Monday 31 December 2012

Looking back, looking ahead

The Roman god Janus, looking back to the past and forward to the future

I write this in the midst of a howling southwesterly gale, which seems to have been going on for about a week.  I thought this sort of thing only happened at Land's End or the Shetland Islands, but evidently not.  The northwest corner of the Matchbox is timber-framed on both walls, as a result of which, when the wind screams off the sea, there is distinct movement in the top bedroom, where we have been sleeping - not to mention a roar down the chimney.  We keep reminding ourselves that the building has stood for more than two centuries, but it takes a bit of getting used to.

It's been a year of immense transition: moving country, settling in a town we didn't know, refurbishing the Shoebox and Matchbox, getting to know new people.  It's seven months since we left France, and only now do I feel we're beginning to settle.  We hope to move back into the Shoebox at the beginning of February, and by that stage we should be approaching normality.

In the wider world, I find it impossible not to feel concerned about what is happening.  We have lost faith in our churches, our policemen and the media.  The guardians of civilised standards appear to be falling away, one by one.  I have little faith, either, in our squabbling and posturing politicians.  More fundamentally, I sense that the growth model of capitalism - on which global "economic recovery" is based - is now obsolete.  What I am hoping for in the New Year is for a wind as strong as our current gale to blow out the cobwebs of old concepts and bring back originality, flair and some lateral thinking.  And then for some calm and some sunshine.

A very happy New Year to you all.

Antony Mair 

Sunday 23 December 2012

Happy Yule



 
 
Until recently I had always thought that references to "Yule" and "Yuletide" were folksy Disney-speak, going with logs, real or chocolate.  "Christmas" was the obvious term for the festival celebrated on 25th December, with all its Christian connotations and origins.  I knew that the Fathers of the Church latched onto the symbolism of the arrival of Christ and the period just after the winter solstice; and that the early Church grafted its festivals onto pre-existing pagan ones.  But I'd never really put it all together.

The Celts and Druids had a tradition where the waning year was represented by the Holly King, who did battle with the Oak King, representing the waxing year, who would reign until midsummer.  The Oak King is behind the custom of burning the Yule log - "Yule" being a Germanic pagan festival in the same period. It has been suggested that the word is linked to the word "Wheel". 

The period after the solstice was - and is - usually the coldest and hardest in the year.  There was no food available for animals and to avoid the cost of feeding them through the winter they would be slaughtered.  This gave an excuse for a gastronomic binge.

So there you have it - holly, Yuletide log, and lots of eating and drinking.  Sound familiar?   "Yule" seems to bring pagans and Disney together, which is an apt summary of what happens in the UK at this time of year.  So that's what I wish you all: a very happy Yule.

Antony Mair

Saturday 22 December 2012

Last days of scaffolding


I have almost forgotten when the scaffolding first went up: but apparently it will be coming down this weekend at the front - the back still has it since the new windows at No. 8 need painting, which can only happen after the Christmas break.  The picture above shows it at its most picturesque: but for the past couple of days it has been like living behind Niagara Falls, due to the amount of rain.  In fact, we woke this morning to find that the well in the basement of both houses seemed to be filling up, rather alarmingly.  An emergency drain-clearing company was called out, and a certain amount of prodding and pumping took place.  The water is slowly subsiding.  Our new friend Steve the Drainage Man is to come back for a more detailed inspection when it has drained away.

Living with builders has been more than wearing.  There have been times when the only place to escape has been the basement kitchen of No. 8, due to painters at windows and joiners wherever the painters aren't - if you see what I mean.  No. 7 has had the second coat of lime plaster drying throughout, but today the final coat has gone on and I am actually organising a painter to come in and redecorate at the beginning of January.  Phew.  I am hoping we shall be able to move back there at the beginning of February - there are just the small matters of a new bathroom to be installed, bookshelves in the study, redecoration throughout, and something done to the battered floorboards. 

Boundaries are a concept foreign to builders: they display great curiosity about us and our lives, and somehow expect us to be interested in theirs.  The idea that they are simply there to perform a service for us without necessarily becoming our nearest and dearest is entirely alien.  One of the joiners came into the kitchen one day and asked what I was preparing for dinner.  He then told me what he would be cooking that evening.  It's difficult at this point not to say "shouldn't you be getting back to that window?"

Roll on February!

Antony Mair

 
Meanwhile, Santa's on his way...at the Dolphin, at any rate!

Wednesday 19 December 2012

The end of the world...but not for Nigella

Something going wrong in the Christmas season?
 
Christmas is always a tad surreal, but seems particularly so this year.  People who have never previously heard of Central America are now muttering knowledgeably about the Mayan calendar and imminent Armageddon.  The other night we heard a programme on the dreaded Radio 4 about American "survivalists" who have constructed bunkers into which they intend to retreat on Thursday night.  Appearing on Radio 4 usually requires removal of any sense of humour, and the survivalists fitted the bill.  I considered the possibility of our also retiring to a bunker, if we can find one at this late stage, but rejected it on the basis that a post-Armageddon social life restricted to dinners with survivalists is too dire to contemplate.
 
