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Two people, two places – in my home town


From far across the years she sang:
And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost.
She sang those words so beautifully
in harmonies of blue and gold –
an old long-playing record, now for sale –
in Oxfam: Helen with the charcoal eyes –
who’s friends with all the waifs and strays –
she loves them – as if her family.
Together we look out at the first drops of rain;
Together we watch the umbrellas unfurl –
and then the streets dissolve –
The streets of evening mists.

In the cool aesthetic entrance to
the Art college – a dark-eyed girl
is waiting – in black leather army boots –
and a long black overcoat:
A work of art: ‘The girl in the long black coat’ –
an outsider, a creature from the underworld.
I gaze at her … and then:
Is that a glare – a deep-black glare – at me?
I was thinking of painting her portrait –
but dared not ask! So now, I’m wondering:
How many portraits are lost through fear?
Alone, I look outside: the sky is sharp and clear –
A bright blue moon is rising.


These lines were written a few days after watching the film, ‘Wild’ on the television.
The soundtrack to the film certainly helped me with the words.

The old long-playing record is ‘Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme‘ and the poets Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost appear in the beautiful song, ‘The Dangling Conversation‘.


In the gym the music plays


In the gym the music plays
And we all move to the beat.
I sit on a machine
I move to the beat.
There are young and old in the gym
The young made more beautiful still
through the grace of fashion.

I sit on a machine
I move to the beat.
Sometimes I’m lost in flights of fancy –
nostalgic dreams.
Then I see him – a reflection
Shaped in the clear glass –
the clean clear glass in front of me.

He’s built like a barrel –
– the kind of barrel I think they use
for flavouring whisky.
He must be about seventy
maybe less. I think:
He’s taking himself back to the past,
His past.

Oh! There’s something written on his t-shirt …
Backwards, I read it: It’s ‘Lonsdale.’
He’s wearing boxing gloves
I can see him but he cannot see me.
He is a reflection.
And then he moves:
He jabs away at a big black punchbag.

Jab, Jab, Jab …
Though, a strange thing: they are
almost gentle jabs – just enough
to make the punchbag sway.
He sways too – they both sway
and I think of a dance, a waltz, softly, a tango.
And the music plays.

He moves and jabs
He moves and jabs.
The punch bag arcs – slowly – like
the curving tips of tree tops.
And then he backs away –
and leans on the ropes of memory.

He moves again; I catch sight of his profile.
But wait! I’ve seen his face before!
His nose – a sloping crag –
His face – forged from earth, from iron
From the granite gravestones.
I can see him but he cannot see me;
He is a reflection.

He’s a rock of a man –
and I’ve seen him before!
Yes – I’ve seen him walk out of
Great Expectations.
He’s Magwitch, he’s Abel Magwitch –
Out from the marshes, where the wind hits hard –
But he’s with me now, a ghost – but not.

When all his rounds are done
When all is said and done –
Someone passes him and stops.
They greet each other and
the boxer speaks.
How are you?’ ‘Good to see you.’ ‘You OK?’ –
All in the sweetest muffled tones
of wild honey.

Abel Magwitch – the music plays –
And we move to the beat.



A play in London: ‘Heisenberg: the uncertainty principle’


We say: ‘You can feel the chemistry between them.’ And, if we are in the mood for physics rather than chemistry, we may say that ‘they were electric’ or that ‘the atmosphere became highly charged.’ There is, then, an established way of speaking about character or people-in-relationship that uses ideas, imagery and analogies drawn from physico-chemistry.

Primo Levi investigated the matter further; he took it to wondrous and tragic depths in his famous work, ‘The periodic table’; here, he saw the resemblance between the properties of chemical elements and certain characteristics of human beings; he even found parallels between the inert gas, argon, and the psychology of a certain religious group. At the conclusion of his discussion of ‘Potassium’ he illustrates how ‘small differences can lead to radically different consequences’ and function rather like a railway and its switch points – and he tells us how ‘the chemist’s trade consists in good part in being aware of these differences, of knowing them close up, and foreseeing their effects.’ (And not only the chemist’s trade.)

