Mist, murk and wind

Cliffs to the east of Hastings

 

We're having more than our fair share of weather at the moment.  Living in a house that faces out to sea is wonderful in sunshine - but there's a downside in the winter, particularly at night.  Yesterday a gale started up in the late evening and was howling by the evening.  It roared down our chimneys and buffeted the windows.  Tackleway, our street, is a funnel for the wind as it comes off the sea, and you feel its force as soon as you open the door.  Last night there was rain as well, and in spite of the recent draught-proofing of the windows in No. 7 rain was finding its way between glass and wood frame as it was hurled against the panes at a speed of around sixty miles an hour. 

 

The Wuthering Heights effect was enhanced by a piece of plastic sheeting that had got caught up from somewhere and landed up tangled in the telephone wires on the hillside opposite.  It flapped frantically in the wind.  Then, around 7 pm, as I was reading in the front room of the Matchbox, I heard voices and a walkie-talkie outside.  At first I thought it was a cab.  Then, looking out, I saw that there were chequered cars and policemen.  When I opened the door to see what was happening there were half a dozen police and a couple sitting wretchedly at the bottom of the steps opposite, which lead up to East Hill.  The rain was driving against them all, and the wind keeping up its usual howl.  It appeared that the woman, who was being consoled by the man, had been brought down from the top of the cliff.  They refused the invitation to come into the warmth, saying an ambulance was on its way.  

 

It's in this kind of weather that the plight of the homeless hits one hardest.  There are two or three people sleeping rough in our part of Hastings, who beg on the street during the day.  I have got to know one of them, who has now been given a place to sleep by the Council.  But he has to be out after nine in the morning and is not allowed back in before the evening.  He is meant to have cooking facilities, and a fridge, but they have not been provided.  He is a diabetic, recovering drug addict and gradually mastering a drink problem.  I am overwhelmed by his courage.  If I am hoping for better weather, I'm sure he is, with far better cause.

 

Antony Mair

 

The Europe Debate

Union Jack flying over a fisherman's hut, Rock-a-Nore, Hastings

 

I have witnessed the growth in Euro-scepticism with increasing alarm.  The apparent spokesman of the Tory right wing, Liam Fox, is MP for North Somerset - a constituency not known for its industrial or trading base, and far distanced from any contact with the other side of the Channel.  He personifies the Little England mentality that would have us back to Morris dancing, Gilbert and Sullivan and "the good old days" of unregulated business.  One of his allies is the more worrying Philip Davies, the 40-year-old MP for Shipley in West Yorkshire, whose record is more murky: see his Wikipedia entry.  There is a slightly scary alliance of traditional Tory fantasists from the rural areas combined with a more sinister xenophobia.

 

A matter of equal concern is the lamentable lack of hard information to enable the population to make an informed judgment on whether it is sensible for the UK to be within or outside the European Community.  If any referendum is to take place there will have to be a campaign to educate the population.  I see little prospect of this happening.

 

Leaving the issue of personalities and emotion aside, however, there is a fundamental issue that is emerging.  The European Treaty has always contained the words "ever closer union" as an objective to be achieved by its signatories.  It is difficult to interpret this as other than progress to a federal Europe.  In this context, the move to a single currency was an entirely logical step - as are, now, the moves to fiscal union and harmonised banking regulation.

 

A debate on how far the UK is prepared to go with "ever closer union" is worth having.  The eurosceptics, however, don't want any truck with Europe at all - the baby is to be thrown out with the bathwater.  Behind an apparent concern that legislation initiated by Brussels  is restrictive for business and employment there is a shadow of xenophobia and lack of respect for human rights,  Unravelling the strands in the European argument may be a task too great for a Prime Minister intent on satisfying the fundamentalists in his increasingly unattractive party.

 

Antony Mair     

 

Progress in Poetry

 

Poetry reading at the Redroaster, Brighton

 

I'm pleased to say that my poetic attempts are making slow progress: the Stanza Group I belong to in Brighton had a reading in Brighton last week, which was my first experience of reading my creations in public.  And quite scary it was, in prospect.  Once in front of the microphone, however, the nerves calmed down.  An audience of about fifty people listened with interest and some were even kind enough to tell me afterwards that they'd enjoyed hearing them.  Generally a boost to the ego.  I've put a recording of the five poems I read on Soundcloud under the name "Brighton Reading" - just click on this link and then click on the squiggly graph and the sound should come out of the speakers on your computer.   

 

I'm not sure where this is all going, but in spite of the builders I'm reading a wide variety of poetry each day.  I managed to get through the major part of Ezra Pound's "Cantos", and am currently reading his other poetry.  Also Sylvia Plath, whose iconic status among feminists tends to obscure her daunting achievement in a sadly brief life.  And an excellent anthology of poetry from Skelton to Dryden, edited by Michael Schmidt.  On 20 February I'm due to start an online course with Catherine Smith.  I'm a bit wary of creative writing courses, because I think they're producing what someone has referred to as the "commodification" of poetry, but I've enjoyed the workshop sessions with the Stanza Group, and we'll see where this goes.