One person who must share this point of view is gastro-celeb Nigella Lawson, currently featuring in a cookery series called Nigellisima.  (So no hint of a personality cult there.)  At a time of austerity, belt-tightening and turnip-cooking, Nigella has decided to swim against the culinary flow.  Between shots of a glitteringly festive London we had romantic pictures of Venice, with mouthwatering goodies on display.  Her recipes feature a cornucopia of exotic ingredients: marsala and mascarpone abounded, though a winter salad, constructed from three varieties of radicchio, was included to cut the richness.  Nigella prepared the last in a silk dress cut low over her shapely bosom, arching her elegant brows as she smiled into the lens.  At the end we saw a gathering of London glitterati sampling her dishes.  Not a turnip or survivalist in sight.  I'm not sure what the Great British Public thought of it, as they watched with a tray of microwaved Iceland produce on their laps, but we enjoyed it. 
 
Actually, I might get in touch with her and see whether she's retiring to a bunker, and, if so, where.
 
Antony Mair

Santa looks for a cab to avoid infestation
 
 

Monday 17 December 2012

High camp in Hastings and Bexhill

 Aida - Act IV
 
Verdi's magnificent opera "Aida", which we saw on Saturday at the Hastings Odeon via the Met Opera HD transmission, has its camp moments - particularly in the Met's production.  Close-ups of Olga Borodina as Amneris brought Mrs Slocum to mind at times, from the old sitcom "Are you being served", and the barechested soldiers looked as if they had just popped in between the gym and a Gay Pride march.  This grandest of grand operas seemed, curiously, to work best in the last Act, with the intimate beauty of the entombed lovers.  But it was still a feast for the eyes and ears all the way through.  Alas, we were only ten in the auditorium.  Those who are unable to get into the London cinemas for these showings should come down here to boost the numbers.
 
A very different performance yesterday afternoon, at Bexhill's De la Warr Pavilion: the London Gay Men's Chorus's Christmas show.  I didn't know what to expect, but as things turned out I loved every minute of it and found myself positively weeping with delight at the combination of camp comedy and undiluted professionalism. 
 
After a dismal week with builders, the weekend lifted the spirits: better weather also helped, so we hope to be ready for the week ahead.
 
Antony Mair
 

Saturday 15 December 2012

Christmas cheer


Every month I attend a meeting of the so-called Hastings Poets and we read out poems we've written on a particular theme.  Experience has taught me that the participants enjoy light verse more than cutting-edge contemporary efforts, so I try to do something they enjoy.  For our next meeting the theme is a poem in the voice of a pet or other animal, and it occurred to me it would be nice to do something seasonal.  Research revealed that Santa Claus and his reindeer had their origin in the Norse legend of Odin's midwinter hunt through the sky on an eight-legged horse called Sleipnir.  This gave me the idea for the following, which I hope you all enjoy!


A REINDEER’S LAMENT
You may think I look cute as a reindeer
with my red nose and antlers and stuff
but I can’t take much more of this sleigh gear:
                I tell you, enough is enough.
 
I started in life as one Sleipnir
                the eight-legged horse of the god,
and was ridden by Odin the hunter
                leaving death in the paths that I trod;
 
then the Christians arrived and poor Odin
                was changed to a holy old saint
and the warrior garments he rode in
                were abandoned for something more quaint.
 
Then came Disney and Coca-damn-Cola
                determined to make us all jolly –
it’s enough to make me bipolar
                seeing tinsel all over the holly.
 
Poor old Odin’s in scarlet as Santa
                with a beard and white fur on his hood;
the power he showed in our canter
                has all disappeared now for good
 
and I got four legs and a headdress
                with antlers as wide as a tree;
they covered my nostrils with redness
                to make me revoltingly twee.
 
Now Odin’s tucked up with his sleighbells
                and I’m left alone up ahead;
if he’s ok wrapped up in sables
                I’d personally rather be dead.
 
Our fame is worldwide and our faces
                confront us on posters and cards,
on mugs and on plates, in strange places
                like underpants, roofs and back yards:
 
in my heart though I’ve still not adapted
                to life as a reindeer with presents
and this Santa scene that they’ve contrapted
                is something designed for the peasants:
 
in my soul I’m still noble, still coursing
                with Odin the god on my back
so let me get back to some horsing
                and accept that this reindeer thing’s cack.

Antony Mair

Friday 14 December 2012

Meanwhile, back in the war zone...

 Main bedroom in No. 7 aka the Shoebox
 
It is Friday afternoon, and there is a storm raging outside, the rain driving horizontally against the flank wall of the Shoebox.  We are spending a quiet afternoon next door in the Matchbox, with the wind howling down the chimneys.  It has not been a good week.
 
The Shoebox being currently uninhabitable due to replastering works in all rooms above the lower ground floor, we are living next door in the Matchbox, which would otherwise be let to tenants.  It seemed sensible to take advantage of the period between tenants to have some work done on the Matchbox, and a few days ago I showed you a picture of what the hole in the wall looked like when the window was taken out.  From then on, things went downhill.  The following day the old window on the top floor was removed and the new one hoisted up to the top of the scaffolding - for the joiner then to find that he had made a mistake in the measurements and that the new box was ten centimetres too short. 
 
That night we slept in the equivalent of a cupboard, the hole in the wall having been boarded up while a new window was prepared.  It was then discovered that the two windows on the side of the building could not be repaired as planned since they were rotten, so they will also have to be replaced.  The scaffolding put up for the repairs, in our longsuffering neighbours' side passage, had to come down again. 
 