I like Primo Levi’s work and I recognised something similar – the same sort of analogy between physico-chemistry and life – in the play ‘Heisenberg: the uncertainty principle’. The play was beautifully staged, recently, at the Wyndham theatre, just off Leicester Square, in London. It’s an exhilarating play – and the acting was (and is) superb. The quantum physics of Heisenberg becomes a metaphor for the fundamental unpredictability found in the very nature of existence.

My programme told me (through a sub-title) that, more specifically, the principle means that we may as well ‘surrender to the unpredictable’. The play was animated and brought vividly and poignantly to life by the brilliant Anne-Marie Duff (who couldn’t but love Anne-Marie Duff’s Georgie?) and the crusty naturalistic Kenneth Cranham. At a certain point in the play the meaning of the Heisenberg principle, for us, is made explicit by Georgie:

If you watch something closely enough you realise you have no possible way of telling where it’s going or how fast it’s getting there,” she explains. “Did you know that? If you pay attention to where it’s going or how fast it’s moving you stop watching it properly.

In short, you can never quite tell where you ‘are’ in a relationship because it’s on the move – or where it is actually ‘going’ because that is yet to happen.

I suppose that the play – or at least Heisenberg’s principle of uncertainty – might serve as a deep characterisation of our times: We cannot possibly have any clear idea of where the UK is going to ‘be’ in the next few years. (The decision to leave the European Union demonstrates how ‘small differences can lead to radically different consequences.’) And if we try to describe where the UK  ‘is’ now we overlook the fact that it is dynamic, unfolding and ‘on the move.’

Like they say in rock and roll: You gotta roll with it.

P.S. I thought the play staged at the Wyndham theatre was wonderful and I had a far more positive response to it than many of the critics. The play provided the two actors – Anne-Marie Duff and Kenneth Cranham – with the opportunity to express the kind of magical interaction that sometimes brings connection and meaning to our lives – and which, momentarily, combats the intrinsic tragedy and ultimate aloneness of our shared humanity.

Through an autumn window


Summer is over now;
The chill kiss of winter is stayed –
– somewhere to the north, and faraway, in frosted time.
It’s late afternoon – and the sun sets – in autumn.

From my window, and quite nearby,
the silver birch is turned to gold;
The tall tall birch stands in quiet fire –
the birch I planted years ago.

It glitters – and now reminds me, strangely,
of lost treasure chests, all open –
and filled with coins a’sparkle and polished gleaming –
But then a zephyr stirs –
And, one by one, a few leaves fall:
They fall to earth and cast a magic carpet
upon the soft mown grass.

I gaze – and wonder …

And so the leaves lie still – like fallen soldiers –
– just as the poet said.

But, more: a blue smoke from distant bonfires
drifts and ghosts the pale clear sky
in shapes – to mourn the dead and dying.

Just then, a silken mist rises from the fields,
and, against the dying light, a happy band of goldfinches
arrives to dance atop the tall tall birch.

I smile: They’ve saved the last dance – just for me.

Paris, 1962


When I was very young I was taken to France. The idea was to tour the whole country. I sat in the back of a large comfortable English car: a Humber. It had a huge leather seat in the back. That was where I sat and for much of the summer I looked out at France – at something significantly different from the south-of-England sights with which I was familiar.

In what way was France different? Well, in just about every way that my senses could perceive; France, I realised was decidedly unlike England and I especially liked its aesthetics – from steak-and-chips to the beautiful girls. I liked the design of french cars, the pages of ‘Paris Match‘ and the advertisements for Dubonnet that were painted on the walls of houses…

A few days ago I was reminded of my early experience of France when I watched Jean-Luc Godard’s 1962 black and white film ‘Vivre sa Vie’. It’s the kind if film that the lucky ones amongst us became familiar with as the 1960s unfolded. Its focus is upon life, sex, style and culture in Paris. The film was (and is) a pleasure to see – in large part because it surfaces a range of pure ideas: Godard’s film takes the intellect seriously; surface and depth intertwine: it’s an aspect of french culture that may still endure …

The film begins with a quote from the liberal humanist Michel de Montaigne:

Lend yourself to others but give yourself to yourself.

