My uncle Tom says his birthday party was in the kennels not the stables to which I’m afraid I said that I always had trouble telling dogs from horses but he was obviously quite right: accuracy is everything. Talking of which Maud is well over 35,000 words and wrong as ever!
The month began with a London visit, enjoyable as ever but over full of goodies from concerts at the Albert Hall and on the south bank to choral matins or sung eucharist at the Queen’s Chapel in St. James’ Palace. Tiddly widdly, too much, too much and I must now accept that I can only cope with a normal person’s share. The fault is too much ambition and infinitely better than too little but it’s still a fault. The first concert was in aid of Parkinson’s research and starred Alfie Boe who had previously worked with James the youngish conductor who had early onset Parky. I was much struck by the compere, Al Murray, the pub landlord who was good. I’ve written it up for the local Parkinson’s group newletter. The second concert was full of lollipops such as the Hallelujah Chorus and the Great Gate of Kiev and starred the famous organ. The preacher at the morning service was Ovenden, one of the Queen’s chaplains. In addition I had an expensive ginger beer at the Savoy and we dined at the Italian, Saltieri, in the Strand before going to the Robert Lindsay musical. We also had meals at the Skylon, the Brindisi and the tapas bar in Panton street where Penny made a fuss about the booze. Unwise. The staff had the last laugh. We also saw the war portraits at the National Portrait gallery and had lunch there off kedgeree and affogato plus tiramasiu at Verdi and the final of the men’s tennis in Paris. I listened to plucky England in New Zealand on the club radio while P went to yet another exhibition. And so finally to bed at home on the Monday.
Inevitably I wonder what this is all about and return to the middle of the night, discussion and stories. My favourite story at the moment concerns a drunk called Jonathan and voles. Discuss with reference to Maud! Also stifling with pillows as a murder method. Enough banter. One of the shrinks, if I heard correctly, is pleased that banter is apparently a thing of the past. I say “apparently” because one tailors one’s conversation according to what one thinks one’s audience wants to hear and I have decided that this particular shrink doesn’t like banter. Doesn’t one?
A friend whose first husband had just died came with her two daughters for the night. They had found an appropriate field for him complete with view, hay fever and it’s near Corscombe. It might do for my brother who is currently (apparently) on a shelf in his old Glastonbury office. In an urn. The elder daughter was much taken by my use of “crum-bum” which she reproduced as “ccrumble-bottome”. Will put her and it in Maud. Promise. Felt very old, confronted by future generation.
Josephine Pullein-Thompson died. I knew her through PEN, the writers’ organization which she ran for years in a very English idiosyncratic way – like a branch of the pony club. I remember her in Hamburg being recognized by the Japanese delegates in favour of the much more conventionally distinguished writer Francis King and advising me once back home that my friend had arrived and was in the pub. “Get him out” said Josephine. She was referring to Professor Cobb, a drunk speaker, who was later saved from hiccupping incoherence by the chair, Ion Trewin. I did as I was told. My children, who also knew her, will be sad. Feliks Dennis and Patrick Fegen died. Feliks, who I never met, owned the Frome printers Butler and Tanner and was sentenced for his part in the Oz business. The judge said he was too stupid to go to gaol. Can it have been Melford Stephenson? Patrick managed my branch of HSBC in Hong Kong and was in Lyon House where he was good at rugby. Once, playing for an old and useless XV, I tackled him and his response was that it was ‘only a game, you know’.
Talking of the middle of the night I had an idea that seemed good flat on my back in the small hours. How about cricket in the States to be discussed over a meal and maybe first aired in Maud!? You heard it here first. And while biffing the boffins (see blog) I offer sincere apologies to our neighbour who asked kindly how the exercise was going and was met with monosyllables due mainly to inability with speech. Hope he wasn’t too offended but how sick and how remediable. I shall campaign.
Incidentally I used to have a fantasy about my ending my days holed up in a mountain eyrie with my trusty carbine, some bullets and a cyanide capsule which I took before being over-run. That war ended recently. In defeat! I have the conviction but I lack the courage and doing things on one’s own is awfully difficult. Pathetic!
Talking of which we went to the humanist funeral in a field with a view and concomitant hay fever and I thought the field would a good place for my brother James who is currently in an urn in his office and reflected that with honourable exceptions the British are bad at dealing with the disabled. Had similar thoughts albeit exceptional after cricket with good friend in Taunton. Somerset against Lancashire -Trescothick good, Compton bad! What would insouciant Denis make of his serious grandson?
Delivered level thoughts on the past to Christopher and Maud is now well
over forty so work proceeds. Must remember to remind friend to mention Puglia at his local wine bar. Puglia is on my list and it transpires that the owners come from there.
I have been thinking as well. You’ve been warned.