it was with a guy called Craig. There were slight variations each
time, of course, but it always followed the same pattern: You meet. You date.
You kiss. You bonk. You bonk again. And again. And, yeah okay, again. He buys
you flowers and a card on your birthday and uses the “L” word for the first
time. Of course, he’s said nice stuff to you before like how you’re sweet and
beautiful and have a fantastic body etc. etc. but that’s just mood music in the
bedroom. With regard to the “L” word he’s keeping his powder dry because the
“L” word suggests commitment. You find yourself using it back then feel bad
because you’re not sure if you really mean it. He reckons it would make great
economic sense for you to move in together – i.e. <i>him </i>to move in with <i>you</i>.
But it’s okay – at first. He makes himself useful – puts out the rubbish, mends
the shower head, installs loads of really cool illegal software on your laptop.
Then you notice he’s left the top off <i>your</i> toothpaste, is shedding pubic
hairs in your bed and has stopped apologising after farting. He loses his job,
through no fault of his own (so <i>he </i>says) and you have to listen
sympathetically while he drones on about the boss who shafted him, the mates
who shafted him, the whole world which shafted him, plus you’re now supporting
him financially. Sporting four days’ growth of beard, he shambles off down to
the Job Centre but can’t find anything worthy of his extraordinary skills and
talent. He decides to use his enforced leisure to realise his “dream” – like
building his invention that’s going to make him a millionaire, or his website
that’s going to make him a billionaire, or – worst of all – writing his
“novel”. From a prostrate position in your bed he asks if you’d mind putting the
rubbish out (even though you’re late for work) as he’s figuring out a very
complex crisis at the end of chapter four. It’s your birthday again. He forgets
it – not so much as a card – he’s too preoccupied with how the threads of his
plot are drawing together for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dénouement</i>.
You snap. You tell him to leave, he tells you he has nowhere to go, you tell
him you don’t fucking care, just <i>go </i>you egocentric bastard! He tells you
you’re cold, selfish and unfeeling and a philistine for not appreciating his
art. You tell him where he can shove his art and their relationship! He goes,
leaving most of his stuff behind so he can come back and collect it bit by bit,
just to annoy you and check on whether you’re seeing anyone else. You cry
because he’s made you feel cold, selfish and unfeeling. <i>Ha</i>! Selfish!
That’s a good one, coming from him! Oh yeah, and you’re a philistine, apparently,
for not appreciating his crap novel. And now he’s made you feel guilty. He’s
made you feel that for some reason it’s all <i>your </i>fault! <i>Arsehole</i>!
You keep crying though you’re not sure why. It’s like crying at the funeral of
some great aunt you couldn’t stand. But you still do it. Then you go out with
your best mate and get totally hammered and while you’re staggering home at
three in the morning trying to hold each other up, you make a solemn vow you’re
giving up men for good.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">And then you
meet this lovely guy who’s (yeah, you guessed it)… <i>different. </i>And the
cycle starts all over again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The machine
stopped and Jeb’s clothes all flopped to the bottom of the drum in a lifeless
heap. Abby hauled herself out of her chair, opened the door and found they were
still damp and had all turned pink – the culprit being one bright red sock
which was part of a set she remembered his mother sending him for Christmas.
She sighed, scratched around in her purse for some coins and set the machine in
motion again. She resumed her seat.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">And then there
was Jeb. He was<i> </i>different all right, though not in quite the way she
would have liked. He seemed to have fast-tracked his way into the cycle at
about Stage 12. But what was he doing there? She didn’t love<i> </i>him. She
didn’t even <i>like</i> him particularly. He hadn’t worked through the cycle
like you’re supposed to do. He hadn’t put in the time. He hadn’t put in the
effort. As far as she could remember he’d never even bought her a drink. She
did allow him to snog her once, at Trisha’s party when everyone was blind drunk.
Maybe that was what underlay this attitude of his. Maybe that was what made him
think he’d got the right to come into the kitchen while she was making her
supper, plonk a hand on her shoulder and peer into her saucepan with some
remark like ‘What’s for tea, Babe?’ Or was it that she and Jeb – the tenants of
the two cheapest flats in Ravensbourne Court (where she’d landed up after being
fleeced by blokes like Craig) – were forced to share a kitchen? Was it <i>that</i>
which gave him the illusion they were practically married? There was this deep
spiritual bond between them (so he said) and apparently that gave him the right
to help himself to her spaghetti. And to get her to go all the way round by
Hither Geen Lane after a crap day at work to pick up his washing from the
launderette and wait while it went through the dryer a second time. And the
worst of it was, here she was doing it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">*</span></b></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jeb wasn’t ‘on a roll’ with his
writing. He was staring at a blank Word document and waiting for inspiration.
The topic for the week’s assignment was ‘Location, Location, Location.’ Not
that naff telly programme where mega-rich thirty-somethings turn up their noses
at nine bedroomed country mansions because they’re more than a mile from
Bryony’s private prep school. Neil, the guy who ran the class, wanted them to
explore the topic in depth: Where am I? Not just <i>where am I</i>? But where <i>am
</i>I? Or indeed, <i>where </i>am I? I am here, facing a blank Word document,
thinking about ‘location’. But where am I <i>really</i>? And Abby’s there, in
the laundrette in Hither Green Lane, watching my Y-fronts bounce round and
round and listening to the relentless churning of the dryer. But where is she <i>really</i>?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He sighed. It
wasn’t just lack of inspiration. His thoughts were fixated on something which
had happened earlier that evening. A silly little thing but one which
nonetheless had lodged in his mind, or in his soul or somewhere. As a writer he
couldn’t help viewing his own life aesthetically and felt strongly the need to
keep what had happened as an isolated incident, of not acting upon it or trying
to develop it in any way, of preserving it as a single precious jewel set in
the dull paste of everyday life. Hey! – ‘a single precious jewel set in the
dull paste of everyday life’ – that wasn’t bad! He must remember to use that some
time!</span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">*</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby surreptitiously glanced around
at her fellow inmates of the laundrette. There was a tall, thin, grey man,
probably in his late forties, wearing a shabby brown suit and a little pointy
beard. He looked as though he had tried being a teacher but couldn’t hack it
and now made a meagre living teaching people to play the piano badly. There was
an old woman who appeared to be of Asian origin. And a girl who looked Slavic –
possibly Russian. She was slender and would have been beautiful had not life’s
hardships and disappointments <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bestowed a
pale, pinched, almost haunted air. Her bob of floppy hair was dyed nuclear red
and she wore a stud in one nostril. She and Abby caught each other’s eye – just
for a moment – then the girl looked away before any kind of contact was made.
Here we all are, thought Abby with a sigh, the brotherhood – and sisterhood –
of those who are too poor to own a washing machine. It was completely different
in France. In France the <i>laverie </i>was the hub of the community where people
from all social backgrounds gathered and mingled – even the word sounded cooler
and sexier than <i>laundrette. </i>Old ladies aired the town gossip with their
jaws in overdrive – who’d just had an illegitimate child and by whom, whose
husband was clearly a closet gay, who was the Mayor’s mistress of the month.
People laughed and helped each other fold their counterpanes. Here in England
they just sat and stared at nothing, hypnotised by the drone of the machines
and the sight of their undies bouncing round and round.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jeb’s clothes
stopped revolving again. Abby felt them thoroughly to check that this time they
were nice and dry and warm. She loaded them into one of the plastic baskets
provided and carried them to a counter where were strewn some prehistoric copies
of Titbits and Weekend and the previous day’s edition of The Sun. She imagined
Jeb just grabbing all his clothes and thrusting them anyhow into a bag, but
there was something in her – possibly (oh God!) some maternal instinct – which
compelled her to take each item, fold it neatly and place it in a pile. There
was actually something quite pleasant and restful about the activity – like ironing
or hoovering the carpet. Maybe it was because, being a totally disorganised
person, these precise little tasks created the illusion that she was imposing
some order on her chaotic universe. For a few moments she felt reassured,
comforted, warm, safe. She laid both her palms on one of Jeb’s pink tee-shirts
then slid them slowly apart, her head tilted, smiling with satisfaction. Next
came a pair of his pink Y-fronts. She couldn’t <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">believe<i> </i></span>Jeb was still wearing Y-fronts! Real men all wore
boxers nowadays. She couldn’t even imagine where he had bought them – probably
from some stall in the market. All his clothes looked so small and cheap. He
was a little over average height but of slight build and his clothes looked
like those of a teenage boy. As she folded them she suddenly imagined she was a
mother folding up her children’s clothes for school. Then she noticed the girl
with the nuclear red hair staring at her. She briskly resumed her task.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jeb had
overloaded the machine. His week’s wash went on and on. But then, just as she
was getting to the end, she came upon something which made her gasp and her
eyes widen in surprise. It was a pair of pants, pink like everything else, but
definitely not Jeb’s. Because they weren’t even pants. They were <i>knickers</i>!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">She frowned.
How on earth did a pair of knickers get into Jeb’s laundry? She paused in her
work to consider the question. The obvious explanation was that they belonged
to someone he’d slept with. That he’d <i>slept</i> with? <i>Jeb</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">?<i> </i></span>But what girl sleeps with someone
then leaves without putting their knickers back on? It was <i>bizarre</i>!
Unless it was someone who lived close by, someone in the house, but even then
it was pretty weird. Abby mentally went through all the female residents of the
house who could possibly have slept with Jeb. Fiona? No, she had a boyfriend.
Anna? She had a girlfriend. Mrs. Mayhew? She had a dog. Another explanation was
that they belonged to someone from outside who was forced to leave in a hurry.