(We pause and think about this.)

It then goes on to profile the life of a young woman (Nana) who is forced to ‘make out’ in the emerging consumerist culture of Paris; Paris provides the stage and backdrop upon which and against which certain episodes of her brief life are portrayed. We see cafes and coffee bars and juke boxes and vinyl records …

We discover that the young woman is familiar with some of the central ideas of existentialism:

I choose. I am responsible. If I do something it is me who has exercised my freedom so to do. I am responsible. If I think something I am responsible.

(We pause and think about this too.)

In one remarkable scene the young woman dances alone – and the style of her dancing symbolises the idea of liberation – or, at least, the pleasure of self-expression.

(We think: When the dances change the walls of the city shake …)

And perhaps the most sustained moments of critical reflection take place when, in the very heart of Paris at the Place du Châtelet the young woman strikes up a conversation with a philosopher. The philosopher turns out to be the actual philosophy teacher of Jean-Luc Godard, himself. He is called Brice Parrain.

The encounter between Nana and the philosopher is riveting. (Do encounters like this happen any more?) Brice Parrain, who plays himself, considers, en passant, some of the deepest features of our humanity. He says:

One learns to talk well only when one has renounced life for a time.”

He considers that the flow of life moves between the ‘everyday’ and ‘detachment.’ We need, he thinks, a detachment from the pressures and problems of ordinary living because:

From everyday life one rises to a life we call superior: the thinking life. But this life presupposes one has killed the everyday” – a life which, for Brice Parrain, is ‘too elementary.’

This was Paris, 1962.

My original idea of Paris and of its role in advancing french culture, was that it valued the insights yielded by philosophy – it valued the ‘play’ of thought – whilst simultaneously cultivating and enhancing an aesthetic sensibility.

Nowadays, in the Paris of 2017, I’m not so sure. Perhaps only the backdrop remains.


A bicycle ride in Farnham park


Above – quite high and overhead – a family of oak leaves is drifting.
They’re drifting on the breeze, on the pale cool bleach of an autumn sky.
The leaves are now quite dry.
The leaves are now quite dead.
And when they come to ground they move: sad and lonely and restless:
They drift like ashen flakes – cast out –
Like those ashen flakes born in the fire storms of Dresden.

I’m cycling through the park.
I’m near the summit of a hill …
Then, too, a gathering of black, tree-top birds –
Jackdaws with their strange pale eyes.
Cut loose, a sudden dashing woodpecker in crimson,
all elegant staccato: peck, stop; and peck, peck again.

After the summit the path descends: I cross a stream –
where the spaniels love to fish.
And then a climb – and then ahead upon the climb –
a man – his tiny dog (I think he loves his dog) –
and his wife. She is lodged in a purple mobility machine.
She cannot get out and walk. She has a lovely face.
(I know he loves his wife.)

Then something extraordinary:
The man, his dog and his wife all try to get out of my way.
She does her best to orient her machine onto the nettled edges.
The man looks at me; his eyes sparkle.
The woman looks up at me with a sweet smile.
There you go,’ he says to me.

I thank them both.
It’s a pleasure,’ he says.
It’s a pleasure – no problem,’ she says.

I think back to the drifting leaves: the quick and the dead –
and then the warmth of that sweet ‘no problem’ smile.

Tea, scones and evensong: a birthday party

IMG_1172 4

Villiers, my friend and colleague, was about to be seventy years old. He sent me an invitation to his forthcoming birthday party; albeit reluctantly, he would celebrate seventy years of a life; and, at the same time, he would celebrate the beginning of his eighth decade.

