Wendy Cope

I went into Waterstone's at lunch today. Readers of my blog, be not alarmed. I did not break resolution one, I promise. Instead, I spent a few minutes dreaming away in the travel guidebook section, before heading over to poetry. There, I chanced upon a book of poems by Wendy Cope. And was soon chuckling away to myself. Now I know where to go for a lunch-break pick-me-up.

Here are two pithy poems by Cope that got my attention in the shop:

Loss

The day he moved out was terrible – 

That evening she went through hell.

His absence wasn’t a problem

But the corkscrew had gone as well.

Haiku

A perfect white wine


is sharp, sweet and cold as this:


birdsong in winter.

And another couple I found later, digging around on the internet. The simplicity of the analogy in 'Bloody Men' gives it its power, while the simple pleasure described in 'The Orange' made me smile in agreement, its final line an everyday thanksgiving: I love you. I'm glad I exist.

Bloody Men

Bloody men are like bloody buses —

You wait for about a year

And as soon as one approaches your stop

Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,

Offering you a ride.

You’re trying to read the destinations,

You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.

Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze

While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by

And the minutes, the hours, the days.

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—


The size of it made us all laugh.


I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—


They got quarters and I got a half.



And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do


Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.


This is peace and contentment. It's new.



The rest of the day was quite easy.


I did all the jobs on my list


And enjoyed them and had some time over.


I love you. I'm glad I exist.

Paddington Station

There’s a certain slant to the light in Paddington Station. As the sun comes through the glass* roof, between the arches, it softly diffuses. It creates a haziness, a sense of mystery that seems in tune with the excitement of travel, of the anticipation of a journey. It’s my favourite of London’s stations. Growing up in West London, arriving at this station signaled home. Now, as I live in Bristol, it’s the capital city’s front door. 

There's one feature of this cathedral-like Victorian station, in particular, that I love. The delicate ironwork tracery over the end window. Look up – you can’t miss it. I’ve always wondered if the ambitious and visionary engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel was himself responsible for it – he was, after all, creating a ‘Station after my own fancy’. Based on the Crystal Palace of the Great Exhibition of 1851, his iron and glass construction was both the largest station of its era and part of a grander plan. Brunel envisaged it as the starting point of a seamless journey ending in New York: London, Neyland (South Wales), New York. Means of travel: train and Brunel’s boat, the Great Western.

But, as I discovered thanks to Professor Google**, apparently decorative design was where Brunel’s expertise and imagination ran out: ‘for detail of ornamentation I neither have time nor knowledge.’ So the engineer enlisted the services of Matthew Digby Wyatt, a British art historian and architect, who later became surveyor of the East India company and the first Slade professor of art at Cambridge University. His legacy includes the India Room at the Foreign and Commenwealth Office and parts of Temple Meads station. Wyatt’s striking Paddington design has gently curling fleur-de-lys-like scrolls  and interlacing arches, perhaps echoing the Moorish influences he used elsewhere in the station. Made of metal, it looks strong, part of the railway and modernity; on the other hand there's a softness and movement in the curves. That's what just my layman's eye has observed, anyhow. If anyone with more expertise has any observations to make about why this is so striking, I'd love to hear them.

*It’s actually now, so the web tells me, polycarbonate glazing. Accurate but not exactly evocative.

**Some kind of official Network Rail report I stumbled across also rather poetically described the darker platforms at Paddington as having ‘the essence of Birmingham New Street’.

Air and water

Here's a snap taken on New Year’s Day: blue sky, a little white. It makes me think of clarity, serenity and freedom.

It is also, suggested a friend, like the tiles at the Clifton Lido, a restored Victorian outdoor swimming pool in Bristol, tucked away from the hubbub of main-road traffic on a cobbled street. I’ll be writing more about this special place in another post. 

At the time, I wasn't entirely sure I agreed about the tiles, until I bought a pair of goggles last week. Now – call me fanciful – every time I swim I see sky below me: it's a darker, richer colour than the New Year's blue of the photo, mottled with grey, but similarly uplifting.

Living Italian

A photographic clue to what I might be doing in the month of May...

Some resolutions

New Year's Resolution time. Last year I only had one: get better at Scrabble. I'd say I'm a 'words' person, but I've always been abysmal at this game. After a particularly pitiful showing last Christmas when my brother beat me by about a million points to ten, I decided it was time to take action. Cue a year of playing Words with Friends on my mobile phone, and a few moments spent learning some of those two-letter words that the pros have handy ('Qi' anyone?). Did it work? Well, this year I came second. That'll do for me.

My resolutions list for 2013 is still at the compilation stage. It seems like a good idea to keep them concrete – I'd say that getting better at Scrabble was the only resolution I've ever kept; I've never managed vague ones like 'be more efficient/more positive/healthier'. And although meet my Mr Darcy/Ryan Gosling* is on the wish list for 2013 (I mention this just in case they're reading), is that something I can 'resolve' to do?

