The changing face of Gatwick

I used to quite like travelling through Gatwick.  It didn't have the labyrinthine aggro of Heathrow.  The majority of people seemed to be going on holiday, so cheerfulness and good humour prevailed.  The departure lounge was spacious and well-planned.

 

All of that has disappeared in our age of austerity.  Access to the departure lounge involves an obligatory walk down a winding path of sparkling black granite flanked by brightly-lit shops hard-selling such must-haves as Veuve Cliquot and Chanel's latest.  All that's missing is an animated stuffed toy and a change of colour scheme to give the full ghastliness of the Land Of Oz.

 

The once-cheery holidaymakers in their matching shellsuits have been succeeded by the shapeless and ill-clad forms of the New British, vacant-eyed and unsmiling, staring at the departure boards to see whether the flight's delayed or whether they need to start the long pilgrimage down ramps, through corridors, past barriers manned by bored personnel inspecting documents for the thirtieth time, into the cattle-pen departure lounges and finally to the waiting plane.

 

This process is made no easier by building works - allegedly to make the experience more pleasant in the future.  I suspect that this involves an increase in the smiling salespeople attempting to foist unwanted goods on a brutalised public.  I ventured into a branch of WH Smith - seemingly in the process of rebranding itself as something like "Newsagent of the World" - and asked if they had any foreign language newspapers.  I was met with a vacant look by the young assistant, who then remembered her trainng and walked me over to the news-stand, merely to confirm with her own eyes that what was on offer was English language only.  The stand was awash with the Daily Mail, which I only handle with tongs and distaste.  So much for our international and multicultural society.

 

"Sorry we're not looking our best", said the hoarding in front of the building works, beside signs for an emergency exit in case the experience was overly traumatic.  Gentlemen, I'm sorry too.  

 

Antony Mair 

 

 

 

Julian Clary at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill

The De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill

 

Bexhill is one of the less likely venues for camp champ Julian Clary - but in showbiz you tour wherever you can, and so Julian came to the De La Warr Pavilion last night.  I'd never seen him, and was a little taken aback, when I booked a couple of months ago, to find that we had a choice of seats way back or - yes - in the front row.  Oh well, I thought, at least in the front row you get a good view.  My sister-in-law Lauris, who'd expressed a wish to join us, was nervous about the prospect of being hauled up on stage and ridiculed.  As if our Julian would be interested in the opposite sex! 

 

Paul inconveniently found a reason to go to Northern Ireland, as a result of which it was Lauris and me and a friend, Linda.  I thought that this might give me a bit of cover as a heterosexual, with a woman on either side, but alas no.  It turned out that I was virtually the only male in the front row, all other males of whatever persuasion being sensibly tucked behind us.  What was more, the other front row occupants were on the far side of seventy. 

 

So I had to bow to the inevitable.  In the event it wasn't too bad, and I just smiled away as best I could and longed for that bit to be over.  The camp comic was more than skilled, and had me in stitches in the first half - the audience participation came later.  Lauris and Linda said they preferred the second half - but seeing other people squirm with embarrassment is always good for a laugh.  In general a good evening was had by all.  My fellow-victims could be seen exchanging addresses afterwards, which I thought a tad odd for heterosexual men.  But Bexhill is full of surprises.

 

Antony Mair  

 

 

 

Taking the Chinese medicine

Entrance to Dr. Ye's practice in Saint Leonard's

 

We learnt about the Chinese medical practitioner, Dr. Ye, a year ago from our joiner, Olly Adams. Paul consulted him (the doctor, that is, not the joiner) with total success about the cold-sores that had plagued him for years.  Having myself been a victim of headaches and migraines for around four decades, I thought it might be a good idea to go and see whether he could do anything.

 

Paul's treatment has been mainly dietary, with the abolition of yeast and yoghurt from our daily diet, a change of mealtime regimes so that lunch is the main meal rather than dinner, and regular consumption of warm water.  As a result of my visit this afternoon, I have been told to stop drinking all alcohol (I was down to one glass of wine a day, but that was treasured, so it's going to be a sacrifice), and abandon tea and coffee, but to drink warm water instead.  And eat more of - guess what?  Beans.  Hmm.