Villiers had spent most of the last fifty years trying to make a difference. He took seriously both the idea of the state and how best to design the best possible state. He thought it was worth striving to create (or at least maintain) a safe, just and tolerant society. Villiers – as a certain kind of Englishman – had a deep sense of irony and a version of political realism that usually found itself in sympathy with the conservative outlook. His often acerbic humour saved him, though, from ever being an ideologue. He knew what he liked – and it was a mix of literature, politics, art and idiosyncrasy. All along he was cautious about taking the big questions of life too seriously.

Villiers was mostly a writer. Writing made him happy. It gave him pleasure. He could write plays and novels – or essays and books on serious subjects – like human rights. Although he did other things to earn his living he always made sure that he had something to write about …

Those of us invited to his birthday party were informed that we were to expect tea and scones at the family home in Oxford. Evensong, at the local church, was also on the agenda.

It’s now Sunday – the day of the party.

The family home was (and is) peculiarly idyllic. The large house is comfortable, stable, reassuring. The lawn stretches down to the river Cherwell. By the river it’s as if we find ourselves in one of those wonderful paintings by Alfred Sisley. It makes for a mood: reflective – in-and-out of time – civilised.

As the guests assembled Villiers was full of bonhomie. And things went well. Villiers enjoyed the company of his sister, his brother, and a few friends. He enjoyed, too, the company of his mother who is 102 years old. He enjoyed the company of his partner’s grand-daughter who is 2 years old. So there it was: a century of humanity for tea and scones and the singing of ‘happy birthday.’

BUT Villiers was disquieted. Who had he been? What was he to become? And, most specifically, what future was there for his writing? He reminded himself that the novelist Martin Amis had begun to write about times past; a looking back; as Martin Amis had put it he, Amis, did so as ‘not to make a fool of oneself.’ Villers could see this; there was no point in trying to ape the style of the new generations. That would be entirely false. Yes, so what did Villers have to say? What was he to communicate?

When the time came the birthday party moved on to celebrate Evensong in the lovely local church. What is it about Evensong that is so consoling and yet so tinged with sorrow? The church was lit by the soft-light of a hundred candles and, from time time, Villiers experienced a kind of reverie – a moment of enchantment …

On arriving back in the family home, Villiers detached himself from his guests. He went to choose a record: something he might even take away with him if he were to find himself on a desert island. (Sometimes he even thought that it would, after all, be best to live on a desert island. He’d make friends with the migrant birds; he’d welcome a refugee or two; in fact, he’d organise a camp for god-knows how many refugees (and stateless persons) and help them with their metaphysics …)

What record should he choose? Rachmaninov’s piano concerto came to mind. But then he paused. It was his birthday. And, where was he? I mean, where was he in the space and place of his psyche? Where? He was back with that ‘Famous blue raincoat’; he was back with Suzanne and Marianne; he was back with ‘Songs from a room’ – and the beautiful girl on the cover,; he was back with all to play for; he was back on ‘Boogie street’.

It wasn’t any old CD that he chose. It was a sleek black shining LP; it was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Twelve new songs’ – and as he caressed the record from its sleeve he started humming – just to himself. He watched the river glinting in the dying moments of the late late summer.

Leonard Cohen’s ‘Boogie street’ began. Yes, Villiers was back on ‘Boogie street.’ And as he listened to the words he thought of his next piece of writing: it began: ‘Now, as a man grows older …

Footnote: Here are the first verses of the song ‘Boogie Street’ by the late Leonard Cohen:

O Crown of Light, O Darkened One,
I never thought we’d meet.
You kiss my lips, and then it’s done:
I’m back on Boogie Street.

A sip of wine, a cigarette,
And then it’s time to go.
I tidied up the kitchenette;
I tuned the old banjo.
I’m wanted at the traffic-jam.
They’re saving me a seat.
I’m what I am, and what I am,
Is back on Boogie Street.

And O my love, I still recall
The pleasures that we knew;
The rivers and the waterfall,
Wherein I bathed with you.
Bewildered by your beauty there,
I’d kneel to dry your feet.
By such instructions you prepare
A man for Boogie Street.


Art and the Office for Global Improvement


Our coffins are really luxury homes for the spirit. Each comes with a fully modifiable interior – and a lifetime guarantee.’