Meanwhile two painters just about old enough to be my great-grandchildren have been wandering around daubing bare wood with primer and paint in a well-meaning way.  Since this is Paul's house I am leaving all dealings with workmen to him.  Phew!  Storms, predicted since the beginning of the week and now materialising, have prevented any work continuing.  So we are rejoicing in the absence of stress with a siesta after a glass of wine with lunch.  Battle recommences on Monday.
 
Antony Mair
 
   

Wednesday 12 December 2012

The power of the Press


I have always enjoyed local newspapers.  When we were in France the Sud-Ouest, an excellent paper, combined national and local news, so wasn't a local paper like the Hastings & St. Leonard's Observer (take the catchy name, for a start).  The Observer, as it is affectionately known locally, is a true local paper full of local stories - what the French press refer to as "faits divers".  In the last issue my favourite headline was "Brute jailed for stabbing his fiancée" - the word "brute" being repeated twice in the opening paragraphs.  Or possibly "Woman 'hit' man in car park attack", reporting a road rage incident outside a Tesco Express.

And then there are the ads, both commercial and private.  My recent favourite was the one-eighth page advertisement with the irresistible invitation: "Get your dentures fixed for Christmas!"

Such is the readership that, after our recent visit to the Met Opera HD transmission of Clemenza di Tito at the local Odeon, where we were part of an audience of 13, I thought it would be a good idea to write to the Observer in order to spread the news of this easy access to opera.  So I did, and, bless them, they printed my immortal prose as the second letter on the page, without cuts.  We then went to the next HD transmission - this time Verdi's Ballo in Maschera.  A headcount of the audience showed we were 12.  The Odeon didn't help their cause by having the subtitles in Russian rather than English for the first half, but the singing was still fantastic.  This Saturday we have Aida.  I may have to leave some leaflets in the Old Town launderette, which seems to be one of the main places for finding out what's on.  Watch this space.

Antony Mair

Sunday 9 December 2012

Still living with builders

 
Window out on the second floor
 
We have now been back in the UK for a little more than six months - and it looks as if it will be at least a couple more months before life gets back to something approaching normality.  The picture above shows the view from the first floor of No. 8 Tackleway, aka the Matchbox, when the old window-frame was removed.  The back of the house is of a timber construction, hung with tiles: and when you see it exposed, it's decidedly scary.  We keep on saying "Well, it's stood for a couple of hundred years so it's not going to fall down now", but it's difficult to be quite so sangine when a gale force wind is hurling itself at the building, straight off the sea.
 
In All Saints Street, which runs parallel with Tackleway lower down the hill, the houses nearest the shore are half-timbered, and I found myself looking at them on return from the dog-walk this morning, thinking that they were miracles of solidity by comparison with what the Georgians put up.  Not - it appears - that the Victorians in Hastings were much better: our next door neighbours say that the bricks their house is built from were cast-offs from the construction of a railway tunnel, having been found not to be up to the grade.
 
At dinner with new acquaintance the other night our hosts said they were planning a move from their listed home up the road to a new-build, with energy-efficient heating, triple glazing etc.  It does seem tempting: but then I catch the views of the sea and the Old Town from the windows and think we'll carry on in our matchbox and shoebox for the moment... 
 

Thursday 6 December 2012

Are UK supermarkets more expensive than their French counterparts?


Priory Meadow - Hastings Shopping Centre
 
When we first returned to the UK, six months ago, I found the supermarket experience radically different from what I had known in France.  This was mainly due to the packaging - scandalous in its profusion of plastic, particularly for fruit and vegetables - and the vast range of processed food.  As I looked at what people unloaded from their trolleys at the checkout, I concluded that many people cooked little from scratch.  "Convenience" foods have taken over.  I have the impression that half the population is watching television programmes devoted to haute cuisine with a tray of microwaved food on their lap. 
 
When we lived in France there were many expats who complained about the cost of French supermarkets and had their groceries delivered from the UK.  It is almost impossible to do an item by item check on prices (such as I once did as between Lidl and Intermarché, which showed a quite startling divergence in favour of Lidl) so I landed up with a rough approximation, based on total costs each week.  And - surprise surprise - it is actually much the same.  There may be some things that are cheaper, while others are more expensive (razor-blades, for example, seem to cost an extortionate amount in both countries).  This is taking an exchange rate of 1.25 euros to the pound. 
 
Alcohol is still a bruising experience.  There is an astonishing range of wine on offer, from virtually every wine-producing country in the globe, but it seems difficult to get much under £5 per bottle.  Our "house red" used to be €4, about two-thirds the price - and there was quite a lot available for less.  I have worked out that a day trip to Calais with Eurotunnel pays for itself if you buy five dozen bottles to bring back - more than that and you're in profit.  An even better deal was obtained by someone I recently met, who got an early ferry to Calais for £22 which included car, two passengers, breakfast for two and two bottles of wine! so, since we're just along the coast from the Channel ports, a booze cruise is inevitable sooner or later.  There are better reasons for going to France than cheap wine, but that'll do for the moment!
 
