London
William Blake
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Spawn
With the very cold winter, we had been harbouring doubts about whether the little froggies in the garden had survived, given that their pond was frozen over for some time.
Yesterday, however, I spotted some movement in the pond and a huge mass of glistening gray frogspawn. So they've not only survived, but (...insert vaguely bad taste or lascivious comment here).
Yesterday, however, I spotted some movement in the pond and a huge mass of glistening gray frogspawn. So they've not only survived, but (...insert vaguely bad taste or lascivious comment here).
Saturday, 26 February 2011
A Wish for the Oscars
Yes OK King's Speech blah blah, Colin Firth blah blah. Fine, but the Academy Award I'd really like the UK to win is that for Best Short Film (Live Action), where the enjoyable Wish 143 is in contention.
A Touch of Peter
Plonked in front of Mastermind last night. John Humphries announced the specialist subjects somewhat elliptically at the start - including some 'Novels with a Northern Charm". Anyway, I immediately thought we were going to get searing socialist realism and family melodrama. The poverty-stricken 1930s East Ridings perhaps.
But no.
Instead, the subject turned out to be "The Brandon Family Novels of Peter Tinniswood" and I - in some amazement - immediately started smiling.
And as the questions flew, about Uncle Mort, ointment, Glossop, mint imperials, allotments, cheese and pickled onions, Birkenhead, Count Jugular, manking about, and so forth, my grin grew wider and wider. And everyone else on the telly was smiling too - including John Humphries and the contestant (one Diane Hallagan, assistant accountant)
I first read the novels after watching the TV series (I Didn't Know You Cared) in the 1970s, with Robin Bailey marvellous as Uncle Mort. The books - A Touch of Daniel, Mog, Except You're a Bird, and I Didn't Know You Cared are the ones I remember most - were wonderful, weird, rich and humorous. Listening to a scattered array of questions on Mastermind brought them all back to me, with immense pleasure and no little joy.
So thank you Diane Hallagan, assistant accountant, for choosing that topic and causing so much enjoyment.
And now I'm going to have to have a ferret around to see if I can find any of them to re-read.
But no.
Instead, the subject turned out to be "The Brandon Family Novels of Peter Tinniswood" and I - in some amazement - immediately started smiling.
And as the questions flew, about Uncle Mort, ointment, Glossop, mint imperials, allotments, cheese and pickled onions, Birkenhead, Count Jugular, manking about, and so forth, my grin grew wider and wider. And everyone else on the telly was smiling too - including John Humphries and the contestant (one Diane Hallagan, assistant accountant)
I first read the novels after watching the TV series (I Didn't Know You Cared) in the 1970s, with Robin Bailey marvellous as Uncle Mort. The books - A Touch of Daniel, Mog, Except You're a Bird, and I Didn't Know You Cared are the ones I remember most - were wonderful, weird, rich and humorous. Listening to a scattered array of questions on Mastermind brought them all back to me, with immense pleasure and no little joy.
So thank you Diane Hallagan, assistant accountant, for choosing that topic and causing so much enjoyment.
And now I'm going to have to have a ferret around to see if I can find any of them to re-read.
Tree Trail Again
On thinking again, it could of course be argued that we approached the Tree Trail in Peckham Rye Park in the wrong way.
We used a guide from the Park Rangers, which described and named the interesting trees in the park. We read what it said and then we tried to spot them. Which is all very well, but it meant we didn't look at the trees that were apparently less interesting (not important)? And having spotted them, we moved on - so sometimes we didn't look at them very hard at all, I guess. We didn't go off piste and look at trees away from the Trail, or not very much (and not always on purpose!). We stayed in the Park, and ignored interesting items outside it - like the Black Willow on the Rye, for example.
Neil used to tell us of a trip he used to organise, where (if I've got this right) he'd send groups of students out with instructions to find one or more interesting-looking trees - and find ways of describing them - and give them names. When they came back in with their descriptions, they'd all sit down with some books and see what they'd found, and what the 'official' names were, and how they were described by specialists. He said he thought the kids got to know their trees better that way, and it was more immediate, as it involved feeling the bark, squeezing leaves, looking closely at twigs and vein patterns and catkins... stuff like that.