More than 70 years ago George Orwell wrote his essay ‘Politics and the English language.’ He wrote it because he had become very critical of the way English was being used – especially in relation to Politics. But his criticism was not simply confined to the use of English in political writing and speech-making. He disliked, for example, any deceptive or misleading types of communication. There’s no doubt he would have been appalled at the false claims made by advertisers and the absurd simplifications that are now part of media culture and which are even typical of the BBC’s news broadcasts. Orwell was worried that since there is a relation between language and thinking then the poor use of English would lead to poor habits of thought. He realised that all sorts of euphemisms were being used in politics to disguise awful truths. He also identified the fact that the ready availability of phrases, metaphors and expressions such as ‘in the cold light of day’, ‘when all is said and done‘ or ‘the acid test’ was beginning to supplant both careful thought and fresh, clear, truthful  communications. Orwell came to the conclusion that people were becoming almost robotic in the way they expressed themselves. [In this context, he even railed against the use of the expression ‘we stand shoulder to shoulder with you…’ yet we still hear this worn-out unimaginative phrase today.]

He proposed that we stop the decline of the English language by first thinking clearly and then deciding what we wish to say. We should avoid pretentiousness and slovenliness. We should avoid pompousness; we should try to speak and write clearly and simply – and certainly not in those terms which tend to mystify the reader or the listener.

I was reminded of Orwell’s essay (and of similar classic texts such as ‘The hidden persuaders’ by Vance Packard) when I visited the annual MA degree shows held at the University for the Creative Arts in Farnham, Surrey. I always enjoy going to the exhibitions because the work shown is stimulating, often unexpected and distinctly contemporary. The work reflects a dominant ethos in the arts whereby the artist expresses their engagement with the world as they find it; more specifically, there is usually a very serious aspect to the work. It often deals with the hard questions to do with love, death, identity, estrangement, alienation and suffering. It also deals with the burden of culture.

My overall experience at the degree show was to enjoy a momentary transformation: I was transported from the ordinary everyday world to that of the extraordinary and novel. As usual, I admired the care, skill and artistry of the makers of glass and textiles and illustration. As usual, I was intrigued by the short films and the animations. But, partly because I produce work in the field of ‘fine art’ I always look to this group of artists for the most provocative, or surprising or bizarre works. I look to this domain of work to ‘wake me up.’ And I was not disappointed.

Six students were exhibiting in the Fine Art section of the show. Accompanying their work were texts. I read them in the free catalogue provided by the University. (Actually the texts were often rather too obscure or too convoluted or simply strained the language too far for much of it to be particularly clear! That is a shame; the art world seems overly wedded to the esoteric. In so doing it continues to practice exclusiveness.)

The ‘loudest’ work of the six was, in its way, the most straightforward. It aimed, in a post-Orwellian way, to lampoon and ridicule the vacuous slogans that we find ourselves reading in newspapers, on television screens, in emails, on advertising posters, through computer-mediated communications – in fact, everywhere we look. Hilary Champion, the artist and activist who had made the work, told us in no uncertain terms to ‘Breathe responsibly.’ (!)  She had covered a large wall with several posters each containing the slogan ‘67% of your concerns are unwarranted ‘, a slogan that, at first glance, might have seemed plausible, but was in fact, a complete invention. She wanted to confront the ‘ludicrous’ claims that various interest groups make about life, or their politics, or other people’s politics, their products, their points of view etc. etc. and to do this she had created The Office for Global Improvement. But this Office for Global Improvement is a fiction. It doesn’t exist – yet in a way it does: it’s curious – we are, in reality, immersed in the messages conjured up by the non-existent Office for Global Improvement …

We had, too, the opportunity to engage directly with her work: we were invited to contribute our own completely meaningless and fake slogans or messages as we participated in the Office for Global Improvement. She underlined the fact that we are in a ‘post-truth’ world.