But what forces someone to leave in that much of a hurry? The unexpected return
of the girlfriend? Jeb didn’t have a girlfriend. At least, as far as she knew
he didn’t. She shrugged and decided to put the matter out of her mind. But it
was a real mystery just the same.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">When she
finally got home, Jeb asked, ‘What happened to that guy Craig or Dale or
whatever his name was? I haven’t seen him around for a while.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘We broke up.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Oh, I’m sorry
to hear that,’ he responded cheerfully.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’m not.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Anyway,
thanks for picking up my laundry, Babe. I really appreciate it.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘So you
should.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby had
trouble sleeping that night. It was crazy, she knew, but the mystery of those
pink knickers just kept niggling at her. She couldn’t get them out of her mind.
The theory that they were abandoned by a lover just didn’t ring true whatever
scenario she played out in her imagination. Maybe he had a sister or an old
friend to stay and they just left a pair of knickers behind. Yes, that had to
be it! But Jeb had never talked about having a sister and, in all the time
she’d known him, she couldn’t remember him ever having anyone to stay. Still,
that had to be the answer. Unless… unless… there was another, rather tackier
explanation. No, that <i>couldn’t </i>be it!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But that, she
had to admit, was the most logical explanation so far. Jeb was seriously weird
after all. Maybe, in the privacy of his room, he liked to parade around in a
pair of knickers. Or even a bra – although Jeb was so skinny there wouldn’t be
much to hold one up. Or maybe, <i>maybe,</i> he went the whole hog – tartan
miniskirt, tights, stilettos, bracelets, necklace, mascara, eye shadow,
lipstick, wig! When she saw him boiling pasta in the kitchen that evening, she
couldn’t help picturing him in a little black number and was horrified to
discover that she rather preferred what she saw to the original. <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">No</span>! Jeb would never be able to afford
designer labels, even from TK Maxx. But maybe she was doing him a terrible
injustice. She couldn’t go around imagining he was a transvestite if he wasn’t!
She had to know the truth!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">That evening,
when he was in the kitchen making himself something involving noodles (he
seemed to live on noodles) she went in and asked, ‘Do you mind if I make a
start on chopping some tomatoes?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘No, of course
not, Babe.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I mean, I
know the arrangement is for one of us to wait until the other’s finished, but…’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘It’s not a
problem.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">As she was
working, Abby remarked, with studied casualness, ‘I was reading this really
fascinating article in the Daily Mail. It said that their research reveals that
a staggering 22% of males have indulged in some form of tranvestitism during
their lives.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Really?
That’s amazing.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Do you think
so?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yeah, I’d
never have had you down as a Mail reader.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’m not!’ she
frowned. ‘It was just floating around the rest room at the office. But it’s an
amazing statistic, don’t you think?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I suppose
so.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I thought it
was amazing.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yet why is
it…’ Jeb mused, pausing in his pasta-stirring and wagging his wooden spoon in
the air, ‘that if men dress up in women’s clothes it’s regarded as weird and
unhealthy whereas if women dress in men’s clothes it’s just a bit butch and
eccentric?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Personally I
don’t think there’s anything weird and unhealthy about men dressing up in
women’s clothes. I think it’s rather sweet. And it doesn’t hurt anyone, does
it? It’s probably just their way of getting in touch with their feminine side.
Or a way of feeling close to a loved one, to… the owner of a pair of knickers,
for example. Or a bra. Or whatever…’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I don’t know,’
Jeb murmured, resuming his noodle-stirring. ‘I suppose that’s all true in
theory but I still find, at gut level, that there’s something weird about it.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Yeah, well you
<i>would</i> say that, wouldn’t you? Abby thought. But she had to admit that,
weird though Jeb was, he didn’t seem to be weird in that particular way. When
she broached the subject there hadn’t been a hint of embarrassment or defensiveness
in his reaction. Maybe this transvestite thing was a non-starter after all. So
what <i>was </i>the explanation?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">On the bus into
work the next morning, she was exasperated to find she was <i>still </i>thinking
about those knickers. Maybe he just liked to possess a pair of women’s pants
without actually wearing them. A lot of men liked to possess something private
and intimate of their girlfriend’s. Especially if they were far away from them.
But then she returned to the inescapable fact that Jeb didn’t <i>have</i> a
girlfriend. The only person he seemed to fancy – as he’d made crassly obvious
on a number of occasions – was her.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh my <i>God</i>!
Maybe they were <i>her </i>knickers! Maybe Jeb had sneaked into her room while
she was out and pinched a pair as a keepsake. But she always locked her room
when she went out. Although, come to think of it, she didn’t. Not always. She
was actually quite lax about locking her door. She always locked it when she
went to work or out for the evening but if she was just popping round the
corner to post a letter or pick up some milk she often didn’t bother. And there
was no way she could check whether she was short of a pair of knickers because
she had absolutely no idea how many pairs she had in the first place!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The following
evening, Jeb was cooking and she was chopping a pepper this time. He didn’t
seem to think there was anything suspicious about it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Jeb… what do
you think about the idea of a wife or girlfriend giving something to their
husband or boyfriend if they’re away from them? Something to remind them of
them and make them think of them?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘You mean, a
present?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well, no, I
mean something of their own… like a hair clip, or maybe… something a bit more
intimate… something which carries the scent and body odour of that person.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yeah, I think
that’s a lovely idea. If you ever went away I’d like you to give me a pair of
your knickers. Unwashed.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">She gasped.
‘Jeb, that’s <i>disgusting</i>!’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well you
brought it up.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby suddenly
snapped. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer! Still clutching her knife, she
turned to confront him. ‘Jeb, that laundry you made me pick up the other day.
There was a pair of knickers in it.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He was a
picture of vagueness and innocence. ‘Really?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yes, really!
I know it’s none of my business, but since you made me go miles out of my way
to collect it and hang around while it dried, even though I was exhausted after
a crap day at work, I’m making it my business! I want to know how they got
there! It’s driving me crazy!’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jeb just
carried on looking vague, then shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea how they got there.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘You must have
<i>some </i>idea! Think!’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">He obediently
looked thoughtful for a while. ‘Nope. Sorry.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘And that’s
all you’ve got to say on the subject?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘What do you
want me to say?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I want you to
tell me what they were doing there! I can’t stand it another minute!’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I’ve just
told you, I don’t know what they were doing there. Why’s it such a big deal,
anyway?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘It’s not.
It’s just… a mystery. And I don’t like mysteries. They infuriate me.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Did you think
they might belong to my girlfriend?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘You haven’t
got a girlfriend.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘How do you
know?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I don’t,
but…’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘And… would it
bother you if they <i>did</i> belong to my girlfriend?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘No, of course
not! Why should it?'</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Jeb was
smiling at her in a really irritating way. ‘Oh <i>I </i>get it,’ he exclaimed
suddenly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘What?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘All that talk
about men wearing women’s clothes. You were trying to find out if I’m a
transvestite.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Of <i>course </i>I
wasn’t! I never thought for a moment you were a transvestite! I was just…
eliminating possibilities.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well, I’m
sorry to disappoint you.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The matter was
dropped. They worked on in silence, rather awkwardly, preparing their
respective suppers. Then Jeb suddenly said, ‘Come to think of it, I <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">do</span> remember how they got there. It’s
just come back to me.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘<i>Well</i>?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘There was
this girl. Really pretty but a bit punk – her hair was dyed red and she had a
stud in her nose and a few other piercings. And she had this really thick
accent – Croatian or Romanian or something. Maybe even Russian.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yes?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘And she…
well, she was filling up the machine next to mine and we got chatting. Nothing
heavy – just chit-chat. Then she set her machine off and said goodbye, and just
after she’d gone I noticed she’d dropped a pair of pants on the floor. So I
picked them up and wondered what to do with them. I thought of going after her
but she’d already disappeared. So in the end I just thought – Ah well, I’ll
bung them in with my wash – I reckoned our cycles would finish around the same
time, so I could give them back to her then.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby was
staring at him. ‘You picked up a pair of dirty knickers belonging to a total
stranger and put them in your wash?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Yeah. What of
it?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Jeb, that’s
the most feeble, pathetic and improbable explanation I’ve ever heard!’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well, I’m
sorry, but it happens to be true.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">She was shaking
her head. ‘I don’t believe even <i>you</i> would do something like that! Didn’t
it occur to you how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">embarrassed</i> she’d
be?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well… no, not
really. She seemed really laid back. And I figured... a girl like that… she’s
probably around guys all the time. She’s probably got hundreds of brothers. And
she probably comes from a really tough background out there in some Siberian
village. Some people just aren’t used to the sort of niceties you and I take
for granted.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I don’t care whether
she comes from the North Pole, there’s no girl in the world who wouldn’t be
sick with embarrassment at the idea of a totally strange man picking up her
dirty knickers and putting them in with his wash!’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘They weren’t <i>that
</i>dirty. And I thought maybe she... dropped them on purpose.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Abby frowned.
‘You mean, you think it was her way of coming on to you?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well... yeah.
Maybe.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Jeb, I’ve
seen people come on to people in some weird ways, but <i>that </i>would have
taken the prize!’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Well… some
people might find a pair of dirty knickers a bit of a turn-on. And she <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">was</span> being quite flirtatious. Or maybe
she was lonely. Maybe she was just… reaching out to a fellow human being… with
her pants.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘You’re living
in a fantasy world,’ Abby pronounced finally. ‘She dropped them by accident.
But if, by some extraordinary stretch of the imagination, she <i>was</i>
interested in you, I’m afraid I’ve messed it all up.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘How do you
mean?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘I spotted
that girl. She kept looking daggers at me and now I know why. When she saw me
neatly folding your clothes she must have assumed I was your girlfriend.’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘Oh. Right.
Which you’re not, are you?’</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 8.5pt 0pt 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: black;">‘No. I’m not.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-54952983147065957922016-10-24T00:40:00.001-07:002019-11-20T23:55:56.889-08:00<div align="center">
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<h2 align="center">
<span style="color: black;">OUR CHARACTERS - WHERE DO THEY COME FROM AND WHERE ARE THEY GOING?</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">One
of the joys of writing is that it gives us a chance to play God. It allows us to
shut ourselves up in our cosy little room with a cup of coffee and create a
world which we (almost) entirely control while the ‘real’ world spins alarmingly
out of control all around us. I say ‘almost’ because even our imaginary worlds
sometimes run amok. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">One
of our most vital functions as God is to give birth to our characters.
Fortunately we are spared the mess and pain of actual childbirth, for our
characters just pop up fully formed and fully clothed (unless you’re E. L.
James) and going about the business of enacting our story. But where do they
come from?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">Most writers will answer that they somehow emerge from the very fabric of the conception, like living organisms miraculously forming out of the primordial soup.
Speaking as one who prefers writing realist fiction set in the contemporary
world, the seeds of most of my novels and stories have come from events in my
own life or the lives of people I know. It is generally true to say, therefore,
that the characters have been loosely based on the protagonists in those
dramas, but only very loosely. For once he or she has been born, a character tends
to take on a life of their own and often ends up unrecognizable as the real-life
person who inspired them, their characteristics often redirecting the plot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">Authors
of science fiction, historical or fantasy novels may find their characters
emerge in a different way. Historical novels often contain real historical figures who
have been fictionalised – something which is possible since, however great the
body of learning surrounding them, it is usually contradictory and they can
thus be safely remodelled by the novelist. But whatever genre the author works
in, I’m sure they would find (if they’re honest with themselves) a person, or
people, they know - or a combination of people - at the root of their character. Scratch beneath the surface
of your witch or vampire and you’ll probably find your parents in law. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">Then
comes the task of naming our babies. My wife’s cousin has two teenage boys
called James and Sam, whose names I always confuse (to everyone’s acute annoyance)
since, to me, Sam looks exactly like a James and James like a Sam. It is
bizarre how certain names seem to suit certain people, and I am not sure how
far this is subjective or objective. In our novels, of course, we are free to
call our characters what we like and if they look like a Sam we can call them
Sam or we might call them something entirely different to make them less
predictable and more memorable. Sometimes
the character seems to be born with a name attached and sometimes it’s right
and sometimes it isn’t. I certainly find that my characters acquire their names
very early on in the process – seemingly out of nowhere – and then I’m stuck
with them. To change a character’s name two months into writing a first draft seems
almost impossible. You’ve got to know them intimately by then and to change
their name would be like changing your child’s name when it’s five years old just
because you’ve got bored with it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">This
is also true of the character’s physical appearance, although I usually find
that the images I have in my head are rather vague and I like to keep my
descriptions equally vague – apart from some precise but sparing pointers. To
state that a male character has, for instance, ‘wide, hazel eyes with bushy
eyebrows, a long straight nose and full sensuous lips’ is, I think, a mistake, partly
because it’s hard for readers to retain all those details in their mind’s eye and
partly because those features may remind them of someone they dislike. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">Which
brings us to another vital aspect of character-creation – the role of the reader. For a character is not wholly a creation of
the writer, after all, but a collaboration between the writer’s and the
reader’s imaginations. If the writer says nothing about a male character’s
height, for example, the reader will tend to supply a man of average height –
or a bit taller if they happen to like tall men. If the writer only mentions a
character’s eye or hair colour, the reader will tend to extrapolate physical
attractiveness since – let’s face it – most of us like our characters to be easy
on the mind’s eye. And it is the reader’s experience, after all, which ultimately
matters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">I
think this is why problems arise when books are made into films. It’s not
simply that the character the reader has formed and grown to love in their imagination may
not look anything like Angelina Jolie or Johnny Depp or Sir Ian McKellan <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but that these celluloid creations have a
different essence, a different constituency to literary characters. This is
also true when a writer introduces a ‘real’ person into the narrative as a
cameo (Tony Blair, the Queen for example) because the glaring reality of these
people in our minds eye throws the literary creation out of focus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;">Any
writers who are kind enough to read this post will probably say I’m
just stating the obvious, but I thought I would state it anyway. The great characters
of literature – Jane Eyre, Mr Darcy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, James Bond to
name just a few among thousands – have become so much part of our cultural
consciousness that we sometimes forget that they don’t exist, that they’re just
figments of someone’s imagination. Yet the workings of those imaginations – and
those of all writers – remains endlessly fascinating and one of the great
mysteries and miracles of human creativity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-84329464941019447722016-10-10T03:20:00.001-07:002016-10-10T13:45:02.985-07:00<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">HARVEST FESTIVAL - WINCHELSEA STYLE</span></h2>
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<em><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(Warning - this blog post is rather sanctimonious)</span></em></h3>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To me, harvest festival is one of
the most beautiful events in the church calendar. This is not just because
it occurs in autumn, when the earth is resplendent with shades of gold and
russet<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and the air suffused with the
scent of wood smoke, but because it evokes such powerful memories of my
childhood growing up on a farm and of our little village church which was
always crammed to the rafters with every sort of produce imaginable – from
local farmers, from local fruit growers, from gardeners, from retired gentlemen
with just a greenhouse and elderly widows with just a flowerpot. It was the
time of year when the ladies of the parish went to town creating ingenious corn
dolly swags and upside-down flower arrangements and everybody joined in the
task of making the church look spectacular for the harvest festival service. Whether
one believed that nature’s bounty was endowed by God or some other deity or
simply by some unnameable force, one couldn’t help but be amazed by its sheer energy
and profusion, by its colour and beauty and variety. The festival brought together
the entire community in celebration of something very profound – an awareness
that, however far technology has brought us from our Neolithic forbears who first tilled the soil, we
are still creatures who need to eat, who rejoice in growing things and who
should be grateful that, unlike so many of our fellow humans, we are not
going hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, in extreme old age, I have the
good fortune to have pitched up in Winchelsea, East Sussex - England’s smallest and arguably most
beautiful town. Yet this is a community very different from the one I grew up in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its residents – to put it politely – live a
very long way from the source of production or any notion of material need. When
I mentioned to a neighbour who’s a big noise in the church that I always love
Harvest Festival, she informed me that they were not going for huge displays of
fruit and vegetables this year but for a more ‘streamlined’ approach. When I
asked why, she explained that nobody knew what to do with ‘all that stuff’
afterwards. EXCUSE ME? You don’t know what to DO with a cornucopia of fresh, delicious,
locally-grown produce? Talk about a First World problem! It is yet another
homage to the God of Tidiness, the inertia of rule by petty, parochial
committee, the triumph of convenience over conviction. It’s the same attitude
that condemned an unhappy friend of ours who drank herself to death to have her
ashes strewn at the farthest limits of consecrated ground, next to the compost
heap, and which decreed that the epitaph on Spike Milligan’s grave – ‘I told
you I was ill’ – should be written in Gaelic as it was thought unseemly that a
joke which anyone can understand should be placed on a headstone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t mean to target Winchelsea exclusively in
this criticism – I’m sure it’s an attitude which prevails in country villages
throughout the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">A 'streamlined approach' - the harvest festival display in Winchelsea Church. The oranges, lemons and bananas are, of course, locally grown. Sussex is noted for its banana production.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My three and a half followers may
remember that I wrote a blog post back in March about the allotment we had
taken on. I can now report that, having battled with rabbits, slugs, mice, caterpillars
and other assorted pests, we have managed to wrest a few vegetables from this
barren parcel of land. It has been a rewarding, if sometimes frustrating,
experience, but I have often found myself thinking, while working, of the
millions of poor farmers and smallholders throughout the world who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to support themselves and their
families from similar patches of land and for whom the discovery that all their
seedlings have been decimated by pests is a disaster of life-threatening
proportions, not just a minor annoyance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I would suggest, in conclusion, that
our parochial worthies with their ‘streamlined’ approach should dwell on this
thought and adopt a more generous, appreciative and open-hearted attitude to
this thanksgiving festival – even if it means a little inconvenience. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Some of the produce from our allotment - maybe not shapely enough for Waitrose but delicious nonetheless</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">One of my monsters. I offered a similar one to the harvest festival but it was rejected on the grounds that it might distract the ladies of Winchelsea from their worship</span></div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-27168322657116112972016-07-10T00:30:00.001-07:002016-07-10T00:30:34.467-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Allotment Gardening!</span></h2>
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<em><span style="color: black;">(or, one man's journey to hell and back)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">A few weeks ago I jumped on the bandwagon which everyone seems
to be jumping on – allotment gardening. For the benefit of my thousands of
overseas followers (well, one) let me explain that an allotment is a small plot
of land on a publicly-owned site, usually on the outskirts of a town, where –
for a peppercorn rent – a cloth-capped factory worker can supplement his meagre
wages by growing some veg for his family. Or it was. That notion is now well
and truly out of date – the cloth-capped worker’s allotment, like his terraced house
in Osney or Islington, having been nabbed by up-and-coming young doctors and
barristers and execs wishing to 're-establish their primordial bond with the earth' etc. etc. and similarly transformed. Nowadays the talk over the
Prosecco and pistachios is not of the new extension to the Tate Modern or Mark
Rylance’s latest Lear at the Globe but of rhubarb and rocket and asparagus and
all the fun and nutritious things that can be done with them once you have the
mandatory juicer and are ‘au fait’ with all the right recipes!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">When I say I jumped, I was actually pushed. By my son, Joe.