Antony Mair
 
 
 

Monday 3 December 2012

Contemporary Chinese art in London


"Art of Change - New Directions from China" at the Hayward Gallery, London


One of the things I missed in France was the ability to get to major art exhibitions - it was of course possible to schlep up to Angoulême and get the train to Paris, but it involved a three or four hour journey door to door, and you land up pretty whacked if you try to do that in a day.  Hastings' transport connections with London are not great - certainly not good enough for a daily commute - but it's possible to get a train that lands you in Charing Cross after an hour and a half or so, which makes a day up in the smoke a viable proposition.  Having managed to get to Bronze at the Royal Academy and the Pre-Raphaelites at the Tate, I was determined to see the Hayward exhibition devoted to contemporary Chinese art, and - thanks to an appointment with an osteopath in Shepherds Bush - was able to do so last Friday.

There are many occasions when I lament not having enough time: and the mere mention of China is enough to make me want to go there, read up about it, learn more and know more about this vast and very different country.  The experience of this exhibition gave me the same feeling: it is even less than a toe in the water of Chinese contemporary art, but served at least to introduce some artists other than the astonishing Ai Weiwei, known to Londoners after his installation of eight million handmade porcelain sunflower seeds at Tate Modern (see the Youtube clip of it by clicking here).  Art in China is, it seems, almost invariably political, which makes it a little more difficult, since we have a rather basic knowledge of Chinese politics, let alone day-to-day life in modern China.  But it was good to have the experience of some very powerful installations.

It's as much a breath of fresh air going up to London from little Hastings as it used to be to go to Bordeaux or Paris from little old Ribérac: when you live in the sticks you need to get out now and again!  and when there's some good art at the end of the line I find I come back full of renewed energy.  Thanks to the Chinese this time.

Antony Mair


Sunday 2 December 2012

Winter weather...

This morning on East Hill
 
 
It's been an excellent weekend: yesterday was a little dominated by the presence of a plasterer for the entire day in No. 7, putting on the first coat of lime plaster in six rooms of the Shoebox, but in the evening we had the joy of seeing "La Clemenza di Tito" beamed through to the Hastings Odeon from the Met in New York.  When we were in France we used to go and see the Met transmissions in Périgueux, which were always well attended - in fact you had to arrive fairly promptly not to find yourself too close to the screen.  Now we have the advantage of being able to walk fifteen minutes to the cinema instead - however, there were only 13 of us in the cinema, so we shall have to do some work to publicise the event and get other opera buffs along. 
 
Let me take advantage of this to give the Met a plug: the so-called HD (as in High Definition) transmissions are live broadcasts of performances by the Metropolitan Opera in New York, and enable you to see in close-up the world's best singers.  It is now transmitted to cinemas throughout the world.  Have a look on their website by clicking here.

 
Today, as you can see from the photo above, we have had beautiful winter weather: crisp and sunny.  For the first time for what seems an eternity we were able to take the dogs up for a walk on East Hill, behind the Shoebox, and enjoy the stunning views out to sea and across to Beachy Head.  I am having to get used to the early evenings after the Dordogne - it is dark by 4.30 and I am already counting the days to the 21st December, shortest day of the year, so that I can measure the daily increase in light after that.  But when you have a day of sunshine, however short, it's easier to put up with the long nights.
 
Antony Mair
 
 
Balzac was happy too...
 

Thursday 29 November 2012

Hastings poets, the Dordogne and new technology

Renovation target - but not the subject of what follows!!
 
The Hastings poetry group I belong to meets monthly and we read things we've written on a given theme.  The group isn't particularly highbrow and the members like some light verse thrown in with the heavier stuff.
 
The theme for this week's meeting is "A Memorable Room".  I had great difficulty with it, but interpreted it widely and remembered vividly certain houses that Paul and I visited in the Dordogne for valuations.  They were ruins that had been lovingly "restored" by their doting British owners - usually without the benefit of any prior experience, knowledge of local requirements or indeed understanding of the native domestic architecture.  It was often difficult to break the news gently to these well-meaning people that they had got it all wrong. 
 
I am not sufficiently proud of my achievement to set it out on the page - but thought I might try an experiment with it on this occasion by attaching it as an audio file.   This is the first time I've tried this, and when I listened to it it sounded as if I was speaking at the bottom of a bathtub, but if you like the idea, let me know!  Click here to listen - it will bring up a new screen and you then click on the arrow in the top left corner (and switch the sound on on your computer if you haven't already done so!).
 
Antony Mair
 

Tuesday 27 November 2012

Radio 4 - dull, dull, dull

Broadcasting House - temple of dullness

Forgive another little rant.  My father spent the major part of his working life working for the Beeb, and until his death in 1971 I always regarded the Corporation as a hive of creativity and – if not enlightenment – ideas.  On weekends before we went to France I would usually have Radio 4 on in the kitchen, and considered myself something of a fan.  Now, however, I am dismayed to find it – well, dull.

Take an example of the schedule for yesterday, Monday November 26.  After the Today programme, which I’ve moaned about enough in the past (please please John Humphreys do us a favour and retire), there’s Start the Week.  This used to be a jolly magazine programme: it has now become leaden.   At 945, fifteen minutes of fiction, followed at 10 am by the earnestness of Woman’s Hour (actually Woman’s Forty-Five Minutes, since the last fifteen are devoted to a fifteen minute drama).  At 11 am, to lift the spirits: “After a cancer diagnosis, musician Nile Rodgers walks the streets of New York”.  Wow.  At 11.30, Episode 3 of “55 and over”, discussing the prospect of having children as an older person.  Just the thing to listen to after a cancer diagnosis.  12 noon, and we’re into “You and Yours”, the consumer programme that I was already finding insufferably smug eight years ago.  This takes us up to the weather forecast for a few minutes before The World at One – something of a repeat of the Today programme, in which Martha Kearney hectors politicians.