 

I'm still attending the monthly meetings of the Hastings Poetry Group, who are less earnest in their approach.  The theme for the next one is "Candles".  I do a serious poem and some light verse, as two separate contributions.  Here's the light one:

 

THE CANDLE

It began with a gift

from a visiting friend:

I opened it, sniffed

a peculiar blend

of patchouli and spice.

“Thank you,” I said, “very nice.”

 

Scented candles were new

- this was quite long ago –

and I hadn’t a clue

as to where it should go:

so I placed it for then

in my ex-husband’s den.

 

I’d not managed to banish

the smell of my ex

that I’d thought would soon vanish

but it stayed like a hex.

Though I’d had the den painted

it smelt somehow tainted.

 

So, later that night

I lit the small wick

and left it alight.

“That should do the trick,”

I thought with a grin

as I poured a stiff gin.

 

 

The next thing I knew

was a slap on the cheek

and a voice saying “Sue,

are you able to speak?”

I was out in the street

but somehow felt heat:

 

 

when I opened my eyes

I saw my house burning,

flames high as the skies,

and felt my head turning:

“W-what happened?” I stammered.

“You fell.  You got hammered.”

 

 

The insurance came good

and I rebuilt the place.

Paint, plaster and wood

have removed every trace

of the smells I had tried

to expunge from inside.

 

 

There’s a gentle perfume

throughout the new space,

and I’ve scented each room

with diffusers and sprays:

pomegranates and lime,

apple-blossom and thyme.

 

 

Life’s now smelling sweet

but the lesson I’ve learnt

is: get close to the heat

and your wings will be burnt.

Best to live on your own

in a candle-free zone.

Antony Mair 

 

 

 

Let it snow...

 

Fishermen's huts, Rock-a-Nore, Hastings

 

It started snowing gently a couple of days ago.  I had to go up to London for a session with my osteopath.  Mick, the voluble painter working in the Shoebox, was full of gloom about my chance of returning that evening.  However, in spite of the fact that the snow was falling more heavily in London than Hastings, the trains were all working and I returned safely.  The only difficulty I had was, ironically, on the way back, in Crown Lane, which runs up to our street.  The car started skidding on ice.  Neighbours came out to help with gritting from the nearby bin, and Paul - far more competent a driver than I am in these conditions - managed to get the car up to the top. 

 

And there it has stayed.  Today, Sunday, we woke to a rather heavier fall, and it has continued snowing through the day - though in the streets it is already slushy.  We shall see what tomorrow brings.  Meanwhile everything is looking very atmospheric, as you can see from the pictures of the fishermen's huts above.  Their tall shape is peculiar to Hastings, and arose through the fishermen wishing to store three types of net, on three levels, to cater for the herring, mackerel and other fishing needs.  They are thought to have started from the upended hull form that you can see on the right.  New York's Metropolitan Opera did a production of Britten's Peter Grimes a few years ago, which features the same sort of huts on stage - which just goes to show that the designer was unaware of the difference between Hastings and Aldeburgh, in Suffolk, where the opera was originally set.  But that's another story.

 

It looks as if we shall have the white stuff for a few days yet - which may well cause building activity to be suspended.  We shall see who turns up tomorrow.

 

Antony Mair

 

  

Pulpitt Gate, All Saints Street

What it says on the tin...isn't enough

Farrow & Ball paints - courtesy of their website



When I was at Oxford, light years ago, the image of the Bullingdon Club members was pretty clear: hearty, wellheeled foxhunting types who spent a lot of time drinking.  So there was a degree of unreality when I heard our Prime Minister, former Bullingdon Club member, refer to the coalition government as a Ronseal product - "it does what it says on the tin".  It's difficult to imagine David Cameron donning his overalls of a weekend for a bit of DIY with some varnish. 

Recent experience teaches me that what a product says on its tin may not give the whole picture in any event.  We have just had a total failure with Farrow & Ball's limewash paint, of which I have bought a mere 30 litres, representing an investment of some £300.  I had bought the limewash since normal paint would not allow the new lime plaster to breathe.  Mick the painter had been schooled in the instructions for application but after four coats the result was still a mess in the three rooms where he had tried the stuff - an uneven coating, looking like a bad attempt at ragrolling.  Then I looked again at the guidance notes and saw that the limewash isn't appropriate in any event for a non-porous surface; this meant that the paint was totally wrong for the other - non-lime-plastered - walls that needed decorating.  Ouch.

Our French experience, with the beautiful lime-based paint from Color Rare, had led me to think that we could just limewash every wall.  But this watery product from F & B was very different from the ice-cream-like paint we had known in France.  Which just goes to show that you need to rely on professionals rather than think you know the answers - or, alternatively, read all the small print.