He’s been home from his adopted China for a few months and, clearly dismayed at
finding his middle-aged parents in such a shameful state of inertia, announced
one morning that he had rented us an allotment for a year. It only cost £20, he
added breezily, and there was no hurry about paying him back.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">Initially I was furious though careful not to show it, so
pathetically excited was he by his initiative. He took us to see it – whereupon
I was even more furious. This patch of land may have been officially an
allotment but in reality it was a wasteland, not having felt the prick of a gardener’s
tyne in years. One end was a mountain of compost sprouting shoulder-high
nettles, the other a jungle of brambles and couch grass. And it was already April.
If we did ever manage to wrest any produce from this wilderness, it would be in
about the year 2022 by which time we’d almost certainly be dead. Joe informed
me - with rather sheepish optimism - that the presence of nettles indicates a high nitrogen content
in the soil. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">I considered hiring a rotovator but decided that would be
economically counter-productive. We’re British, after all, so if we were going
to do this thing, we were going to do it the British way – i.e. the most
difficult way possible, in true stiff-upper-lip style. So we set to work,
swinging off every day with our scythes and spades and mattocks slung over our
shoulders like the Seven Dwarves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
back-breaking work – we suffered, we despaired, we wept, we became addicted to Co-Codomol
and Voltarol, we heaved and turned the sodden sod only for the sun to beat down
on our sod and turn it to concrete. As we hacked at the rock-hard lumps of
earth with our hoes and mattocks in an attempt to break them down, we felt we
should be chained at the ankle and wailing some rhythmic lament about the agony
of our lot and our hope of a brighter future in the next world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Then I saw the light! The light in question being the simple
realisation that allotment gardening has sod all (pardon the pun) to do with growing
vegetables. Well it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</i>, obviously,
but it comes pretty low on the list of priorities. The main priority is to give
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">impression </i>of growing vegetables.
This can easily be achieved by accumulating loads of ‘gardeny’ clutter – stacks
of flower-pots, sheathes of beanpoles, a wheelbarrow, a hosepipe, a composter
and, of course, lots of seedpackets and little sticks to stick them on. And the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pièce</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de résistance</i> – an erection comprising steel hoops and polythene which
may be providing shelter for tender seedlings but probably isn’t. And, most
important of all, some picnic chairs and a table. For the real purpose
of an allotment – I’ve now discovered – is to have somewhere to escape to. That
cheery cry, ‘I’m just off to the allotment for a couple of hours!’ translates
as ‘I’m just off to spend two hours doing absolutely f*** all while drinking tea and gazing
at the landscape and occasionally mumbling some gem of spurious rustic wisdom
in a West Country accent such as, ‘That east wind will dry out the tilthings nicely,’ or ‘If you
can see the tower of Icklesham Church by lunchtime, he’ll be raining come
eventide.’ In short, an allotment is a place to establish a private empire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">Ironically, I found my new “fuck it” approach to allotment
gardening so liberating that I actually reached a point one
day of thinking, ‘What the hell, I may as well plant something.’ I began with
potatoes – ‘spuds are a good way to break up virgin land’ – another of my gems
of rustic wisdom. I planted some courgette plants –which were promptly enjoyed
by the local slug population; and some peas and summer cabbages which were promptly
enjoyed by the local pigeon population. Then, one balmy Sunday, I went mad and,
in a kind of orgasm of optimism, sowed French beans, dwarf beans and carrots
and planted out leeks and rhubarb. One bean broke the surface about two weeks
later and I haven’t been so excited since I became a father. It’s now been
eaten by something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">So, to sum up: we have potatoes, potatoes and… er, potatoes.
And some leeks. And some splendid courgette plants with no courgettes on them. I
may celebrate with another blog post if anything else comes up but, then again,
I may not. You’ll have to excuse me now – I’m going to fill my thermos, make
myself a sandwich and go and do a couple of hours on the allotment!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">Watch this space (or rather, this barren patch of
weed-infested wilderness) for updates!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D4voYd-yMKQ/V36NVg3Dh3I/AAAAAAAAAbg/JR8GTn1awcs4OIQnOEo2TrN77ySXI3ewgCLcB/s1600/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D4voYd-yMKQ/V36NVg3Dh3I/AAAAAAAAAbg/JR8GTn1awcs4OIQnOEo2TrN77ySXI3ewgCLcB/s400/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B003.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">This is how our allotment looked when we took it on</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H-M_KR04vCg/V36NzdVZbOI/AAAAAAAAAbk/409dLXBdWDAqziGCoqi5rGFjsyLLQHJsACLcB/s1600/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H-M_KR04vCg/V36NzdVZbOI/AAAAAAAAAbk/409dLXBdWDAqziGCoqi5rGFjsyLLQHJsACLcB/s400/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Our allotment now!</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FHOlqeXmjYI/V36OPVIrzHI/AAAAAAAAAbw/_XkLF09fVnoHg0krFngk_q3O7xUp3B10QCLcB/s1600/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FHOlqeXmjYI/V36OPVIrzHI/AAAAAAAAAbw/_XkLF09fVnoHg0krFngk_q3O7xUp3B10QCLcB/s400/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B006.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Courgettes and spuds!</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KqmAXY7zU0Y/V36O7ZHwQ0I/AAAAAAAAAb4/gwOMMJQ1jcU_9q9nEJ-QAgvp6Udnh0HiACLcB/s1600/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KqmAXY7zU0Y/V36O7ZHwQ0I/AAAAAAAAAb4/gwOMMJQ1jcU_9q9nEJ-QAgvp6Udnh0HiACLcB/s400/Allotment%2Band%2BPett%2BLevel%2B5%2B7%2B16%2B008.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The height of allotment chic. My neighbour Peter uses his plot for growing vines, asparagus and globe artichokes. This is the standard I aspire to (not)</div>
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At least we have a nice view</div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-32683318429764050832016-06-20T11:57:00.000-07:002016-06-20T11:57:46.544-07:00
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">Positively the Last
Word on Brexit<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">As the day
of the great referendum approaches, Britain finds itself baffled, bamboozled
and bored to buggery. For what now seems an eternity we have been assaulted by
so-called experts warning us of the terrible consequences of leaving the EU and
by so-called experts warning us of the dire consequences of staying in.
Immigration, jobs, trade, recession, house prices and public services are the main
topics that are being whacked about like wildly wayward tennis balls. These are
all massively complex issues which have been massively over-simplified and
‘emotionalised’ in the debates. I’m not going to go into them in detail yet
again because everybody’s heard enough of them already. Suffice it to say that the
British electorate are not so naïve as not to realise there’s a lot more going
on here than our membership of the EU. Poor old Cameron is wetting his
political panties while that nasty, dangerous lunatic Boris Johnson and his bunch
of gruesome cronies are jockeying for power. If we vote to leave, a general
election could be in the offing – so yet more of the same. Please God, no!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">As to the
most emotive issue – immigration – let me just say this. I don’t approve of it.
Not at all. Okay, my mother was part-Welsh, part-Irish, part Hugenot. My father
was part Jerseyman, part French. My wife’s Australian. Her Polish-Jewish
grandparents fled to England to escape Nazism, were welcomed and built a new
life here. Her father came here on the Kinder Transport, was welcomed and built
a new life here. Our children are a jumble of racial genes – as are most of the
British nation – but I still don’t approve of immigration. Oh, and while we’re
on the subject, I feel strongly that we should have denied entry to the
Iberians, the Celts, the Romans, the Angles, the Saxons, the Danes, the
Vikings, the Normans, the Hugenots, the Hanoverians and the citizens of our
former colonies, leaving Britain to its rightful owners – the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">homo erecti </i>who invented afternoon tea
and cricket. Oh no, hang on, they walked here from France when the Chanel was a
land bridge. Damn! We should’ve built an immigration-proof wall from Kent to
Cornwall! And we should send our Royal Family back to Germany. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">In that
wonderful comedy series ‘Frasier’, Frasier’s dad – a jaded, retired policeman –
tell his son he needs “a bite of reality sandwich.” I think that’s what this
debate urgently needs. The reality: Our very existence as a species is
threatened by global warming and depletion of the planet’s resources.
Consumerism is running riot in the wealthiest nations while the Third World
sinks deeper and deeper into poverty and deprivation. The gap between rich and
poor is ever widening even in the First World. Multinational corporations are
becoming wealthier and more powerful than nations – a process intensified by
TTIP. The West’s arrogant mishandling of the Middle East since the end of World
War One is coming home to roost in ways which are unimaginably horrible – both
for the Arab nations themselves and for the rest of us. Over vast parts of the
planet, half the human race – women – are being denied education, dignity and
their rightful place in society. The most powerful job in the world – President
of the United States – is in danger of being occupied by a raving lunatic who
makes even Boris Johnson look sane. China – a vast totalitarian state that has
never known democracy – is now a world power. Since the thawing of the Cold
War, the world has become a powder keg which could ignite at any moment. Meanwhile
Britain clings pathetically to its mezzotint memory of Empire, as evidenced,
for example, by the squandering of precious billions on our very own nuclear
weapon which even military experts agree has no strategic purpose whatsoever. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The LEAVE
campaign speak cosily of “wanting our country back” and “making our own laws
for ourselves.” We don’t make our own laws for ourselves anyway – our laws are
made for us by an elitist government which most of us didn’t want (due to our
archaic electoral system) and which has one agenda: to dismantle the NHS – our
most precious possession – to bleed our cultural life and public services dry
by “necessary” spending cuts and recreate a world in which the ‘Haves’ can lord
it over the ‘Have Nots’ for all eternity. Our parliamentarians of all parties -
as proven by the expenses scandal – are every bit as corrupt as anything you
can find in Brussels. While individuals cling heroically to their beliefs and
values, our society as a whole has lost its moral compass. What we – and the
world – desperately needs is leaders of real moral courage and moral vision but
instead we are governed by lightweight amateurs whose vision does not extend
beyond the next election. In what kind of crazy world is our health service run
by a man with absolutely no medical training or our education system by someone
who has never known the hell of teaching Shakespeare to a class of thirty
fifteen-year-olds?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;">What, I hear
you ask, has all this got to do with our leaving the EU? Well, not much really,
I suppose. Just this: Given all that we’re facing, given all the challenges, would
it not be better to maintain unity and co-operation where it exists, to try to
work towards a better world from within a large body of nations than from a
position of isolation? Of course there are faults and problems with the EU but in
our inter-connected world it is naïve to imagine those problems won’t affect us
even if we leave. It’s just that we won’t be able to do anything about them
because we will have put ourselves in a position of powerlessness. It’s argued
that we can’t do anything about them anyway but that’s actually not true. Much
is made by the LEAVE campaign of our powerlessness within the EU as though we’re
somehow helpless victims of our European oppressors. A lot is also made of the
threat that, by remaining, we will someday lose our national identity and become
absorbed into some vast, featureless federal Europe but that seems to me nonsense.