So, here's the first draft. In 2013 I will:

1. (a) Stop being a compulsive book buyer. I'm not going to buy any new books until I've read all of the unread books in my house (Oh, the piles of unread books! I've started hiding them under my bed: it's getting desperate.)

(b) Stop being a book flirt. As in, reading lots of books at the same time but never getting to the end of any of them. I never used to be like that. In 2013, all books will be read from beginning to end. (Although if it's dreadful, I'll allow myself a veto. But if it's a good book, well, what's the excuse, eh?)

2. Learn to do front crawl properly. I can do the front crawl stroke, but can only keep going by stopping every two lengths. I'd never escape the Loch Ness Monster swimming like that.)

3. Blog more often. Yes. Say twice a week.

4. Savour the outdoors. I've stolen this one from Simon Barnes in The Times. He suggests taking a moment each week to enjoy something outdoors, or to look at some wildlife. Anything from ladybirds to Loch Ness monsters.

5. Be more adventurous. This probably comes under the category of vague at the moment. The plan is to refine the concept which I want to cover everything from trying raw fish (sashimi) (can it really be tasty? Raw fish?) to something like climb a mountain. TBC.

*Not so much meet 'my' Ryan Gosling as meet Ryan Gosling.

Cheddar Gorge

Saturday. The sun was shining, the sky was clear. Five of us squidged into my little car and we were off, to Cheddar Gorge. We took the scenic route – and only with one minor detour. Plus a pause to admire the breathtaking view from Dundry Hill across Bristol. A road closed sign that all the drivers seemed to be ignoring didn't stop us either, as we meandered down the bottom of the gorge, past smashed-up bits of tarmac suggesting recent rockfalls, until we reached the outskirts of Cheddar itself.

The huge limestone slabs loomed above. There, at the bottom it felt quiet, ancient. And just a smidgen further down the road, it felt a bit like a ski resort. Tacky gift shops, and little tea shops lined the road. A huge Costa coffee sign dominated the scene, its only competition being an illuminated 'Merry Christmas Happy New Year' above it.

Our walking route took us straight up through scrubland, trees and coppiced woodland. Coats came off, scarves unwound as we climbed higher and higher, to the top of the near-400 foot gorge. Unspoilt views across the Somerset Levels were our reward, and a picnic lunch, eaten huddled in a shallow dip away from the chilly wind, which included morsels of Christmas cake and sugary dates. The West Mendip way led us back down, to where the valley bottom had been flooded by recent rains, adding a spice of adventure to the walk. Drystone walls edged the fields above and the rogue river below; it reminded me of the Yorkshire Dales.

Another steep climb took us to the top of the other side of the gorge. Walking along the top, this side's edges are uncovered by trees. But, looking over, you can't see the road at the bottom. It looks deep. Looking out, there's another great view, only marred by the impossibly round manmade Cheddar reservoir. Wild goats roamed, munching the grass.

At the end of the walk are Jacob's Tower - a lookout tower - and Jacob's Ladder, the steps back down into Cheddar. Information boards on the Ladder told us about the Gorge's formation: we have the meltwaters of the Mendip Ice Cap to thank for this natural wonder. Stand at the top of the 274 steps, one board instructed, and imagine a piece of paper being placed there. The paper would represent how long humankind had been alive, the 274 steps the 'immesurable chasm of time'. With such profound thoughts on our mind, we headed to Derrick's Tea Rooms for a cream tea.

A resolution...

Oh dear. Over the past few months I've had so many things that I wanted to write about, and I haven't posted a jot. It's particularly annoying that all of the plays, films, books and concerts have slipped by, as well as some of the places I've seen. So, I'm going to a leaf out my younger diarist's self and use the time between now and Christmas to catch up. According to my blog archive, I've only posted 23 times this year, compared to 53 last year, and 114 times in 2007, the first full year of blogging. That's not the best record, so time to pull my socks up, although I'm not sure I can manage 30 posts by 31st December! Oh, and I'm going to resolve to blog twice a week next year.

A brief memory of Patrick Moore

Mention the name Patrick Moore, and most people probably think of astronomy, or, perhaps, monocles.  I think of both of these, but I also immediately think 'fax machine'. An odd association, I grant you. Let me explain. One of the magazines published by the company I work for is Sky at Night. When I started working  there the star-gazers were situated just round the corner from my desk. Right next to me was the fax machine. It was a rather ancient thing, temperamental and tetchy, prone to giving up halfway through sending, and it never provided any assurance that the fax had ever sent. Sometimes it would ring, as if the caller had expected it to be a phone number. By 2007 most magazine contributors were up to speed with using email to send in their words. Not Moore. He insisted on using the fax machine. Which is how, in my first few months of working there, I had on several occasions the rather surreal and gently amusing experience of hearing Patrick Moore's familiar, diesmbodied voice addressing the office as if he were putting a call out into space to find out if there was life beyond our planet: 'Hello. Hello? Is there anyone there?'