I thought this was terrific. I immediately dashed off a couple of slogans but then I had to take my wife to an airport so I did not spend more than five minutes on the task. I wrote, for example, ‘Our new streamlined aerodynamic digitised thinking guarantees super-plus success.’ (Stupid nonsense.) Then, and later, I ended up laughing out loud on the way back from the airport as I dreamed up a whole range of almost-believable pieces of similar non-sense.

Here are a three:

Blue sky thinking is O.K. but when it clouds over try indigo thinking.’

Without you the biosphere would be incomplete. Stay with us and help to keep things whole.’

Each journey begins with the first step and ends on the edge of infinity. So just walk.’

I could go on and on. But I rather liked the one I created about coffins. It’s the one at the beginning of this text. (Up there.)

I loved this piece of work partly because it lies in the broad tradition of radical psychology and it resonates with some of the great critical literature such as Koestler’s ‘Darkness at noon‘ or Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’; it also emphasis the role of the artist-as-critic and therefore resists the idea that ‘anything goes.’  Hilary Champion has seen how ludicrous the corporate world and the communications that characterise our culture – from top to bottom – have become. Oh dear: There’s almost no escape … (But of course there is …)

Conclusion: Some essential reading might re-inforce the idea of the Office for Global Improvement: Herman and Chomsky’s ‘Manufacturing consent: the political economy of the mass media‘ might be a good place to start.

P.S. I had the chance to have a short discussion with Ms. Champion and, although I am getting worse and worse at having a normal conversation, I enjoyed our short encounter and respected her integrity.

Footnote: The photograph shows an elusive figure on some stairs at the Office for Global Improvement.

Footnote 2. I would have liked to include a more extensive reference to Orwell’s essay. I think that his remarks on the use of ‘meaningless’ words – amongst which he included the word ‘democracy’ – are particularly relevant today. He thought that in certain kinds of writing, particularly in art criticism and literary criticism, it is normal to come across long passages which are almost completely lacking in meaning and he then also emphasised how many political words were being ‘abused’; for example:

The word ‘fascism’ has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies “something undesirable”. The words – democracy, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice – have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country ‘democratic’ we are praising it : consequently the defenders of every kind of regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using the word if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way.

And they are. There’s no doubt about that.

But so are the ridiculous percentages that are attached to statements about who and what we are. These statements pass things off as objective and scientific but omit any reference as to how they were arrived at and the degree of confidence we might feel in them. (See: Hilary Champion’s ‘67% of your concerns are unwarranted.’)

I would also have liked to include some references to the appraisal of Orwell by George Bott, an appraisal that was written in 1956 and published in his introduction to a volume of Orwell’s ‘selected writings.’ Bott notes that:

Political action for Orwell had to be judged by its effect on people; he did not ask, “has production gone up?” or “have we maintained our international prestige?”; instead the old-fashioned question, “has this action made people any happier?” The morality of politics was his concern and he realised only too well how many crimes are committed in the name of political expediency.

Bott continues by saying:

Clear writing and clear thinking are impossible in a totalitarian state and Orwell constantly pleaded for people to recognize that there was a connexion, a very close connexion, between the decay of language and the stifling of freedom, that the immediate enemies of truthfulness are the Press Lords, the film magnates and the bureaucrats.

Nowadays we would have to supplement the list of  ‘the enemies of truthfulness ‘ by adding any person, corporation or institution concerned with ‘image-management’ as well as just about anyone involved in selling their goods or services. This is truly the age of seduction, truth-shaving and manipulation.



Salisbury – a very English funeral


My aunt Pauline Catherine Adlam was born on 1st May 1927 and died on 12 July 2017. She was 90 years old. On 11 August her funeral service took place at the Chapel in Salisbury’s Crematorium.

She was my only aunt and we got on very well together. Over the course of my life I did not see her very often but, for reasons unclear, she and I always found humour in the ordinary events of life; and, although, for her, life was a serious enough business, she had a great sense of the absurd. Her daughter, my cousin Nicola, had determined the nature of her funeral service and she had invited me to say one or two words about aunt Pauline either during the service or afterwards at the post-service reception in an hotel in Salisbury. We decided that I would not speak during the service but subsequently in the hotel. (What should I say? I’ll come to that in a moment.)