Countries like France, Germany, Spain and Italy maintain intimate ties with one
another and are not even separated by seas, yet they all maintain a distinct
and individual national character. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You will
probably have gathered by now that I am going to vote to Remain in next week’s
referendum. I wouldn’t presume to try to persuade anyone else to do the same.
Everyone will vote as they see fit. We’re still a democracy, after all. More or
less. Let me just leave you with one sobering thought – one that will strike
terror into the heart of even the most ardent LEAVE campaigner. If we give up
our membership of the EU, we may not be allowed to compete in the Eurovision
Song Contest! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-77839875701474305892015-12-13T00:55:00.000-08:002015-12-13T00:55:16.564-08:00<span style="color: black;"><em>{I've received so many of these this year from obnoxious friends and relatives describing round-the world trips, safaris in Africa and glittering personal achievements, so I thought I'd reply with one of my own.}</em></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<span style="color: red;">A Christmas round robin letter from the Davey Family!!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Hi All !!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It's been a totally amazing year for the Davey family! So here's a quick rundown of all the daft, crazy, whacky things we've been up to in 2015!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Back in January we bought a new tumble drier! Yay!! It's brilliant! It gets the soggiest garment dry in no time at all. In fact, it's so effective that I once took a pair of shorts out and bunged them straight on (I tend to go "Commando" with summer shorts) not realising how hot the zipper gets! Yikes!! My other half couldn't think what all the screaming was about! I'm still bearing the scar!</span> <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_McZkOOoyjM/Vmquq6b_HtI/AAAAAAAAAYw/1-dP9xWzV0I/s1600/Tumbl%2Bdrier%2Bfor%2Bblog%2B11%2B12%2B15%2B001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_McZkOOoyjM/Vmquq6b_HtI/AAAAAAAAAYw/1-dP9xWzV0I/s320/Tumbl%2Bdrier%2Bfor%2Bblog%2B11%2B12%2B15%2B001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;">Our amazing new tumble dryer!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">In March my mother-in-law Pat, who's 96 and normally rather low-key socially, suddenly decided to throw a surprise 90th birthday party for her friend Hazel Bevis, which really was a surprise for Hazel since her birthday's in July. Nonetheless she entered into the spirit of things with gusto, blowing out one of her nine candles (one for each decade) while we all sang Happy Birthday to You! She was so excited by the whole occasion that she passed out and we had to call an ambulance!! I shouldn't laugh really, but I just can't help myself, it was all so ridiculous! The lovely paramedics came and pumped her full of oxygen and she was fine, so happy endings all round then!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The highpoint of April was when I had someone's finger up my bum! No, really! Before your filthy minds get carried away with the idea, let me hastily add that the finger in question belonged to my GP who was giving me what's tastefully known as a DRE (Digital Rectal Examination). He was so astonished by what his digit discovered up there that he immediately sent me off to a urologist who stuck HIS finger up my bum (My poor bottom!!) I have to say, though, that having his finger up my bum was a lot pleasanter than the GP's (not that having ANYONE'S finger up one's bum is ever pleasant, I hasten to add VERY EMPHATICALLY!!) - just relatively so. I was then sent off to Eastbourne for an MRI scan which was quite fun since it was performed by this stunningly beautiful Asian radiologist who asked me in dark, sultry tones if I'd emptied my bladder recently. As I was lying nervously on the slab waiting for the machine to swallow me up, she suddenly thrust her hand deep inside my pocket and I thought for one wonderful moment that she wanted to have her wicked way with me! It turned out that a 5p piece had got stuck in the lining of my trousers and was driving the machine crazy!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">But enough of that rather distasteful subject. What else? Oh yes, I was summoned to do a massive stint of Jury Service in July and August (BOR-ING!) so we didn't actually get away on hols this year, though we did go to a funeral in Oxfordshire which was fun. Speaking of funerals, my neighbour Alan Goodrich died of a massive heart attack while watching a murder mystery called 'Rosemary and Thyme'. I've never seen it myself but apparently it features two very annoying ladies who are supposed to be gardeners but spend most of their time investigating very unlikely murders where the killer's signature style might be, for example, to stuff his victim in a rhubarb forcer with a marigold stuck in his privates. Not that that's relevant to poor old Alan's unfortunate demise, of course. I feel so sorry for him because he's now got to go through all eternity not knowing who did it!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Oh, and we went on a long weekend to Norfolk where we saw this hilarious sign!!</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PJskx_mo9s4/Vmw2hCksQvI/AAAAAAAAAZs/N5XAEVQDNBg/s1600/DSC03744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PJskx_mo9s4/Vmw2hCksQvI/AAAAAAAAAZs/N5XAEVQDNBg/s320/DSC03744.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We just couldn't stop laughing! So English!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Oh, and we also visited Wenlock Abbey where we saw this AMAZING topiary in the shape of Basil Brush!!</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCxanRw0zw/Vmw-q0_1LfI/AAAAAAAAAaE/pJuxHWfOjK0/s1600/DSC05168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCxanRw0zw/Vmw-q0_1LfI/AAAAAAAAAaE/pJuxHWfOjK0/s320/DSC05168.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Another high point of the year was when we took mother-in-law to see a very energetic performance of 'Hamlet' by the ubiquitous Benedict Cumberbatch on live stream. Her comment in the interval was that it was 'a bit gloomy'. Her other comment was that the dress Ophelia was wearing during the mad scene 'didn't do anything for her at all'. When Lyndy remarked that the poor girl had been driven insane, she replied pointedly, 'Just because you're melancholic doesn't mean you have to look a mess'. Her generation had standards, even when you're committing suicide!!</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TByJSl89PNc/Vmq0INzPtgI/AAAAAAAAAZA/JwMiKvy8Gho/s1600/DSC03806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TByJSl89PNc/Vmq0INzPtgI/AAAAAAAAAZA/JwMiKvy8Gho/s400/DSC03806.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;">My whacky mother-in-law being taken on a "church crawl" which she loves!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">So that's about it really! Our amazingly beautiful and talented children continue to go from strength to strength in their chosen professions. Joe is still in China, teaching and doing Tai Chi and writing a hilarious novel called 'The Legend of Frogfish' which I, for one, think is a masterpiece. Kitty is an English teacher in Battle. They both have lovely partners but we don't have any grandchildren yet. We do have a grand-cocker-spaniel, though, called Archie, who belongs to Kitty and her partner Ben, who we look after frequently (Archie, not Ben!!) and which brings us constant joy - though he does have some dietary issues which make him a little aromatic at times, but then I'm sure grandchildren have those too. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">So it just remains for me to wish everyone an AMAZING Christmas and a happy, prosperous and, above all, peaceful New Year!!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">XXXXX</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jC0q2887BE8/Vmq1-UUrJQI/AAAAAAAAAZM/DcCgo_AYDbw/s1600/Winchelsea%2BBeach%252C%2Bstorms%2Betc%2B-%2B21%2B2%2B15%2B031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jC0q2887BE8/Vmq1-UUrJQI/AAAAAAAAAZM/DcCgo_AYDbw/s400/Winchelsea%2BBeach%252C%2Bstorms%2Betc%2B-%2B21%2B2%2B15%2B031.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;">A freezing Kitty under a "Mr Whippy" cloud!</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tOMQ0h6nBeQ/Vmq2dcetCpI/AAAAAAAAAZU/N9VdDJKpV7s/s1600/Joe%2Bin%2BChina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tOMQ0h6nBeQ/Vmq2dcetCpI/AAAAAAAAAZU/N9VdDJKpV7s/s400/Joe%2Bin%2BChina.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red;">Joe attempting to strangle two lovely Chinese people - a rather worrying tendency he's developed.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red;">Archie, our surrogate grandchild!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"></span><br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-27103102703183845952015-12-07T00:49:00.001-08:002015-12-07T00:49:22.733-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x7XdCYwnACE/VmVDiXutb5I/AAAAAAAAAYY/29F9li_u_DU/s1600/Romney%2BMarsh%2Band%2BFairfield%2B26%2B03%2B15%2B013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x7XdCYwnACE/VmVDiXutb5I/AAAAAAAAAYY/29F9li_u_DU/s640/Romney%2BMarsh%2Band%2BFairfield%2B26%2B03%2B15%2B013.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Winter, Fairfield Church</span></h4>
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<span style="color: black;"></span> </h4>
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<span style="color: black;">Darkness deepening</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">enshrines</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">each grain of plaster dust</span></h4>
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<span style="color: black;">the dead cranefly on the window sill</span></h4>
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<span style="color: black;"></span> </h4>
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<span style="color: black;">Driving rain</span></h4>
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<span style="color: black;">and wind rumbling</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">enfold</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">what man has left for God</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">in unstained glass and glimpses</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">over wide ripples</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">into emptiness</span></h4>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-32752265852936522682015-11-28T23:38:00.001-08:002015-11-29T01:15:08.781-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8PURggn0GQk/VlqodYJqMFI/AAAAAAAAAYI/a63NW8l5Ph8/s1600/Winter%2BSky%2Bon%2Bthe%2BDowns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8PURggn0GQk/VlqodYJqMFI/AAAAAAAAAYI/a63NW8l5Ph8/s640/Winter%2BSky%2Bon%2Bthe%2BDowns.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="color: black;">December, Fawley Down</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="color: black;">From here</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the downs look flat</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">their cold lines</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">converge on Liddington</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">one strip of pink</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">beneath a roof of cloud</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">these hills know</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">that snow is coming</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">even now</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the earth folds in upon itself</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">no sound</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of birds</span><br />
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<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-59933594231037325312015-11-22T15:53:00.000-08:002015-11-22T16:39:13.941-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SRAI3Raf8es/VlBEPjtzFvI/AAAAAAAAAX0/-i61p3KcYJE/s1600/Depositphotos_46570747_original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SRAI3Raf8es/VlBEPjtzFvI/AAAAAAAAAX0/-i61p3KcYJE/s400/Depositphotos_46570747_original.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">DOING A JIMMY</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(Thoughts on ‘Spectre’ and the wonderful
world of James Bond)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My wife and I sometimes partake of a pleasurable activity known
as ‘Doing a Jimmy’. This isn't Cockney slang for a bodily function but our pet name
for watching a James Bond film. It derives from a very silly offering back in the
sixties when Woody Allen - cashing in on Bondmania - played a spoof character called Jimmy Bond. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whenever we do a Jimmy, we always take care to do it
‘ironically’, thereby maintaining our moral and intellectual superiority while
compromising none of our enjoyment. If we do it late at night in the privacy
of our own home, things often get a bit out of hand with whoops and cheers of delight
as our hero sends a carful of baddies plunging over a cliff, or howls of playful derision
as – having dispatched the evil villain to oblivion – he tosses off
some remark like, ‘It’s a pity he couldn’t keep his head in a crisis’. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Much as we love our Jimmys, we seldom
actually pay good money for one. Last Saturday was an exception. The weather was
frightful, my 97 year old mother-in-law was making us feel guilty (as usual) for 'never taking her anywhere' and my wife’s nephew was nobly enduring a two day
stay in a town with as much social life as an abandoned cemetery. So we caved
in and all set off to our local Kino to check out ‘Spectre’ – the latest and
much-hyped slice of Bondage.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I won’t give away the plot or bore everyone with a review.