Not much of a laugh in any of this.  I’ll spare you the rest of the day, which continues in similarly turgid vein.  At 6.30 pm there is at last a comedy show – and guess what, it’s “I’m Sorry, I haven’t a Clue”, which started in – wait for it – 1972.   As far as I can see this is the only comedy slot in the entire day.

The BBC has, of course, larger fish to fry with the problems of Newsnight accusing the wrong people of nefarious activity: but it would be nice to have some freshness and dynamism back on Radio 4.   If it were possible to switch it off more than I switch it on that’s probably what I’d be doing.

Antony Mair 

 

Sunday 25 November 2012

Hastings Herring Fair



One of my former clients used to travel over to Rotterdam each year for the local herring festival, invited by a local insurance broker.  The impression I got was of an alcoholic binge involving more aquavit than herring.  By contrast, Hastings' first Herring Fair was pretty staid.  The event wasn't helped by the weather: yesterday we had pouring rain followed by gale-force winds howling in from the sea in the evening; today we were lucky to escape with intermittent torrential showers.  True to form, however, the British public put on their waterproofs and their best foot forward.  On the Stade Open Space marquees had been erected for a variety of stallholders, ranging from the fishmongers and restaurateurs to local gift shops.  It made for a pleasant if modest outing in the course of the weekend.

Behind this event lies a lot of work to support the local fishing community.  There has been a fishery at Hastings for more than a thousand years, and many of today's fishing families can trace their forebears in the fishing industry over hundreds of years.  Hastings has the largest beach-launched fishing fleet in the country, and is proud of its fishing traditions.

However, the broad brush of the EU, with quotas and restrictions, has had a severe impact on the local fishing industry, and efforts are being made to promote their cause with Brussels.  I've held back from any volunteer work to date, feeling I wanted to be sure about anything I took on; but this is a cause I can fully sympathise with, and I'm seeing how I can become involved.  So be prepared to hear more about fish on the blog!

Antony Mair




Friday 23 November 2012

Trial by the ill-informed

Slot machines on the front, Hastings -
when the rule of law goes out the window, life's just a lottery
 
The appointment of a new Director-General coincided with BBC trustees appearing before the House of Commons public accounts select committee to explain the settlement with George Entwistle.  Today the Guardian newspaper reports: "Labour MP Margaret Hodge, who chairs the committee, was scathing about the size of the payoff.  'It demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of how this is viewed in public given that it is licence fee payers' money,' she said. 'It is incredulous' (sic)."
 
Leaving to one side the fact that Ms Hodge appears not to know the difference between incredulous and incredible, I am concerned above all by the knee-jerk reaction coming from someone at this level.  On the 5 pm news on Radio 4 yesterday, when, predictably, twenty minutes were spent covering the appointment of the Director-General and grilling Lord Patten about his own performance - with needless and insulting aggression on the part of the interviewer - it emerged, unsurprisingly, that the settlement with George Entwistle had been negotiated in detail with the assistance of expert lawyers on both sides, and that the BBC had been advised that if they did not give him the amount now criticised as excessive, they would be likely to face a larger award in the courts.  So the BBC had no choice.  Perhaps Ms Hodge should bone up on the law.
 
Similar moralising has been evident in the Prime Minister's criticism of tax avoidance - described as "morally repugnant".  This in spite of the fact that avoidance is within the framework of the existing law.  No mention of companies' duty to their shareholders to maximise profits, or of the criticism that directors might receive for paying excessive tax when the amount concerned could go to dividends.  If Parliament's unhappy about the ability to avoid tax it should change the law and leave moralising to others better equipped.
 
If you take this together with the Twitter frenzy in the paedophile scandal there is a worrying trend in the direction of mob rule.  Fortunately Lord McAlpine has brought some sense into the equation by suing the media and tweeters right left and centre.  I would like someone equally powerful to remind MPs that they are the legislators and that, instead of criticising legal behaviour, it is within their power to change the law.  Without legal certainty, life's just a lottery and most of us lose out.
 
Antony Mair
 
 

Thursday 22 November 2012

Living with builders


Eric the kitchen fitter, hard at work
 


We're in our I'm not quite sure which week of building works - but it's probably been the most populated.  In No. 7 Tackleway, aka the Shoebox, we've had Eric and Dave fitting the new kitchen, Luke the electrician doing new lighting, and Paul putting down the foundations for the lath and plaster relining.  Meanwhile in No. 8 we've had Jamie measuring up for five new window-boxes (no, not the things you put flowers in, but the boxes that sash windows go into) and Brian painting the exterior.  Plus of course scaffolders, who make intermittent appearances to put up new or tweak existing structures, and Rob, the overseer, who also calls in with a cheery hello - usually to ask for cash. 

Needless to say, there are endless minor decisions: the exact positions of ceiling lights, bearing in mind the need to light pictures as well as fitting in with joists positioned in 1800 without apparent foresight; colours for the two front and back doors; preventing Brian from putting gloss paint on the interior of the windows etc. etc.