Part 1.

At 1 p.m. on 11 August my wife, brother and I set off from Farnham in Surrey for the funeral In Salisbury, Wiltshire. (In fact, I had to drive like the wind because we were held up by road works and traffic jams.) But we made it to the Chapel moments after the order of service had begun. As we entered the music playing was ‘English’ – it was Elgar’s Nimrod from Enigma Variations.

Then the service unfolded. As it did it underlined the defined Englishness of both my aunt and the city of Salisbury:

The first hymn was the 1906 English Hymnal Version of John Bunyan’s ‘To be a pilgrim‘ – then a reading of Wendy Bradley’s poem ‘God looked around his garden.’ My aunt’s character and values were then profiled by her cousin Clive Adlam and her daughter Nicola. Clive – who is now well over 90 years of age – told us of her very early years in Salisbury and how she was, in a sense, wedded to the city and its proud heritage. He spoke using a style of story-telling that is plain, simple, personal, anecdotal and without affectation. It’s not a style of speaking that, nowadays, we hear very often. (We learned for example, that Pauline taught herself to tap dance and then put on a show for her friends and relations using a makeshift stage. The audience was charged a penny or so for this long-ago show.)

Her daughter Nicola spoke of her mother’s love of fashion and good clothes and how she was well-known in the department stores and other good-quality retailers in Salisbury. She told us about her mother’s love, too, of animals – especially stray dogs and cats – and how she had taken a baby hedgehog to the protection of a vet so that it might survive the oncoming winter. She spoke of her mother’s amazing breadth of general knowledge as well as her more radical political views.

Both Clive and Nicola introduced lots of charm and humour, irony and wit into their ‘memories of Pauline’. I think that’s very English.

We were reminded too, during the service, of our Uncle Tom Adlam who had won the Victoria Cross for extreme bravery during the war and how he continues to be honoured in the cathedral city of Salisbury.

We then heard two more poems, one by Mary Lee Hall, opening with ‘If I should die and leave you here awhile be not like others sore undone who keep long vigil …’, and then Mary Elizabeth Frye’s ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep’. We were, in effect, enjoined not to feel sorrow but to appreciate a life that, despite hardships and disappointments, was a life well-lived. I think that’s very English too.

And then perhaps the most English of all Englishness came at the culmination of the service with the hymn ‘Jerusalem‘ followed by the almost crystalline spiritual beauty of Vaughan William’s composition, the ‘Lark ascending.

Of course there were a few tears during the service – but not many.

Part 2.

Afterwards, in the reassuring surroundings of an hotel in Salisbury, the traditions of the English continued: We even had tea with scones. The mood was one of happy reflective sobriety. Cousin Nicola then invited me to speak. I had prepared an intermittently rhyming poem that took as its inspiration the wonderful and famous work by Jenny Joseph entitled: ‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.’ I imagined some of the things my aunt would wish to do both in this world and the next. It’s not easy reading one’s own poem (and hoping not to stumble over the words …) – but this is what I said:

When I pass over to the other side – I’ll shake things up – well, just a bit. (Or more)

I’ll spend my pension on Courvoisier and truffles – and splendid Tutti Frutti gelatos.
I’ll style myself – like Audrey Hepburn – and drive an orange Maserati –
And get a dragon tattoo …

And have a ‘tea and toast’ stall at Glasto – and sing with Chic – ‘C’est chic’ – and duet with Jonny Depp.

I’ll have a band – with a drummer named Hercule Poirot.

I’ll do the Generation game with my nephew Christopher
And banter – back and forth with Brucie.
I’ll even do a twirl or two.

They’ll be free parking in Salisbury.
And we’d light up the cathedral spire – and broadcast slogans –
like ‘America first, Salisbury second’, or ‘Trump and May – just go away‘ (or worse).

I’d make an app to teach cats how to Miaow in Harmony,
I’d restore that nice policeman to his beat
And give knighthoods to firemen and women – and nurses and paramedics
And make a potion just to spread celebrity amnesia.