Suffice it to say that it was all rather splendid on the big screen (especially
the train tootling across the desert into the sunset) and very "authentic" except for one or two little lapses, like when our hero suddenly acquires an
aeroplane from nowhere (as you do) in order to pursue the villain down a
mountain pass; and when he hands his evening suit to a guard on a train saying,
‘Will you press that for me, please?’ I’m going to try that next time I’m on
the Hastings-Brighton line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Afterwards, over tea and cake, the analysis began. My
mother-in-law, as usual, was the most outspoken, proclaiming that Craig
Douglas’ suits were too ‘nippy’ (she meant Daniel Craig, of course) and that
the heroine was too young for him, as though, instead of the customary
carnal quickie, they were planning to settle down together in a cottage in
the Cotswolds. Her best contribution was, ‘I’d never be able to make love
after killing all those people – I’d be too exhausted’. I’m not sure which of
the two scenarios suggested by that remark is more alarming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Despite having been an ardent Jimmy fan for more than half a
century, I’ve become increasingly aware of the awkwardness of the
character in the contemporary world – especially now, when directors take such delight in their hero’s tangled personal back-story. Are we supposed to take him as a two-dimensional cardboard
cut-out or just a little bit seriously? If so, one cannot help wondering at the
emotional content of an apparently friendless and family-less existence devoted
to indiscriminate slaughter, witty one-liners and a string of meaningless
copulations? Ian Fleming, a product of the wealthy upper classes who was hewn
in wartime intelligence, gave birth to Bond more than sixty years ago,
publishing the first novel, ‘Casino <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Royale’,
in 1953. This was the age of chisel-jawed wartime
heroes like Biggles and Bulldog Drummond – the sort of chaps who were more
concerned with zapping jerries than with their inner emotional complexities–so Bond seemed comparatively well rounded, not to say glamorous and colourful in
those days of post-war austerity. I clearly remember finding a thumbed
copy of ‘Dr No’, discarded by my elder brother, at the awkward age of twelve,
and it was like finding the entrance to Aladdin’s cave. As a painfully slow
dyslexic reader I had only ever made it through ‘Treasure Island’ and ‘Black
Beauty’ and James Bond proved to be my unlikely guide into literature. The
books were so readable, so pacey and exciting with their exotic characters and sunny
locations and, best of all, those beautiful women with ‘breasts’ (I’d never
heard the term before) who actually made love to our hero (something of which
Biggles, I am sure, would have heartily disapproved.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Surprisingly, despite his glamour, Bond did not make
it onto the screen until nearly ten years later, with ‘Dr No’, starring rugged,
lishpy and flarey-nostrilled Sean Connery – then unknown but now every granny’s
favourite Jimmy. Yet the world was changing by then and James Bond already seemed out of step with it. Under his
stylish exterior, he embodied patriotism, Empire, the class system, the old
order – all the things sixties popular culture was trying to sweep away – and his condescending attitude to women was hardly in tune with the budding cause of feminism. Also, of course, he tended to kill
people – which didn't sit too well with flower power and all those anti-war sentiments of peace and
love – relaxing afterwards with the perfect Martini (shaken not stirred) while
the rest of the world was pulverising its brains with pot. Judi Dench, as a new
and alarmingly female ‘M’ in ‘Goldeneye’, famously calls Pierce Brosnan’s Bond a
‘sexist misogynist dinosaur’ but the truth is that dear old Jimmy was a bit of
a sexist misogynist dinosaur from the very start.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every decade since the sixties has been different and Jimmy
has managed to remain out of sync with all of them. It’s interesting
how different actors and directors dealt with this problem. Roger Moore of
the quizzically arching eyebrows did it by hamming Bond up into almost a comic character - a technique which worked quite well at first but eventually
got so silly as to make the films unwatchable (with giant winking fishes and
groan-inducing lines like ‘Something just came up’.) Under Pierce Brosnan, Bond
went off into the realms of fantasy with invisible cars, ice palaces at the
North Pole and Korean gentlemen turning themselves into Toby Stevens with the
help of very talented plastic surgeons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve noticed in the Daniel Craig films that Bond’s failure
to keep in step with the ‘real’ world has not so much been glossed over as
cleverly incorporated into the character - and this, ironically, is a reward for his longevity. Once Her Majesty’s obedient, if somewhat unruly,
servant, he has become the loose cannon, the rogue operator, disobeying orders and
doggedly doing things the good old-fashioned way while his masters tie themselves up in
diplomacy, bureaucracy and political correctness. Having saved the world, of
course, he always gets the last laugh, the grudging approval of his superiors and
the girl. He has turned himself into the trusty old maverick who reminds us of basic
values and a simpler, rosier world that never really existed – a kind of Jeremy Corbyn
of covert operations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then there’s that other interesting evolution – that of the ‘Bond
girl’. In the early films the Bond girl was little more than Jimmy’s decorative
but helpless appendage who depended entirely on his manly strength and
resourcefulness for her survival and who, once the world had been saved, could
be happily bonked and binned with tearful acceptance of the inevitable. In the
latter films the Bond girl (though still stunning of course) has become deeper,
more serious (she has a degree), more distinctive and self-reliant. In a good
light she could almost be mistaken for a real person. There is also the
suggestion that Jimmy has grown deeper in his relationships – there’s some pain,
some anguish, a bit of baggage, and the suggestion that the impossibility of a
lasting relationship (mainly because he’s got a new film to make) is causing
him mild regret.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Which brings me to my own contribution to the tea and cake
analysis of ‘Spectre’ – one which left my audience agog with admiration at my
film buffness. It was the idea that it was not so much plagiarising the
other Jimmys as nodding affectionately in their direction. The Day of the Dead was
straight out of ‘Live and Let Die’, the sexy (and completely ridiculous) train
ride across the desert ‘From Russia with Love’, and, most blatant of all
(though you’d need to be a nonagenarian to spot it), Jimmy and the heroin’s
abduction to Blofeld’s desert hideout where an unctuous minion greets them with,
‘We’re so glad you’ve arrived safely. Your host is expecting you for cocktails
at six.’ The words winged me wistfully back over half a century to that
well-thumbed paperback I read at the age of twelve – Dr No. His adversary, ever
thoughtful, had even had a dress laid out on the heroine’s bed just as Dr No’s
jolly ‘housekeeper’ did for Honey Ryder (since she’d turned up in nothing
but that world-famous white bikini which propelled a generation of teenage boys
into manhood). It was almost as though Jimmy was rounding things off, summing
things up and – dare I suggest it? – saying goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the end of 'Spectre', Jimmy has Blofeld wounded and
defenceless in his power and he does something completely unexpected and rather
beautiful to him (I won’t say what) before strolling off into the (proverbial)
sunset with the girl. Into what future? That cottage in the Cotswold, being
brought his afternoon tea and slippers by a woman thirty years his junior? I think
not. A man who has saved the world more times than most of us have had hot
dinners will not be so easily terminated. Those hints of finality in ‘Spectre’
will turn out to be just a tease and James Bond will rise again in a new and
ever more splendid incarnation – as he always does – so my lovely wife and I
can carry on doing our Jimmys all the way to the telly lounge in the old
people’s home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-5101225096412293012015-11-14T01:54:00.001-08:002015-11-15T00:33:22.394-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have recently published a new novel, ‘Marielle’. It is set
in Paris in the present day (or rather, about the turn of the millennium which
was when I started it) and concerns a prosperous fifty-year-old dentist whose
marriage has run into problems. Sadly it has not been published by a publisher
as a print edition (I’m still trying!) but is available on Amazon Kindle and
Kindle apps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">As always, I had trouble with the cover. Covers on e-books,
it seems to me, are quite different to those on printed books in bookshops. Though
often very beautiful, they are generally less subtle, more explicit and more
directly related to the book's content. I tend instinctively to veer
towards the former sort, which is probably why my sales are so low.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">With ‘Marielle’ I was completely stumped. All the photos I
had of Paris (whether they featured the Eiffel Tower or some bohemian back
street in Montmartre) somehow looked corny. Also, the action of this novel moves away
