Sunday, April 28, 2013

Beaches, Bars, Books and Birds

It's been a beautiful morning and even my son's declaration that he loves Coldplay hasn't dented my good mood. We have just returned from the beach, which was eerily deserted:

What's the matter with people? After one of the longest, most soul-destroying winters in living memory, I would have expected everyone within a 10-mile radius to flock to the beach on a day like this. 

Perhaps, unlike me, they knew that the tide was coming in.

The empty calm of Birling Gap made a marked contrast to the place I was at 12 hours earlier:

This looks like a set from the 1960s German sci-fi television series Raumpatrouille Orion, but is actually a chichi cocktail bar in Brighton where 'happening' people go. 

Because most of my happening has already happened, I felt a little incongruous. However, as I'd gone for the Russian oligarch look that evening, I blended in quite well with the other middle-aged men, most of whom had kindly taken their nieces out for a drink.

My wife and I had arranged to meet a couple for dinner . We barely knew the woman and had never met the husband, so it felt a little like a blind date. Fortunately, they turned out to be lovely people and although the conversation was dominated by comparing notes about our sons' conditions, we found many other things to talk about.

The husband is a screenwriter and complained about the number of manuscripts he received from would-be writers: "If I tell them to bugger off because I'm too busy, they're fine. But if I actually read the thing and criticise it, they can't stand it!" 

It rang horribly true. 

I thought of the many self-published novels that I'd been given over the years. On one occasion, a man handed me three, as if I had nothing better to do in my spare time. 

I slammed my beer down on the table: "If I become a millionaire, I'm going to establish a bursary and pay people to not write books." 

That was the drink talking. In the cold light of day, the self-publishing scene is far more complex now that we have e-books. Several publishing sensations began as rejected manuscripts that went on to become Kindle bestsellers. Others, like Hugh Howey's Wool series, were released straight into Kindle format, without any attempt to submit the manuscript to a publisher. Wool is now a bestselling book, with a 20th Century Fox adaptation in the pipeline.

Of course, these books are the exceptions to the rule and as a reader, I'd still rather have my choice of new novels curated by publishers, booksellers and literary agents. When I look at Amazon's Kindle books pages, I feel overwhelmed and frustrated by the number of self-published titles. How do I know if they're any good? Can I trust the reviews? 

On the other hand, if I ever find that there is a book inside me but nobody wants to publish it, it's comforting to know that it's possible to send it out into the world without destroying any trees or wasting a four-figure sum of money.

In the meantime, I'm trying to make a living by selling books. Sometimes it feels as events are conspiring to drive me out of business and during the last few months, I've had to contend with a leaking roof, an alcoholic Polish forklift truck driver, an infestation of rodents, the bankruptcy of my postal company and a rates bill that is far higher than expected. As if that isn't enough, I've now discovered that a robin has made a home in the bookshelves:

I wouldn't recommend ordering the book on the right.

I suppose if the eggs hatch, there'll be more robins, more nests and more droppings on the computers. I didn't envisage any of this.

Monday, April 22, 2013

A Gath Fach Cymraeg, or Back to the Valleys

In spite of a private education and a good degree, my wife is lamentably ignorant about anything to do with geography. It's not that she lacks the aptitude; she simply has no interest in where places are in relation to each other and finds my love of maps and atlases completely baffling.

Two weeks ago my wife announced that she'd agreed to buy a kitten from someone and asked when I would be free to drive her and our sons to collect it. I gave her a date and asked for the address, imagining somewhere within a 30-mile radius of Lewes. My wife checked her emails: "She says she lives near Oswestry. Is that far?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, it's not terribly near."

On a list of things I thought I'd never do, owning a cat is in the top ten, along with line dancing, bungee jumping and joining the Territorial Army. However, I have just driven 525 miles in 24 hours to transport a kitten from a beautiful rural farmhouse in Wales to our glorified broom cupboard in Lewes.

Was it worth it? I'm not a cat person, but this little chap has completely won me over:

He doesn't have a name yet. I wanted to give him an inappropriate human name, like David, but I have been overruled.

The journey was mind-numbingly tedious: a sequence of Ms and As with various numbers attached, interspersed with service stations that appeared to be patronised solely by people who had recently been released from prison. Where were the middle classes? There's a gap in the market - I'm sure a service station that incorporated a contemporary art gallery and a sushi restaurant would be a huge success. I'd go there.