(Actually, people would remember their manners !)

I’ll have a blog – ‘Pauline’s Planet’ – and learn to hack –
– And then send rockets haywire and turn the traffic lights purple – on Fridays.

And then ….
I’d go on heaven’s ‘Love island’ and meet a man called Arthur Frost.
We’d win of course.
And live my life with him again – and always, too, with good old Nick.

Yes, when I pass over to the other side – I’ll will to make things better.

And even if this old world has gone to hell in a hand basket –
We’d all laugh – and always more than thirteen times a day.

Yes, when I pass over to the other side – I’m not so far away.
Remember me and beam and smile – if only for a while.’

Thankfully it was well received. (And my cousin Nicola wanted to have a copy.)


Footnote: My aunt was married to  Arthur Frost. It was a very successful marriage. And sometimes she referred to her daughter as ‘good old Nick.’


Quiberon – a place by the sea

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He was asked, ‘Which do you prefer, the Ile de Re or Quiberon?‘ Unhesitatingly he replied: ‘Quiberon.’ In many ways I was not surprised. Whilst the Ile de Re has become one of France’s tourist-laden ‘hot spots’, Quiberon is less trendy, more reserved – and has successfully preserved a kind of environmental integrity.

Quiberon is a slightly unusual place because of its geography. It lies on a small peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic ocean, that part of the ocean which runs up against the southern coasts of Brittany in France. It has an interesting history (it even once played host to a battle between the English and the French) but now finds itself a place designed primarily for tourism. A majority of those tourists are french.

In certain respects Quiberon, in late spring and summer is idyllic. Unusually, nowadays, a majority of the houses that stretch out from the main town itself are charming, individual and really attractive. The commune has resisted the dreadful ordinariness of the modern ‘lotissement’ (the housing estate) that confers such a deadening banality on so many developments in France (and England). The houses in Quiberon have dark blue shutters and lots of exposed granite walls – along with roof tiles that are solid and reassuringly natural. The gardens enjoy roses and hollyhocks, the impressive agapanthus, hydrangeas and all sorts of kitchen-bound aromatic herbs.

The peninsula of Quiberon has two sides: a protected eastern side where all manner of water sports and marine activities are practised and a ‘cote sauvage’ – a wilder rocky coastline – where the Atlantic rollers break, people (understandably) are advised not to swim – some do – some, sadly, drown – and surfers perfect their elegant skills. Painters of seascapes find all they will ever need to portray as they look out from the shores or cliffs of Quiberon. It’s a healthy part of the world: You walk, you swim, you sail or canoe, you ride bicycles – and you get a sense of perspective…

It’s the kind of place where, on a moonlit night under the bright stars or through the coming to an awareness of the lovely stones bathed in a crystal-clear water, you think that Kant was right to claim that the beauty of nature is unsurpassed.

But one thing struck me about Quiberon that raises worrying questions about the presenting nature of French (and English) society. It is this: In the months of June and July – a time of year when Quiberon is singularly beautiful (the flowers are blooming, the days are long, the skies are gorgeous) – a huge majority of the visitors are retired people. They amble around and sometimes it’s difficult to avoid the feeling that they really do not have enough to do. It’s as if they are treading water – waiting for something to happen, looking – and vaguely hoping – but hoping for what?

I think it strange that, in our forms of society, we’ve succeeded, in producing a kind of economically inactive wodge of so many retired people – whom social theorists like Slavoj Zizek might even deem ‘useless’. They are not necessarily useless; they may, back home, help with charity work or with looking after their grandchildren or supporting the arts – and they may help our societies by communicating worthwhile norms of conduct. But for me, there seems an enduring unfairness to the whole thing. I can’t help feeling that there is a sort of exploitation going on – that the retired ‘haves’ are living off the backs of countless ‘have-nots’. And I imagine that lots of these older retired people would have the skills and experience that could be put to far better effect than merely strolling around, distracting themselves, waiting for the next meal or next weather forecast.