from the Paris of the tourists. Then I remembered staying in Senlis in 2007 and
travelling by train to the Gard du Nord through the northern suburbs. This is
the poor part of Paris – the equivalent of the London's East End before it was yuppified – with a very
high immigrant population, mostly from France’s former colonies in North and
Central Africa. It is also, to me, the graffiti capital of the world. Every wall,
every door, every bridge, every girder and every junction box seems to be
covered with it – some in the most incredibly inaccessible places – and there
is no better way to view it than from the train.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">As an artist, graffiti has always fascinated me – not obscenities
scribbled on lavatory walls but the real thing. The idea that ordinary, poor,
disadvantaged people should spend hours creating those lavish, complex, witty
and often beautiful images knowing they’ll receive no financial reward or
approbation from the art world, must testify to an extraordinary creative
energy underlying the surface of these deprived areas. Of course, I’m aware
that this underground, alternative art world has its own stars, its own heroes
and some of them, such as Banksy, have finally been embraced into the ‘real’
art world. Street art has become fashionable but only on the surface. The real body
of work is still subversive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I finally decided, what the hell? I’d use some of it as the
cover for ‘Marielle’. The piece I chose looks quite effective, I thought. The
thumbnail looks like a fire and it’s only when you open it that you realise it’s
graffiti. It’s the sort of graffiti I like – colourful and textural, a bit
messy and not too neat and clever. As a book cover people will probably either love it or hate it – mostly hate, I should imagine. Ah well!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-25013709943430174652015-11-01T17:06:00.001-08:002015-11-01T17:06:09.552-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: black;">My dear old Volvo, about to incur a parking fine in the charming Norfolk market town of Fakenham</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">MYSTERIES AND MIRACLES</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">This post was inspired by two recent
events in my life. The first was the unlocking of my ageing Volvo from a distance
of about thirty yards using the remote control button on the key (normally
you have to be more like six inches away) and the second was a funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">First the unlocking thing: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">n</span>othing remarkable about that, you might think
– you, I, everybody does it a dozen times a day, every day, without a
second thought. Yet if I were to travel back in time (taking my Volvo and its
key with me) and demonstrate that feat to my five-year-old self, that scruffy
little self would be utterly gobsmacked. It would seem like a
miracle – a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>miracle – not just
some trick which seems baffling until you’re shown how it’s done, like when my
great-uncle Lorny made his teeth disappear, horrifying
us children until we were told by my mother that he wore dentures and had simply
removed them. It would seem miraculous because it employed forces which weren’t
fully understood and couldn’t be harnessed to our uses at that time. Yet remotely
unlocking a car, using a mobile, having this blog post simultaneously ignored
by millions of people all over the planet actually employs forces as natural
and logical as that which makes an apple fall from a tree and which are now as
familiar to us as the falling of said apple. Most of us still don’t understand
them, of course, but we’re prepared to accept that somebody in some hi-tech
factory does and to place our lives more and more trustingly in their hands. Those
forces are not really miraculous at all. Or are they?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">As to the funeral, it took place in
the very tasteful chapel of a crematorium but was a first for me as it turned
out to be a ‘humanist’ funeral. The charming old lady in the coffin – my aunt-in-law
– was not a Christian and nor were her family, so it seemed inappropriate to
give her a Christian send-off. Nonetheless, I found it all rather disconcerting
at first, as I leafed through the order of service wondering which hymns they’d
chosen and finding only a recording of something by Enya – the musical equivalent
of very rich chocolate cake covered in honey and topped off with a dollop of
syrup. Now, to me a funeral just isn’t a funeral without a few of those dreadful
dirges delivered in that agonised, tuneless warble of which we English are such
masters before being informed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by a
beaming vicar that the deceased is being embraced into the love of Christ. For
someone raised and educated in the Christian tradition there’s something
familiar and reassuring about it even if, like me, you’re a bit lapsed in the old
Christianity department. The proceedings were conducted by a very energetic
gentleman who described himself as a ‘humanist minister’ and, though he
fulfilled his task with warmth, dignity and feeling, he seemed a little vague
as to the destination (spiritually-speaking) to which we were dispatching the
deceased – not surprisingly, since it’s a subject which invokes vagueness in
most of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">It seemed to me, thinking about it
afterwards, that my Christian education and upbringing had presented me with a
view of life and death in which our time on earth in human form – subject as we
are to the laws of nature – is somehow very material, very pot-bound, very limited
and limiting and, of course, all tied up with the idea that we are born sinful.
I’ve noticed that the clergy keep a bit quiet about original sin these days as
it’s not a very good selling point for Christianity but nonetheless it’s always
there, lurking in the background. Images like dust and ashes, common clay and mortal
coils abound in the scriptures, and the spirit – which is capable of eternal
life – is seen as separate, and separable, from the body which ages, dies and
decays. The true life of the spirit which awaits us is something we can only glimpse
occasionally beyond our corporeal confinement, through little gaps and
apertures – ‘We see through a glass darkly… ’ as St Paul – Jesus’ tireless PR
man – wrote to the Corinthians. We achieve eternal life by having faith in the
miracle of divine grace. I believe that – particularly with my generation –
this is a perception which is deeply embedded in the psyche even of those who
claim to have intellectually outgrown religion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet it seems to me that this life,
this earth, this universe, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>the
miracle. The evidence of that is all around us, from the bursting of a seed in
spring to the remote unlocking of my ancient Volvo. If an apple detached itself
from a tree and went upwards instead of downwards, it might be seen as a
miracle, but the fact that it falls to the ground is the real miracle, the fact
that the earth and moon and stars and galaxies are bound together in an eternal
dance by a force called gravity which is turning out to be stranger than anyone
could have imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Human beings will always explore,
research and endeavour to explain the unexplainable then harness some of those
explanations to practical uses. If my grandchildren or greatgrandchildren (not
that I have any yet, I hasten to add) could travel back from fifty or a hundred
years in the future, the tricks they could show me would seem mind-bogglingly miraculous
to me. Teleporting? Taking a three-hour Ryanair flight to Mars using a wormhole
while one’s luggage lands up on Venus? Who knows? Yet mysteries will always
remain, even for them. No discovery will ever provide the final answer, only
lead on to new questions. Every child of every generation has looked up at the
stars and wondered what ultimately happens ‘out there’. How can the universe
just go on and on forever – billions upon billions of light years of it? Yet
there cannot be some sort of boundary, some perimeter fence around the universe
or – even if there could – what would lie beyond <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>? No one – child or professor of astrophysics armed with a
Higgs Boson – can get their head around it (however much they claim they can),
yet it now seems to me, at the ripe old age of 65, that it’s fitting that we
can’t. It is a mystery and that is how it should remain because mysteries are
good. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">So what about the destination of
the dear old lady disappearing behind the tastefully closing curtains in the
crematorium? On the drive home from the funeral, my wife said, ‘I do hope I
don’t go to Heaven because I can’t face spending all eternity being criticised by
your mother.’ I suggested that things probably didn’t work like that but I wasn’t
speaking with any authority. The truth is I have no idea what happens when we
die and, to me, anyone who claims to know – and to force that knowledge on
others – is not only crassly stupid but guilty of the most dangerous and despicable
form of religious dogmatism. Then again, if this earth, and this life, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> miraculous, maybe we are not simply extinguished. Maybe something else – something quite unexpected and even rather
amazing happens – like my unlocking my Volvo from thirty yards away.