So maybe I should have remembered Neil's approach, and we should have tackled the Tree Trail like that. On the other hand, we did enjoy it as it was (missing trees and all).
For another time, perhaps.
We used a guide from the Park Rangers, which described and named the interesting trees in the park. We read what it said and then we tried to spot them. Which is all very well, but it meant we didn't look at the trees that were apparently less interesting (not important)? And having spotted them, we moved on - so sometimes we didn't look at them very hard at all, I guess. We didn't go off piste and look at trees away from the Trail, or not very much (and not always on purpose!). We stayed in the Park, and ignored interesting items outside it - like the Black Willow on the Rye, for example.
Neil used to tell us of a trip he used to organise, where (if I've got this right) he'd send groups of students out with instructions to find one or more interesting-looking trees - and find ways of describing them - and give them names. When they came back in with their descriptions, they'd all sit down with some books and see what they'd found, and what the 'official' names were, and how they were described by specialists. He said he thought the kids got to know their trees better that way, and it was more immediate, as it involved feeling the bark, squeezing leaves, looking closely at twigs and vein patterns and catkins... stuff like that.
So maybe I should have remembered Neil's approach, and we should have tackled the Tree Trail like that. On the other hand, we did enjoy it as it was (missing trees and all).
For another time, perhaps.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Poem of the Week
Hunter Trials
John Betjeman
It’s awf’lly bad luck on Diana,
Her ponies have swallowed their bits;
She fished down their throats with a spanner
And frightened them all into fits.
So now she’s attempting to borrow.
Do lend her some bits, Mummy, do;
I’ll lend her my own for to-morrow,
But to-day I’ll be wanting them too.
Just look at Prunella on Guzzle,
The wizardest pony on earth;
Why doesn’t she slacken his muzzle
And tighten the breech in his girth?
I say, Mummy, there’s Mrs. Geyser
And doesn’t she look pretty sick?
I bet it’s because Mona Lisa
Was hit on the hock with a brick.
Miss Blewitt says Monica threw it,
But Monica says it was Joan,
And Joan’s very thick with Miss Blewitt,
So Monica’s sulking alone.
And Margaret failed in her paces,
Her withers got tied in a noose,
So her coronets caught in the traces
And now all her fetlocks are loose.
Oh, it’s me now. I’m terribly nervous.
I wonder if Smudges will shy.
She’s practically certain to swerve as
Her Pelham is over one eye.
* * *
Oh, wasn’t it naughty of Smudges?
Oh, Mummy, I’m sick with disgust.
She threw me in front of the Judges,
And my silly old collarbone’s bust.
John Betjeman
It’s awf’lly bad luck on Diana,
Her ponies have swallowed their bits;
She fished down their throats with a spanner
And frightened them all into fits.
So now she’s attempting to borrow.
Do lend her some bits, Mummy, do;
I’ll lend her my own for to-morrow,
But to-day I’ll be wanting them too.
Just look at Prunella on Guzzle,
The wizardest pony on earth;
Why doesn’t she slacken his muzzle
And tighten the breech in his girth?
I say, Mummy, there’s Mrs. Geyser
And doesn’t she look pretty sick?
I bet it’s because Mona Lisa
Was hit on the hock with a brick.
Miss Blewitt says Monica threw it,
But Monica says it was Joan,
And Joan’s very thick with Miss Blewitt,
So Monica’s sulking alone.
And Margaret failed in her paces,
Her withers got tied in a noose,
So her coronets caught in the traces
And now all her fetlocks are loose.
Oh, it’s me now. I’m terribly nervous.
I wonder if Smudges will shy.
She’s practically certain to swerve as
Her Pelham is over one eye.
* * *
Oh, wasn’t it naughty of Smudges?
Oh, Mummy, I’m sick with disgust.
She threw me in front of the Judges,
And my silly old collarbone’s bust.
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