 

So far, so sensible.  After the initial advice, based on questions and answers, looking at the tongue and feeling the pulse, the good doctor proceeds to track the meridians while the patient lies on a massage couch.  Tracking meridians involves the pummelling of acupressure points and felt like being run over by a giant bulldozer.  In fact, the process was so painful that, between yelps, I asked whether he was torturing me for information - if so, I'd gladly give it to him.  I now know that I would be no good as a spy in enemy territory.  Curiously, the whole business was so bizarre that I found myself getting slightly hysterical with laughter at the same time. 

"Did your back feel like putty at the end of it?" Paul asked when we were comparing notes on my return.  Actually, no.  But I'm hoping that with the new regime of no alcohol or caffeine and loads of beans I shall feel newly energised.  Strangely, I was feeling quite good before I went.  But I suppose that's what preventive medicine is all about.

Antony Mair

 

Sport and the older man

Gary Player - not in the first flush of youth

I can't say that sport has ever figured high on my list of interests: exercise yes, to a certain degree - and in times past I was devoted to horse-riding.  But I was conscious of my failure as a sportsman generally when speaking to my barber the other day.  I say "barber" intentionally, because my lack of hair has reduced a haircut to a whizz over with the clippers, rather than the shampooing, careful shaping and conditioning that used to be a ritual in some of the smarter London salons.  I now go to an elderly gent in Saint Leonard's, down the road, and queue up with everyone else.

I know that said elderly gent is fond of his golf, so was chatting to him about his game, after we had exhausted the weather.  (Nothing too daring by way of conversation at the barber's - mention the Pope or Margaret Thatcher at your own risk.)  He asked me if I played golf myself, and I confessed that I hadn't touched a club for fifty years.  He then dropped his voice, adopting the tone that barbers once used when asking if there was anything needed "for the weekend", and asked "Do you do any sport?" - pause - "bowls, for example?"

I had obviously not made the grade on the sports front.  My morale was improved by reading, that afternoon, an article in the Hastings Observer about a local farmer who was to celebrate his 60th birthday by running in the London marathon dressed as a chicken, followed by running 69 miles along Hadrian's Wall and finally a cycle ride from Hastings to London.  I found this less admirable than insane and likely to wreck his aged joints.  I was relieved to see that the newspaper editor shared my view, as was shown by his inserting, below the article, a prominent advertisement for mobility scooters and electrically powered Zimmer frames. 

Walking the dogs three times a day is likely to be as far as I get in the sports stakes, so world golf champions - and indeed my barber - have nothing to fear on that score.  And I can't really take bowls seriously - not after Beryl Cook.

Antony Mair

Beryl Cook's Bowling Ladies

 

Learning about fish with Paul Webbe

 

 Paul Webbe displaying a skate in Hastings Fish Market

 

One of my Christmas presents from Paul last year was a cookery morning with Paul Webbe, owner of the eponymous Webbe's restaurant just below our house, on Rock-a-Nore.  I finally got along there this week, with thirteen others, and had a brilliant morning that started with a visit to the Fish Market, opposite the restaurant, and some fascinating details about sustainable fishing by the Hastings fishing fleet.  Because the boats are small, they only fish up to six miles offshore, using trammel nets - i.e. nets that operate like a portcullis, with a mesh the right size to trap fish of a certain age only - unlike the trawler nets that drag along the bottom of the sea, catching everything in sight.  I had not realised, either, that 90% of the day's catch is collected in the early hours of the morning and transported to Rungis, outside Paris - the "sustainably fished" label giving added value.

 

This was followed by a stroll down the sheds of the "boys ashore" to pick up fish at a third of the price you pay in a normal fishmonger's, which we then took back to a large kitchen beside the Stade Hall, where Paul taught us how to fillet the different varieties - which we then did with varying success.  We filleted fish and dissected crabs for a potted crab starter, and finally, bewildered by science, repaired to the restaurant where we had a mammoth lunch of potted crab, carpaccio of salmon, bouillabaisse, fillets of lemon sole and finally a panna cotta with roast rhubarb.  Although we had done the main task of preparing the fish, the end result was, needless to say, transformed by the kitchen's magic in the restaurant. 