The sky ablaze

The sky was ablaze on Saturday. Luckily I had my camera to my hand and snapped this photo from the train carriage as I hurtled from Bristol to London.

Photo: Rebecca Franks

This is Life

Every so often you need to read a cheer-me up kind of book. It’s generally to help escape those moments when life isn’t quite doing what you hoped it might, and all you feel like doing is curling up under a duvet. These kind of books are hard to find though, at least it seems that way to me. I don’t just want the instant sugar-rush of chick-lit happy-ever-after inevitability, but neither do I want profound complexity that’s going to leave my mind feeling more stretched than after listening to In Our Time or the Moral Maze. Striking that balance is no mean feat. But the other day, when I was (physically) in the Bristol Foyles and (emotionally) under the duvet, I found the perfect book for this task: This is Life, by Dan Rhodes. No, I’d not heard of him either. But this book had a cheerful picture of Paris on the front, a splendid fold-out street-scene cover, and lots of chirpy quotes, including one from Hilary Mantel: ‘Dan Rhodes is a true original, with a fresh, funny, quirky style’. Given that I’d just put Wolf Hall aside on the grounds it might be moving away from cheer-me up territory, Mantel's quote was the clincher. Sold.

Well, it was money well spent. This is Life is a charming, superbly constructed novel, in which characters do the strangest things but are wonderfully engaging. Over one week we follow the improbable adventures of art student Aurélie Renard when a stone’s throw, quite literally, leads her life to turn topsy-turvy and she ends up looking after a stranger’s baby. Meanwhile, Paris is about to host the controversial Life, an exhibition in which Le machine, a contemporary artist, lives on stage for three months, collecting all of his bodily excrements in expensive glass jars. The host of colourful personalities we encounter include Aurélie’s stunning best friend Sylvie Dupont, who’s looking for her ideal husband by working in seven different jobs, and leaves hordes of heartbroken hommes in her wake. Professor Papavoine is Aurélie’s day-dreaming professor; Jean-Didier Delacroix is a brilliant but insufferably smug art critic who was trained to be expressionless from childhood; and Monsieur Rousset is the owner of the Le charmant cinema erotique, now past its glory days. And let's not forget the French-Japanese translator Lucien who helps tourists around Paris, and falls in love with a photo of his latest clients' daughter. Add to that countless cameo roles, and you’ll have an idea of the bubbly world Rhodes has created. Funny then, that when I googled him to find out more, it seems that his previous novels have been dark, twisted. In this one there are dark undertones and goings-on, but Rhodes's light touch and deft exploration of what may or may not be the meaning of life, makes it a truly pleasurable read. This is Life made me smile, it made me think. And it had a well-earned happy ending. What more could you want from a cheer-me up book?

Bristol hustings: a 10-minute sketch

Trinity Church, Hotwells. 7pm. Monday 29 October 2012. Time for a mayoral election hustings. Packed church. One woman has even nabbed the beanbag in the children’s play area. A human-sized teddy bear sits next to another couple. It all feels a bit the Thick of It here at the back of the room. 11 of the 15 candidates hoping to be Bristol’s first elected mayor are at the front. Only one woman is standing for mayor. Just one.

First the wannabee mayors are given one minute each to introduce themselves to the voters, and say what they stand for. Unless, of course, they ignore the stopwatch alarm and have two minutes. Political tricks are alive and kicking, it’s clear. Every question is, for the most part, answered by every candidate, which is a time-consuming affair. What will a mayor actually do? Should we worry that they’ve snaffled all our power, or that in fact they’ll just be a ‘fig-leaf’ for power? It makes me wonder, does Bristol really need its own Boris?

There are personalities aplenty here. George Ferguson, independent/Bristol First: red trousers (always worn), persuasive speaker, wants to make Bristol England’s second city; Marvin Rees, Labour: smart-suited, clear-talking Bristol born former BBC reporter and NHS manager; Neil Maggs, Respect: doesn’t need a microphone to be heard; Dave Dobbs, Birthday Party (really): describes himself as: ‘political activist, puppeteer and writer’. Puppets and politics seems like a telling juxtaposition.

Earlier this year, only 24 per cent of Bristolians turned out to vote on whether they wanted a mayor. Only 53.3 per cent of that 24 per cent voted for one. With those kinds of figures, it looks like Bristol's sleep-walking to its first mayor rather than being engaged with the changes going on. On 15 November, I suppose we’ll find out just who really cares. 

Striking stairs

Down the stone steps, past the bus stop to nowhere, before idyllic peace is shattered by traffic – heralded by passing through a gloomy passage in an unprepossessing block of flats – there are two striking staircases that I'd like to know more about. They are both, I believe, fire escapes for the St Peter's House flats. And while the flats themselves are nothing special to look at, I love the clean lines, bold design and chunky proportions of the stairs. Here's a picture taken on my phone, and a link to a rather better, dramatic photo by Derek Rigg.