Who knows? We just have to have faith in miracles – which should not be
difficult since they’re all around us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">
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<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"></span></div>
<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-89593502794207283402015-11-01T03:11:00.001-08:002015-11-01T03:11:14.032-08:00<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">COLD</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> Cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the sense of never knowing</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">how another sees; though each human eye</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">can fold about the stars, project</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a kind of homespun order on the void,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and though our features flow</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">in other veins, still</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">remains the chill sense </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">that, even skin to skin, a space divides us wider</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">than the sky; is this shade of blue</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">your shade of green, my world </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">your world? Each child alone in darkness,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">father, daughter, son</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">conjoined by love while every sight and scent</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">is formed by memories of what alone is ours,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">frightening </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<h4>
<span style="color: black;"></span> </h4>
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-42580796782253724022015-10-25T00:12:00.002-07:002016-08-07T02:58:51.093-07:00<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EgmrVG26t6k/V6cGMsNctPI/AAAAAAAAAiY/zP2ZSTXDeDwvKkT8Zr5nlDAldyIEaomsACLcB/s1600/Swallowtail%2BButterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EgmrVG26t6k/V6cGMsNctPI/AAAAAAAAAiY/zP2ZSTXDeDwvKkT8Zr5nlDAldyIEaomsACLcB/s640/Swallowtail%2BButterfly.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">IF WE MOVE TOWARDS ETERNITY</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">If we move towards eternity</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">eternity is not</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">here, in blazing finches' wings</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">in thistledown</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">If we move towards eternity</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">eternity is not within</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">each stone, each drifting seed</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">nor turn of tide and time, the seasons</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">turning ever on themselves</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">If we move towards eternity</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">eternity does not endow</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the planet's poise, the slow majestic round</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of sun and moon</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">If we move towards eternity</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">eternity is not within</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">each moment we are here, </span><span style="color: black;">now </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">alone and not alone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-16380129484645567582015-10-01T12:18:00.001-07:002015-10-01T12:18:48.839-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XkNqNeREQmw/Vg2EM3cM3tI/AAAAAAAAAWk/xtUOKBj0UQM/s1600/DSC04005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XkNqNeREQmw/Vg2EM3cM3tI/AAAAAAAAAWk/xtUOKBj0UQM/s400/DSC04005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="color: black;">Near the Windmill, Winchelsea</span></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong> </div>
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<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">Bone hard the earth this autumn</span></div>
<span style="color: black;">rattle</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of the wind through blown</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">thistles</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">balm</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">for burning grass </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">but not the long-awaited cold</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">rain</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">clatter</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of the wings</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of dragonflies</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<br />
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-4991291507466551452015-09-27T01:11:00.001-07:002015-09-27T01:11:32.425-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TXyVsCqjcsU/Vged7FYqr3I/AAAAAAAAAWU/UmYLa144SZ0/s1600/Snargate%2BChurch%2B2%2B3%2B15%2B073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TXyVsCqjcsU/Vged7FYqr3I/AAAAAAAAAWU/UmYLa144SZ0/s640/Snargate%2BChurch%2B2%2B3%2B15%2B073.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">IN OLD ROMNEY CHURCH</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">The clock beats, leafy shadows wave</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">upon a sunlit wall; can all of human history be held</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">within one moment of a summer's afternoon?</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">The clock's beat</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">which bore our planet out of emptiness</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">will bear it back again - the clouds, the trees,</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">the birds chattering beyond the window-pane;</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">yet, growing older, time</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">is crossed and recrossed constantly with hints</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">of something else, imbued by every scent and texture</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">of this ancient place; experience</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">and dreams, and memories</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">and new experience attained through art</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">are more real to me now</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">than time and space</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;">and shadows of reality we move among</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-25478273647608206002015-07-05T02:42:00.002-07:002015-07-05T03:45:02.192-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QWU2EIVF7Ic/VZjzMFab5VI/AAAAAAAAAVg/jmoAQ2Oa_8Q/s1600/DSC03775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QWU2EIVF7Ic/VZjzMFab5VI/AAAAAAAAAVg/jmoAQ2Oa_8Q/s640/DSC03775.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: black;">Memories of the Marlborough Downs</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="color: black;">Sometimes in memory I see</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">those boundless skylines, hilltop woods and distant knots of trees</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">whose echoes linger on the sky,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a rutted road</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">receding over folding hills</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">beneath a baking sun.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And as the memory expands and breathes I see</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">an afternoon progressing through the hours of heat,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a golden haze upon the stippled corn, a silence counterpointed only</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">by the song of skylarks and the drone of bees</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and all the creatures which abound</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">among the stalks.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yet, reaching back, the memory grows weak</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">as I attempt to see the evening and the setting sun</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">bestow a ray of gold on every bush, on every leaf,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the haze dispersing - colours, textures, shapes of sun and shadow growing sharper,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">more distinct. The dots of trees along the farthest ridge,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the flawless downs, the hilltop camps arranged in cosmic silence seem to gain</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a power greater even than before and, for an instant, all of time</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">is held within a point of timelessness. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yet memory alone cannot retain</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">what moved, so long ago, through head and heart and feet, I just recall,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">as clouds process across the western sky,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a breath of hope. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;">Washmore Hill, June</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="color: black;">The wind moves</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">unhindered on these open, empty hills,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">its ripples, tides and currents</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">echoed in the convolutions of the turning corn,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">now deepest green is swept with silver grey</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and warmer green with russet, russet gold</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and gold with cream. The downs are swirling,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">seething like the sea, awaiting harvest when the earth</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">is still</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oivmgDW2r8g/VZj5SlbZrhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/Xj07B18R6tI/s1600/Sketches%2Bof%2BClouds%2Bover%2BFarmland%2BTwo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oivmgDW2r8g/VZj5SlbZrhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/Xj07B18R6tI/s640/Sketches%2Bof%2BClouds%2Bover%2BFarmland%2BTwo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-614044243249825769.post-64309898950478806982015-06-21T01:13:00.002-07:002015-06-22T16:38:08.063-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><strong>The Curse of “Genre”</strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">A scourge of the twenty-first century is
the need for everything to be pigeon-holed. Political campaigners divide us up according to how we are likely to vote, advertisers break us down
into socio-economic target groups the better to sell us their products, our three-year
old children are tested to see whether they are more suited to careers in the
arts or the sciences. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: black;">Nowhere is this more rife than in book
publishing. Every author who has ever filled out a submission form to a
publisher or agent will have encountered the question ‘Genre?’ Is your book a
thriller? Is it a romance? Is it chick-lit? Is it historical? Is it sci-fi? Is
it erotica? Or does it, by virtue of a reference to God, post-modernism or
Jean-Paul Sartre, qualify for that all-embracing and meaningless label ‘literary’. Again, it’s
all to do with pigeon-holing, or ‘product placement’ as it’s known in the trade.
The publishing industry is about flogging books – nothing more. That’s how
publishers and agents pay their mortgages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever breathless claims they make on their
websites about being on the lookout for something ‘fresh and original’, the
truth is that ‘fresh and original’ is the last thing they want unless it’s
freshness and originality that can be fitted neatly into an established and marketable genre.
Genuine freshness and originality – something which breaks a few boundaries and
takes us out of our comfort zone – is a market uncertainty and to be avoided at
all costs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: black;">This trend is understandable in
a world where marketing of every kind has become so aggressive and competitive but it is nonetheless destructive and frustrating
for authors. Genuinely talented writers want to write about real life in all its
breadth and glory but real life is too big, too vital, too organic and too
unpredictable to be squeezed into the straightjacket of a ‘genre’. So many
authors must stare at that question in the submissions form and wonder what the
hell to put.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, there’s a romance but
it’s not really a romantic novel; there are some intense and beautifully
handled love-scenes but anyone expecting ‘erotica’ (i.e. graphic and perverted pornography
which the term has sadly come to denote) is going to be disappointed. There are
some tantalizingly unanswered questions to entice the reader on but it’s not
really a ‘thriller’ in the conventional sense or even a ‘mystery’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there are some deliciously funny scenes
but to call it a ‘comedy’ would be to give the wrong impression entirely. So in
the end they just shrug hopelessly and put ‘literary’, knowing they are
probably signing their novel’s death warrant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: black;">I believe this trend, in a more subtle way,
is equally destructive to readers. Possibly without realising it, they have had
their expectations conditioned and channelled by the hype. They’ve been told a
novel is a rom-com so they expect to laugh their socks off and maybe have a
little weep. They’ve been told it’s a thriller so they expect to be thrilled,
and so on. That twenty-something settling down on her sun lounger to her lovely chunk
of chick lit is going to be annoyed to encounter the mysterious disappearance
of one of the characters or the hint of some nefarious plot at the heart
of government. Yet, if her expectations had not been quite so narrowly
channelled, she might have been receptive to these developments
and been intrigued.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: black;">I’m not suggesting for a moment that a
novel shouldn’t have an aesthetic unity – an integral structure and ‘skin.’ There
is nothing more annoying than a novel that starts as one thing then turns into
another. But that is more to do with the craft of writing. Some authors can
blend and weave romance, eroticism, humour and suspense to create a satisfying
whole, while others succeed only in producing a jangling, dissatisfying jumble
which isn’t anything of anything. Besides, readers soon come to know which
authors they can trust to satisfy and sometimes challenge them, so genre
becomes of secondary importance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The absurdity of the situation is
highlighted by considering the great authors of the past. How on earth would
you fit them into ‘genres’? Would Jane Austen’s novels have been 'chick-lit' and
Joseph Conrad’s 'thrillers'? Would F. Scott Fitzgerald have been ‘lit-lite’
because his characters were all rather pretty, wore fashionable clothes and
knew how to pop a champagne cork? How would you label ‘The Old Man and the
Sea’? A tense psychological thriller about fishing? And what about Dickens or
George Eliot or the Brontes or John Steinbeck or Hardy or Tolstoy? Of course, it
can be argued that The Big Man Himself had to arrange his plays into genres so
that his audiences and royal patrons knew what they were in for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet the categories of ‘comedy’, ‘tragedy’, ‘history
play’ etc. are largely labels which have been added later by academics and people
writing exam syllabi for in reality every one of Shakespeare’s plays spills over
its category like leavened dough over the sides of a baking tin. Think of
the moments of comic absurdity in ‘King Lear’ for example – the ultimate
tragedy – or the dark and poignant undertones in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ –
the ultimate romantic comedy.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">This problem is neatly
avoided, of course, by lumping everything written before about 1920 under the massive and
meaningless heading of ‘Classic’ – just as they are labelled in the bowels of
Waterstones – their black spines offered by the thousand to the lone grizzled, bespectacled
buyer like me or the schoolgirl searching for her ‘set text’ – as far as
possible from the latest biography of David Beckham or the most recent rearrangement
of preposterous sex scenes by the prodigious Mrs James proudly propped in the
entrance to lure passers-by. Perhaps that’s a thought to offer a shred of hope
to unpublished authors in their plight: if they can somehow make it through the cultural desert of the 21st century, they might reach a point where they can put in the 'Genre' field of the publishers' submission form: 'Classic'. Though they'll probably need to have been dead for a hundred years. </span></div>
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PETER DAVEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01851063836093009488noreply@blogger.com8