 

I found the whole morning totally inspiring, and although I shall have to do some practising with filleting, I'm no longer scared to death by the thought.  The need to experiment further means that  people coming to dinner tonight are getting boeuf bourguignon! 

 

Antony Mair 



 

 

The joys of kitchens

 

 

Buying the Shoebox was fairly bonkers when I thought about it.  I enjoy cooking and gardening a lot, but the Shoebox's garden is a back yard, while the kitchen is the size of a walk-in wardrobe.  Everything's a compromise.  In Hastings Old Town large gardens are exceptional, and a garden or yard with sunshine and any view even more so.  Our little back yard has both light and a view of the sea, so we can't complain.

 

I was a bit downcast about the kitchen, initially, but with the aid of a local firm it has been totally transformed.  Somehow we now have room for a double oven, fridge-freezer and dishwasher as well as a small table and a couple of chairs.  The new oven's fan system seems remarkably effective, and there's enough cupboard space for me not to feel totally paranoid about storage.  But I confess that my real joy is the induction hob.  It's frighteningly efficient - we timed it against the electric kettle and it heated water to boiling point at exactly the same speed.  Reducing the heat gives as rapid a response as gas.  And it's easy to keep clean.  So it's got everything going for it.

 

The downside has been the need to buy new saucepans - but I didn't feel too guilty about that since the previous ones were twenty years old and found a good home with my formerly homeless friend John, who is now off the streets courtesy of a council flat.  We've unpacked all the cookery books from the packing cases so we're at last able to start returning some of the hospitality we've enjoyed from others.  After all, a kitchen isn't a joy in itself, it's what you produce from it that counts!

 

Antony Mair

 



Vienna Festival Ballet at the White Rock Theatre

The White Rock Theatre is not a mainstream cultural haven, being given over mostly to musical events at the lower end of the highbrow scale, alternating with stand-up comedy.  But we went along to see the Vienna Festival Ballet perform Sleeping Beauty last night, on the basis that classical music needs to be supported.

If the intention was good, I'm afraid we didn't carry it out fully, leaving in the interval.  Forgive me for being naïve, but I'd foolishly imagined that this troupe came from Vienna.  But no - the Viennese connection stems solely from their founder Peter Mallek, who happens to be Austrian.  The company is based in the UK.  Disappointment No. 1.  As so often happens with budget productions, the music was recorded - Tchaikovsky's beautiful score was reduced to a syrup of ill-defined sounds coming out of giant speakers.  The costumes were so clearly made of thin synthetic fabrics that I was surprised the static didn't interfere with the sound system. 

What of the dancers?  well, they did their best.  I felt they were ill-served by a stage design inspired by Rose's chocolate boxes, and a choreographer who had simplified Petipa's original: the turns were slowed down, the jumps (forgive my ignorance of the proper terminology) got them off the ground, but only just.  In the place of energy in the dancing, we had a lot of smiling: smiles fixed so hard on the dancers' faces that they became more like a grimace as time wore on.  The corps de ballet comprised eight girls, four approaching beanpole status and four diminutive and predominantly Oriental.  Teeth were in full evidence, and in one or two cases an orthodontist would have had a field day.  The Queen perched on a rudimentary throne at the side, paying no attention to the dancers but displaying the obligatory smile.  The wicked fairy Carabosse did quite a good impression of Tracey Emin on point. 

There's only so much saccharine one can take, and I'm afraid we had had enough by the interval.  If Hastings wants to get its coveted award as City of Culture it's going to have to do better than this.  As for Vienna Festival Ballet: I suggest they ditch the classics, get a decent choreographer and some musicians on stage and join the twenty-first century.  Classical ballet doesn't have to be this dilute mishmash of tinsel and sugar: Kenneth MacMillan showed us that fifty years ago.