At every stop I couldn't wait to get back in the car and although the M40 wasn't the most exciting stretch of road I've driven along, the boredom was relieved by a wonderfully funny edition of Desert Island Discs with Miriam Margolyes (which you can find here). It was almost as funny as her unlikely encounter with

The outskirts of Birmingham were particularly depressing - the highlight was the largest electricity substation I've ever seen. But things began to improve once we reached Shropshire and the distant hills made me think of A. E. Housman's 1896 cycle of poems and their disarmingly prophetic sentiments:

East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.

On a map, the English countryside appears to seamlessly segue into the Welsh landscape and the border seems quite arbitary, but in reality the change is far more dramatic. Gently rolling hills become steep valleys, while pastel hues change to darks greens, slate greys and burnt umber. This is where the Saxon invaders abruptly stopped, unwilling to farm on the increasingly sharp gradients beyond the Welsh Marches.

We had decided to break up the journey by staying overnight in Llangollen - a place I knew absolutely nothing about, except for its association with a famous Victorian lesbian couple. I was delighted to discover a small market town with an 13th century bridge that spanned the roaring torrents of the River Dee.

It was good to be back in Wales after so many years and I enjoyed seeing the once familiar words that I had struggled to master when I was at university there: llfrygell (library), swyddfa (office) and cigydd (butcher).

I had chosen to study Welsh in my first year, as it seemed liked the right thing to do. Sadly, I was  spectacularly bad at it and became a figure of notoriety amongst the lecturers in the Welsh department (apparently they used to talk about me long after I had left). However, I can at least pronounce the words and still remember that a w is an oo, an f is a v, a u is an ee and a ll is a hl, not a cl.

My sons seemed quite bemused to learn that they were no longer in England and started asking when we were going home. Later, after a long silence, my seven-year-old suddenly said: "They're so proud of their country. Welsh butter, Welsh cheese, Welsh lamb. They'll be saying it's Welsh air next!"

Where did this world-weary cynicism come from? "Don't you find it exciting being somewhere new?" I asked. Both boys shook their heads.

I was a little depressed by my sons' lamentable lack of interest in Llangollen and decided to go for a proper walk in the evening, unhindered by whining voices and dragging feet.

I began by exploring the back streets of the town. I had forgotten how many pubs and churches there were in Welsh towns, with a wide choice of venues for both sin and redemption. The capels were as granite grey and bleak as an RS Thomas poem.

Over the bridge, a heritage steam railway offered a 30-minute ride through the Dee Valley. If I'd been here longer, I would have happily made the journey: "Single to somewhere unpronounceable please."

Beyond the station, in the far distance, a solitary house overlooked the town:

The lone house reminded me of the sense of isolation I often felt as an English student in Welsh-speaking Wales, where there often wasn't much of a welcome in the hillsides. Some of the local people were friendly, but most regarded us with an attitude that ranged from begrudging tolerance to outright hostility. I can't say I blamed them.

I crossed the road and began to climb a hill, leaving the town behind me. On the way, I crossed the Llangollen Canal, which is at least 50 feet above the unnavigable river below:

Further up, the towns ends with some fairly hideous 1980s council offices, which look as if they have been constructed out of Lego. These incongruous buildings make it is easy to be distracted and miss the small sign that points the way to the ruined Castell Dinas Bran:

The castle is thought to have been built by Gruffydd II ap Madog in the 1260s and has been a ruin for almost as long as it has existed. Sadly it was too late for me to walk to the remain of Dinas Bran (it was much further than this zoomed-in photo suggests), but the picture below makes me want to come back:

I managed to get about a third of the way there and was rewarded with these views:

In the distance I could hear the sound of a church bell, the whistle of a steam engine, the distant roar of the river and the bleating of lambs. It seemed almost impossible idyllic, but then I saw this:

It made a stark contrast to the window display in the taxidermy shop at the bottom of the hill, where two women ahead of me were struggling to walk in tight leather mini skirts and high heels. One had a long mane of peroxided blonde hair, the other's was jet black. They appeared to be in their early 30s, but as I caught up with them, the women aged a year with each yard until they reached their mid-50s.

I'd forgotten the buzz of a Saturday night in a small town.

Further along the road, their granddaughters were huddled around the till-point of the local Spar, squeezed into revealing dresses that looked at least two sizes too small. All of the girls were made-up very heavily, with the longest false eyelashes I had ever seen. Perhaps they were trying to get picked-up via Google Earth. The local boys certainly seemed nonplussed.