That's why I'm not convinced by the Prime Minister.  I suspect that he's never used Ronseal in his life.  If he had, he'd have realised you need to know more than what's on the tin.  Which goes for the coalition government too.

Antony Mair  

Back to normal...

Houses in All Saints Street

 

It's already the middle of January, but at last things seem to be getting back to normal.  Life has improved beyond recognition on the building front, with some sensible workmen now busy on both houses.  A plumber has been booked in for the 28th to do the bathroom in the Shoebox, so with a bit of luck we shall be able to move back in the middle of February and get furniture out of storage.  The Shoebox is beginning to look quite spruce.  As a result of putting lime plaster on the walls, we are having to use limewash paint from Farrow and Ball, which is a poor substitute for the beautiful thick lime-based paint we used in France.  So many Brits in France used to bring paint over from the UK that it gives me some satisfaction to say that the UK product in this instance is totally inferior. 

 

My weekly Yoga class resumed this Wednesday night - another pleasure that I missed over the Christmas season.  The combination of Yoga and daily exercises prescribed by my osteopath has transformed my back from a creaking mess to something almost flexible.  The most dramatic transformation is the ability to touch my toes for the first time in very many years.  It sounds a small thing, but it has shown me that with patience flexibility can be restored to the back, which in turn helps general wellbeing. 

 

All of this has induced a greater feeling of optimism than I have felt in months - so I'm keeping fingers crossed for a good 2013 in Tackleway!

 

Antony Mair

 

 

Gay marriage - England and France

I'd not been aware until recently of the legislation coming shortly before the French Parliament to extend marriage and adoption rights to same-sex couples. The UK is going through a similar debate, but - as so often - the framework of the question is in fact quite different.  In France same sex couples are permitted to enter into a PACS - a pacte civil de solidarité: a type of union recognised by the State, but fundamentally different from the UK's civil partnership.  A PACS does not confer rights equivalent to marriage as a matter of law: the parties define the rights they will have against each other on a separation, for example.  The UK's civil partnership legislation, on the other hand, was carefully drafted to place same-sex couples in the same legal position in every respect as their heterosexual counterparts.  The only resulting difference was the use of the word "marriage" for the latter. 

The French "mariage pour tous" legislation is a substantial extension of rights for same sex couples, whereas in the UK the question of gay marriage is basically one of terminology.  This does not of itself mean that the UK debate is unimportant - even if the prospective legislation is a minor tweak by comparison with what is happening in France.

The spectre at this particular feast in both countries is of course the Christian Church - be it Catholic or Protestant.  When I hear ecclesiastics insist that marriage is for men and women only I cannot escape the feeling that I prefer the churches to deal with the nature of God rather than the structure of society; there is a historic confusion of theology and sociology that needs to be nailed.  I personally don't believe that the churches should be obliged to celebrate same sex marriages.  But it strikes me as obvious that society has changed and that same sex unions should be recognised by the State, with all the attendant rights and duties equivalent to marriage.  And having got that far, it seems stupid not to call it marriage, leaving the leaders of the church howling on the sidelines rather than facing up to their own problems of celibacy, child abuse and dwindling numbers.

Strangely, I have no particular axe to grind on the matter.  Paul and I entered into a PACS when in France, which is recognised by the Civil Partnership Act, for English law purposes, as equivalent to a UK civil partnership.  Ironically, therefore, by crossing the Channel from France to England our rights have automatically been upgraded.  Tough for the French bishops to accept, but that's the way it is.

Antony Mair




 

And we thought it was almost over...

Sometimes a facelift can take a long time...

 

Before the Christmas period I thought that the scaffolding on the front of the house would be down within a few days.  Silly me.  Scaffolders seem to operate on the basis that their structure stays in situ until needed elsewhere, so why take it down over the Christmas break?  unfortunately the break also coincided with our realisation that our amiable builder was not really getting ahead as he had promised, and today we had to agree to part company with him and (gulp) arrange the balance of the work ourselves.  Fortunately we have been using workmen direct in No. 7 who can be deployed to finish off what's needed at No. 8 - but of course this means delay.  Not that we are alone in this: our local doctor told Paul recently - in the course of a two-minute consultation very different from the chatty sessions in Ribérac - that he had had builders round for what was meant to take six weeks and they were there for four months.  Ouch.

 

However, now we have wrested control into our own hands we shall have only ourselves to blame fof further mishaps.  Hopefully, too, this spells the end of those middle-of-the-night worry sessions where you feel things are out of control and heading in the wrong direction (to the extent they are heading anywhere!).

 

On Monday next, however, painters start in No. 7 so there should be progress on that front.  And the other positive factor is that we have - so far - been spared the norovirus, aka winter vomiting sickness, which seems to be cutting swathes through the population.  I just hope that it spares, too, the workmen who will - fingers crossed - help us to get back into the Shoebox by the end of January.

 

Antony Mair