Antony Mair 

Margaret Thatcher - divisions and distortions

The Daily Mirror implies there were no divisions before Thatcher

 

I heard Radio 4 broadcasting the news of Margaret Thatcher's death on Monday this week without any particular emotion.  That evening I was in Brighton.  As I made my way to the Stanza meeting in the Caxton Arms a man slightly the worse for wear walked by on the other side of the street, singing "Hoo-ray, the bitch is dead!"

 

I was fairly shocked by the reaction, but it was an appropriate precursor of what has followed in the media (which for this purpose includes Facebook and Twitter).  The BBC has gone overboard in its coverage.  Indeed, I have felt almost slighted by their omission to telephone me and ask for my own views and memory of her.  But at least they have shown a degree of impartiality - unlike the right-wing press on the one hand, or left-wingers - often of the armchair variety - on the other.

 

I have two particular memories of Margaret Thatcher's era.  The first was when I learnt, fairly early on in her time as Prime Minister, that she had abolished exchange control.  I was working in the City, and an inordinate amount of my time seemed to involve applications to the Bank of England for clients wishing to invest money in businesses overseas.  The abolition of exchange control was a simple but radical move that freed British business to operate internationally and contributed in no small measure to its subsequent success. 

 

The second - more general - is of the end of her time as Prime Minister, when she seemed intransigent and doctrinaire; incapable of admitting the validity of any opinion other than her own.  Her downfall was by this time inevitable.

 

Those who dance on her grave commit a number of mistakes: they fail to acknowledge her triumphs as well as her failures; they fail to acknowledge that she was re-elected twice and thus had a mandate confirmed by the democratic process; last but not least, they fail to perceive that their own attitudes and behaviour may derive from her championing of the individual over the State.  

 

Don't get me wrong: I have no wish to beatify her.  But I see no point in airbrushing the picture either to show the saint pictured below, or to give her a pair of horns.

 

Antony Mair

 



Breaking into the poetry world

Since returning to the UK I've taken up poetry writing again - but this time on a regular basis.  I've been writing, on and off since I was a teenager, but over the past fifty years (ouch, it's that long) the poetry world has been completely transformed - not only in terms of technique, but in sheer volume of people writing.  It remains very much a minority pursuit, but an idea can be conveyed of the size of the poetry community by the fact that there were over 13,000 poems entered for the Poetry Society's National Competition.  The editor of one of the more respected journals has stated that they receive, coincidentally, 13,000 submissions each year, of which he publishes about 150.  In other words, you have a one in a hundred chance of being accepted.

Why bother about being published?  there's no money in it.  There can be an element of vanity: but, more to the point, among poets it's seen as a form of recognition.  Not being published doesn't necessarily mean you're bad.  But being published may indicate you're good. 

I've been quite daunted by the quality of what's published in the better magazines, and have felt at times that my little efforts are on a different planet.  But I plucked up courage a few weeks ago and sent some of them off, and was thrilled to get an acceptance for one from the editor of acumen.  This was followed by an email from the online Ink, Sweat and Tears, saying they'd take another one.  Quite a boost for confidence.  Meanwhile members of the Stanza Group I attend in Brighton are going from strength to strength, winning prizes and getting their pieces published in eminent places.  I feel like an aged tortoise to their hares, but still enjoy being part of the same landscape.

Antony Mair

St. John Passion in St. Leonards

We had another musical evening last night, courtesy of the Hastings Philharmonic Choir, in the magnificent Oxford Movement building of Christ Church, Saint Leonards.  If there's classical music going, I believe in seizing the opportunity, and although choral music isn't my favourite, you can't go far wrong with Bach. 

In the end it was a bit of a triumph.  The choir seemed a tad shaky to begin with, as did one of the oboes in the orchestra, but everything settled down rapidly and the two final chorales were terrific.  The conductor, Marcio da Silva, currently a postgraduate conducting student at the Royal College of Music, extracted the best from orchestra and choir.  Soloists were drafted in from the Royal College of Music and the Royal Academy of Music: Daniel Joy bore the lion's share of the vocals as the Evangelist, bringing considerable expressive power to what can be a mechanical part.  It was a pleasure to hear Saint Leonards' own Alice Privett again.  A new joy was the bass Lancelot Nomura.