And, of course, we get to know the builders as they get to know us: Dave's love of sea fishing, Brian's feeling he's come down in the world, being now employed by someone else after being self-employed for thirty years; Paul's problems with selling his house.  My small friend is adept at keeping them all happy with endless supplies of tea and coffee, and everyone seems very cheerful.  But I am beginning to dread that moment when there's a knock on the door at 8 am, or having a morning bath with a painter at the window!

We thought we'd be finished with everything by the end of the year, which looks increasingly optimistic: that's the other thing with builders - you start off assuming foolishly that they will be there every day for six weeks or so, and then learn that somewhere else someone else has the same idea, and that you're actually sharing the builders rather than monopolising them.  We wish ourselves bon courage on a regular basis and look forward to it all being over!

Antony Mair


We're not the only ones with scaffolding in the neighbourhood...

Sunday 18 November 2012

A weekend in Arundel


Yesterday we toddled along the coast to Arundel, this side of Chichester, to join friends for the birthday celebration of our friend Lucy Hards.  Arundel, which I had not visited for at least fifty years, is dominated by a fine castle, home of the Duke of Norfolk (although not his real home, since he lives in a house in the grounds, which is more convenient).  The town itself consists of a small number of streets full of elegant seventeenth and eighteenth century houses. 

Lucy's partner Emma had booked us into dinner at The Town House, pictured above.  If you are passing anywhere near Arundel, I thoroughly recommend a visit to this excellent restaurant - not only for the food, which was delicious, but also for the ceiling - not something I usually mention in restaurant reviews.  However, this one is exceptional: someone in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century installed a sixteenth century Florentine coffered ceiling, made from gilded walnut, which is something of great beauty.  It was a pleasure to be eating under it - and in my case the foie gras, halibut and honeycomb parfait were made even better for the experience.

I would like to be as complimentary about the Avisford Hilton, where we stayed the night.  They'd given us a great price, so I suppose I should have suspected we would not be in the lap of luxury.  It's a sprawling hotel two floors tall, and the staff were kind and willing.  The effect of the endless corridors was depressing, with doorclosers on every door giving a prison-like effect.  Our room was hopelessly overheated, which made sleep difficult, even with the window open and the heating turned off in both bedroom and bathroom.  The other guests looked as if they had been bumped off an overbooked flight to Alicante - snobbish I know, but it's not what you expect from a Hilton.  You'd have thought you couldn't go wrong for £89 for a room and breakfast, but it's not much good if you can't sleep!  What was particularly galling was that I subsequently discovered that we could have stayed in a nice room in The Town House for about the same amount -  grrr.

Antony Mair


Friday 16 November 2012

Meanwhile, back in Tackleway...

Scaffolding on the front of No.s 7 and 8
 
Hastings Old Town is a maze of scaffolding at the moment: in addition to our two houses, and that of our neighbours at No. 11, who are doing a major refurbishment, there is a network of scaffold poles on another neighbour's house at the back, not to mention the Crown Inn behind.  "Elfen safety", is the recurring phrase.  Working off a ladder is so old-fashioned.
 
So, while paedophilia and energy price-rigging scandals rage in the UK; while the populations of EU countries take to the streets to protest against austerity, and missiles fly between Gaza and Israel, not to mention Syria; while the Americans fret about their fiscal cliff and China changes its leadership; we are preoccupied with the more domestic concerns of doing up the Shoebox and Matchbox.  In the Shoebox every room on the upper three floors now has the south-facing wall stripped back to the brick, so that slats can be fixed before the plastering starts - three coats of lime plaster, each taking a couple of weeks to dry.  On Monday a separate contingent of workmen is due to appear for the installation of the new kitchen in the basement, together with an electrician who is to redo lighting throughout.  In the Matchbox the façade is being painted to match the Shoebox and a number of sash windows have to have the boxes replaced, since they are suffering from rot.
 
The lessons we learnt when redoing our house in Ribérac can be summarised as: understand the old forms of construction so that repairs are consistent with the original logic;  don't take short cuts since it will prove more expensive in the long run; and keep up the maintenance rather than letting things decay.  Simple really.  But very different from the "botch and skimp" mentality that seems to be prevalent with a lot of houseowners.
 
The chaos will be continuing until the end of the year, which means that we acquire increasing intimacy with builders.  This has its amusing moments: such as when the carpenter innocently asked whether our dog Balzac is named after a Disney character; or when a kitchen installer said he was glad there was a loo nearby since he suffered from a bladder complaint -  the words "too much information" seem unknown in the construction business! 
 
Antony Mair

Monday 12 November 2012

The BBC - enough, already

BBC Television Centre, White City, London
 
Some days ago I embarked on Ezra Pound's Cantos.  Armed with a commentary, I try and tackle a Canto a day.  A couple of days ago I read Canto XIV, which describes an inferno inhabited by politicians, profiteers, financiers etc.:
 
"...the air without refuge of silence,
      the drift of lice, teething,
and above it the mouthing of orators,
      the arse-belching of preachers.
      And Invidia,
the corruptio, foetor, fungus,
liquid animals, melted ossifications,
slow rot, foetid combustion...."
 
You get the drift.  It has seemed particularly relevant these past days when the BBC has been a revolting spectacle, beginning with obsessive and self-centred conspiracy theories following Newsnight's failure to broadcast the programme on Jimmy Savile, and culminating in the resignation of the Director-General on Saturday for having failed to keep tabs on the same Newsnight's broadcasting of a programme accusing Lord Macalpine by innuendo of being a paedophile - an accusation then found to be entirely without foundation.
 