After a less than perfect night's sleep in a local hostel, we made a terrifying 10-mile journey to the kitten's owners, driving along tiny lanes with sheer drops to the side that plunged hundreds of feet. By the time we reached here, it felt as if we were on a motorway:

Our kitten was one of 20 cats that inhabited a remote farmhouse. The owners, who had moved there from Kent eight years ago, were lovely people who had seen the area they grew up in ruined by over-development and wanted to find a home where they could enjoy dark skies and be free from the distant roar of traffic. I asked them how they had integrated into the community. They replied that it was remarkbly easy, as 80% of their neighbours were also incomers.

The issue of migration is problematic. Once, we used to grow up in an area and call it home. Aunties, uncles, cousins and grandparents usually lived within walking distance, but after the 1950s, we all became more mobile, both geographically and socially. Fewer people rented and property prices became more polarised.

My hometown of Teddington used to be an unremarkable, lower middle/upper working class suburb, but in the 1980s it suddenly became very desirable and houses like my parents' Victorian semi shot from £3,800 in 1963 to £550,000 in 2003.

My wife and I couldn't afford to buy a house in the local area, so we sold our Twickenham flat and traded it in for a small (but perfectly formed) 1890s terraced property in Lewes. I'm very glad that we did, but I'm now also conscious that by doing this, we helped to increase the house prices in Lewes, making it harder for local people to get on the property ladder.

I don't feel comfortable about that, but I'm not sure what the answer is. All I can say is that I've made a long-term committment to the area and don't regard my home as an investment.

But I digress. To return to the main theme of this long, rambling post, we collected the kitten and began the long drive back to Lewes. It 'yowled' in protest all the way, but some times more than others. It became calmer when I played Beethoven, but when a guest on Desert Island Discs chose a Bob Dylan song, the yowling suddenly increased.

I can only conclude that this cat obviously has an impeccable taste in music.

We arrived home in the evening. Our nameless kitten shot out of his basket and hid in the shoe rack for two hours, but by nine o'clock he was shamelessly climbing over me, rubbing his face against mine and proffering his bottom.

We had bonded.

I'd always thought of myself as someone who loved dogs and hated cats, but it looks as if I've been wrong all these years.

Better late than never.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Instant Sunshine

I posted a link to the following video on Twitter and was met with a deafening silence, so I'm trying again here. It's slightly too long and in the UK (on the full YouTube site), there's an advert featuring a man whose face is becoming increasingly new punchable with each new showing, but it's still worth watching.

I think I might have this song at my funeral:

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

Mrs Whippy

As you can see, I haven't been on a Photoshop course. I had hoped to find a more amusing image, but they're nearly all in landscape format, which doesn't lend itself to the Ladybird treatment. Also, my software is 12-years-old (a bad workman always blames his tools).

I wonder what a Ladybird book of Margaret Thatcher would say? I'm sure that it would be a voice of reason, avoiding the hysterical rhetoric of her admirers and enemies. Perhaps something along the lines of Polly Toynbee's succinct summing-up of the Thatcher era:

"She undoubtedly rescued the prestige of the country from its postwar nadir, but at a high cost to the generosity of its political and social culture."

One other piece of common sense about Margaret Thatcher can be found here. Sadly, most of the  responses to yesterday's news are drivel, from Geri Halliwell's tweet about 'Girl power' to the US news item that claimed that Mrs Thatcher had rescued her people from "30 years of socialism."

I have very clear memories of the first and third terms of the Thatcher government, but during the second I lived in rural Wales, which was stuck in the year 1978. When I returned to London, I felt as if I had travelled 20 years into the future. What had happened while I'd been away? Why was it no longer possible to buy a white coffee without going through a list of 20 options?

Rather than add to the many words that have been written during the last 36 hours, here are some random images that I associate with the Thatcher era:



But amongst the various tributes to Mrs Thatcher's achievements, for good or ill, few have acknowledged the important role that she played in developing Mr Whippy ice cream during her days as an industrial chemist. I hope that the next time you enjoy a soft ice cream - possibly a 99 if you're feeling a little dangerous - think of Mrs Thatcher in her white coat, striving to find a technique of adding air and reducing the milk content. It's almost a metaphor for her later career, but not quite.

NB - I have been informed that Mrs Thatcher worked for Mr Softee, not Mr Whippy. My apologies to all fans of Lyons Maid for this error.