There was something slightly surreal about the contrast between Bach's eighteenth century music, full of the spirit of German Protestantism, and the High Anglican setting of Christ Church, completed in 1875.  My initial instinct was that its interior begs for Berlioz' Requiem, composed in 1840.  However, when speaking to the composer Polo Piatti in the interval he was enthusing about Saint-Saens' Requiem, and I see that this dates back to 1878, so it would be even better.  Let's hope that this enterprising group of musicians take up the challenge in the near future.

Antony Mair

Moving back into the Shoebox

Shoebox and Matchbox on one of our recent sunny days

We've now been back in the Shoebox a couple of weeks.  I'd somehow thought that it would be a simple matter, with everything planned and fitting in just where anticipated.  The reality has been a little different...

Everything came out of store and appeared virtually to fill the Matchbox - No 8, next door.  Some fifty boxes of books and kitchen equipment had to be sorted through.  I'd known we'd brought back more than we needed, since at the time we returned to the UK we'd thought that No. 8 would do for holiday lets.  Now that this idea has been abandoned for a long term let, the surplus has to be got rid of.  So, having imported everything we need to No. 7 - or at least everything we can fit in - we were left with a body of stuff that has had to be sorted into categories for (a) auction in London; (b) auction up the road in Battle; (c) sale on eBay or boot sales; and (d) charity shops.  Needless to say, in the course of this there have been second thoughts, and the Shoebox is fuller than it need be.  Even so, we were left with eight boxes of books, which we have happily donated to the British Heart Foundation's charity shop in Hastings Town Centre - though lifting them was enough to give one a cardiac arrest.

Sifting through possessions always leaves me slightly dispirited.  I know I'm a war baby and hence obsessed with the idea that a nuclear strike is imminent, but even allowing for this did I ever need thirty large storage jars?  The problem with space - particularly such as we had in France - is that you fill it.  Then there are the precious objects that it breaks your heart to get rid of - as a result of which we have a glamorous gilt mirror in the upstairs WC and a bronze 1930s sculpture in the downstairs one.  I know they're mere objects, and meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but they're still part of our lives, and I'm not keen on amputation. 

Slowly, however, we're getting through it and things are returning to some semblance of normality.  I've always maintained that a home is not one's life, but a framework for life.  Now we can start getting back to the real thing!

Antony Mair 

Sugar - should it be labelled as poison?

Pirate flags or poison warnings?  The Wood Shop, Rock-a-Nore, Hastings

 

I'm in danger of getting a tad obsessed about all this food-labelling business.  After the prunes episode mentioned in my previous post, I've been looking at the packets of virtually everything I buy, and am increasingly horrified by the degree of processing in what appear to be quite simple foodstuffs.  Sugar is a prime culprit - added even to some garlic and coriander naan bread I bought the other day.  

 

I'd read in the past that excess sugar in the diet is a major contributory factor to those scourges of our modern society, obesity and diabetes.  I'd thought it was a case of fizzy drinks and sweets.  I've as sweet a tooth as the next person, but these aren't really a problem, and my weight seems fairly constant, so I hadn't looked at it further.  Until, that is, I read an article in the Guardian about the American molecular biologist and biogerontologist Cynthia Kenyon.  Ms Kenyon had discovered, in experiments with rats, that addition of sugar to the diet shortened their lives.  This is because it triggered or accelerated the activity of an ageing gene.

 

The main point of the article was the possibility of ageing being a process that we shall at some future point be able to control through genetic manipulation.  The consequences of this for society are so enormous that I can hardly imagine how we shall cope.  But the lesser point - and one which I absorbed as rapidly as a sugar cube - is that avoiding sugar is likely to prolong our lives.  Conversely, the addition of sugar to processed foods will bring death closer.  Ms. Kenyon removed it from her diet immediately.  Which is why I'm wondering whether the skull and crossbones should be put on packets of the sweet stuff.

 

Antony Mair