All of this has been stupid enough.  What has been particularly loathsome, however, is the spectacle of BBC newscasters tearing their own organisation apart.  The resignation of George Entwistle as Director-General became almost inevitable after a disastrous interview with John Humphrys of the Today programme on - yes - BBC Radio 4.  My views on John Humphrys generally are unprintable.  But this antagonism towards the bosses, posing as a quest for objective truth, seems now to be the fashion: on the World at One today on Radio 4, Eddie Mair - no relation, I hasten to add - was persistently aggressive towards the stand-in Director-General, for no evident purpose that could be discerned other than scoring a point.
 
Not only is the process unedifying: the newscasters appear to have lost sight of the fact that other things might be happening in the world, apart from the BBC shenanigans.  On the World at One today we were treated to details of BBC affairs for the first twenty minutes of the programme.  Self-obsessed, riven with internal politics, and increasingly running round like a headless chicken, the BBC needs to get back to its essential job of providing accurate news and information rather than peering up its own fundament.  Pound's words about politicians in Canto XIV could equally apply to the BBC newsmen:
 
"Standing bare bum,
faces smeared on their rumps,
          wide eye on flat buttock,
Bush hanging for beard,
    Addressing crowds through their arse-holes,
Addressing the multitudes in the ooze,
         newts, water-slugs, water-maggots..."  
 
Antony Mair
 


Friday 9 November 2012

The Quiet Revolution

Holy Trinity Church, Hastings
 
Change in society is always interesting.  And we live in interesting times.  In recent years we have seen uprisings in Middle East states, where people have dared to protest against - and in some cases overthrow - powers in government.  Much emphasis has been placed on social media as an important element in this: but my own suspicion is that social media have been no more than a tool, rather than a prime mover.
 
My view that something was afoot on a more global basis has been reinforced by the re-election of Barack Obama.  It now looks as if the Republicans severely miscalculated in failing to acknowledge the power of racial and social minorities, who voted with their feet.  We are probably witnessing the end of white Anglo-Saxon dominance in American politics.
 
Something similar has been happening in the UK, with the unravelling of sex scandals involving first Jimmy Savile and then a Welsh children's home.  After decades of silence, the victims have dared to speak out.  And whether the Tory right wing likes it or not, any suggestion of a cover-up in both cases appears to be linked inevitably to an Establishment perceived to be exploitative and out of touch.
 
What we are witnessing is a rapid erosion of trust in institutions that have let people down: and the acquisition of courage and a voice by the victims.  Time was when those in power could abuse their position.  That is less and less the case, either in the Middle East or closer to home.
 
The Christian churches have largely been sidelined in this process: the Catholic church has been discredited by a series of paedophile scandals, and the Anglican church is perceived, rightly or wrongly, as part of the Establishment that is failing to carry out its responsibility.  
 
This failure is, in the end, what it is all about.  Poorer sections of the community will tolerate disparities of wealth if they believe that the rich and powerful generally exercise their power for the greater good.  That is the responsibility that comes with privilege.  But history across the Channel shows graphically that where the responsibility is not observed, retribution is inevitable.  
 
Antony Mair
    

Monday 5 November 2012

Move to the Matchbox


 
Our travelling life continues: from the refugee encampment in the basement front room of the Shoebox we have moved next door to the Matchbox.  To refresh your memories: in the picture above, taken from East Hill, you can see the Shoebox, which is the darker blue of the pair of houses on the corner of Crown Lane.  Beside it, a paler blue/grey, is the Matchbox.  Paul's tenants obligingly moved out last week so we have been able to move across in order to free the Shoebox up for builders who have to go in and dry-line the sea-facing interior walls with lath and plaster - I'll spare you the technical reasons.  Suffice it to say it's one of those irritating things that has to be done at vast expense but which nobody notices afterwards. 
 
We hired a couple of men from a local removals company to give us a hand and it was all comparatively painless.  It's a little strange to have moved house again after five months, and it will be even stranger in around three months' time when we move back.  By that stage, hopefully, we shall be able to look forward to a degree of stability.  I keep on remembering all those statements about moving house being the third most stressful experience in one's life: but in fact I'm so delighted to be back in a working kitchen that the stress has been reduced.  An added bonus is that the two properties are so close that we don't need to have a new telephone number: we just brought the extension phones over!  and our computers can link up via wi-fi with the router next door, so the disruption is pretty minimal. 
 
Disruption will however continue: scaffolding on the street side is due to go up at the end of the week for repainting both façades so that they match.  I am hoping that it will all be worth it in the end, even if we are on bread and water for months!
 
Antony Mair

Friday 2 November 2012

Revisiting the Pre-Raphaelites

 
Rossetti: The Beloved
(reproduced courtesy of Tate Britain)
 
 
I went up to London yesterday to see the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at Tate Britain.  I've never really cared for the PRB (this trendy acronym was adopted by the exhibition organisers, and denotes the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood - feminists can refrain from comment).  But I wanted to see the exhibition to see whether I might have changed my view, with the passing of time.  But alas, no. 
 
I did come away with two things, however: the first was that I had always thought of the PRB as being later in the nineteenth century than they were: in fact they kicked off in the middle, rather than towards the end, and were therefore ahead of the Impressionists.  So the idea of them as a rather pathetic alternative to their more successful French contemporaries isn't correct, since they weren't really contemporary at all.  Secondly, though, on reflection it had not occurred to me that their preoccupations were more social than the Impressionists' concern with paint and how things are seen. 
 
It may be for this reason that, in the final analysis, they continue to leave me cold.  The anachronistic nature of many of the paintings is incongruous: the costumes are medieval, the facial expressions and poses distinctly Victorian.  More disconcertingly, a number of the persons portrayed are just begging to have bubble comments put beside them: take the lady on the right in the picture above.  She's obviously asking the girl behind whether she's remembered to bring the tickets.  The one on the left appears to be saying to the central figure: "Keep looking him in the eye and he'll give way".  While the central figure herself seems to be saying to the onlooker:  "Ok, this is who I am."  This all builds up to the idea of girls confronting a bouncer outside a nightclub. 
 
I don't want to press the point too much.  Some of the smaller paintings are beautiful.  I also particularly liked the stunning William Morris rug, portrayed below (again courtesy of the Tate), which I could happily have packed up in my bag and brought home had we a room large enough for it.  The colours still gleam like jewels.  But the great set-pieces of the PRB continue, I'm afraid, to leave me unmoved.
 
 
Antony Mair
 



Monday 29 October 2012

Camber sands

Camber sands
 
 
The beach at Hastings is shingle - as are the beaches all the way to Brighton going west.  On the other side of Rye, however, to the east, Camber has wide expanses of sand.  In the summer months there is a permanent traffic jam of holidaymakers and their cars and caravans.  But outside the holiday season the sands provide a wonderful expanse for walkers and their dogs.
 
Camber itself is a nondescript village, with some cafés and small restaurants catering to the beach crowd.  But a dog-walk on the sands followed by scampi and chips is a good way to pass a sunny day.
 
There are those among you who have asked for more pictures of the dogs: I spent a fair amount of yesterday trying to get an adequate photo, but they were moving too fast for me, and I have a collection of pictures full of blurred fur scuttling out of the picture.  The only time they seemed to come to rest was when there was the prospect of a treat.  So here you are.
 
 


Saturday 27 October 2012

Shanty Night at the Stag Inn

Shanty Singers at the Stag
 
The Stag Inn is at the end of All Saints Street furthest from the sea.  I pass it almost every night as I give the dogs their final walk of the day.  On various nights in the week there is the sound of singing as I walk by, and on further enquiry I found that on Tuesday nights there are folk songs, on Wednesdays "Blue Grass" music, and on Thursday night the Shanty singers.  I've been wanting to go along to hear the shanties for a while now, and finally we got there last Thursday, with our neighbours Ian and Ketil.
 
They serve more than passable food at the Stag, and we had a good dinner in what seemed an almost deserted bar at the front of the pub.  Come nine o'clock, however, various people started drifting towards the back: they were out of sight but it soon became clear that that was where the action was.  In a separate bar at the rear the singers sat or stood round a central table, while others occupied space round the edge.  There didn't seem to be any spare seats, but everyone was very welcoming and more chairs and stools were produced for us.
 
The singers in the group took turns: the pattern of a shanty is that there is a sequence of verses with a chorus.  The chorus may be to accompany the heaving of sails or winches, or just a way of getting people to join in, and varies in length.  But everyone joins in, and since both words and tune are easy to remember it's easy to feel part of the group.  The photo - taken by Ketil on his phone, so not of the first quality - gives an idea of the event.
 
It was brilliant.  We shall be heaving and ho-ing again, I predict.  Avast and belay etc. 
 
Now I've got to go and get that parrot.
 
Antony Mair
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Wednesday 24 October 2012

Back to poetry...


 
 
Before we moved back to the UK, friends would ask us what our plans were on our return.  Paul's were straightforward: to get back into agency.  Mine were rather more vague: I wanted to spend time reading up on a variety of topics - the history of religion; psychology and the development of consciousness in evolution; cognitive neuroscience - in order to try and make some sense of the world we're living in.  In fact, as matters have worked out I find myself more or less back where I was when we left the UK in 2005: writing poetry.
 
Poetry is big in the UK.  "Poetry News", which comes out four times a year, receives 3000 submissions a year, of which it publishes 150.  The annual National Poetry Competition, run by the Poetry Society, received 8000 entries last year.  The Poetry Society runs the Poetry Café in London; the Poetry Library on the South Bank is well-frequented; and throughout the country there are groups and individuals poring over verse.
 
Some months ago I joined two groups: one in Hastings and another in Brighton.  Both meet monthly.  The Hastings group brings together people who read what they have written on a theme given out the month before.  The Brighton group - one of the Stanza groups run as local presences of the Poetry Society - operates as a workshop: each person brings along something they have written and the others present give their comments.  You need to be able to make constructive comments and take criticism yourself.  I find it incredibly useful. 
 
It's curious to find that I took up, almost seamlessly, from where I left off in the spring of 2005.  I'd done little writing in France: the demands of the agency absorbed most of my energy.  Now I'm back, everything seems to have fallen quietly into place.  The other day I discovered that my study window looks onto the house of a neighbour who runs a small poetry press.  It all seems part of the curious serendipity of this surprising town.
 
Antony Mair