I Stroke A Hedge

I trailed my fingers through a beech hedge as I walked home earlier, then retraced my steps to run my hand though it again.  The leaves were still (just) young, tender: at the bright stage.  They felt soft, feathery, light.   I particularly like this moment in the hedge's year.  Soon, the leaves will have stiffened and darkened: assumed a tougher and more mature posture.

The clever thing about a beech hedge is that, even after the autumn frosts, it retains its brown leaves. Through the winter, many of the leaves cling on, so, though deciduous, it provides all-year-round cover.  

The clever thing about a beech hedge is that the old leaves only drop off as the new ones push their ways through.

I Indulge In A Paradox

It's a month till my annual camping trip with my longest-serving friend, Helen.  The trip marks the anniversary of the start of our 50th year celebrations and therefore their end, allegedly.

Some of the pleasures of camping are unavoidable, and are largely to do with shedding - shedding walls, ceilings, fridges, the internet: baring body, mind and soul to the considerable elemental forces of a field in Wales.  Some of those pleasures are, however, to do with acquisition - particularly, the acquisition of new equipment which allows campers to camp-lite.

It's a paradox, but camping shops are full of sleeping bags, tents, roll mats and cooking equipment all lighter, more compact and streamlined than the ones you already have.  You need to buy more to have, to carry, less.  The technology is alluring, and helps to leaven memories of soggy, heavy, camping without integral groundsheets, under canvas, on camp beds.  My worst ones concern being a camp leader in a wet August in Cornwall.  With slugs.

So yesterday, I popped into Millets for the third time in three weeks.  Inbetween my visits, I've been thinking about what I can justify spending on new cooking equipment.  Trangia, the Swedish ultralight camping stove specialists, have been seducing me with their impeccably designed stoves,  mini-stoves, non-stick pans, kettles and mess tins.  I have been imagining extending my camping recipe repertoire beyond various forms of risotto into scrambled eggs, friend eggs, poached eggs, coffee.

Millets clarified the situation for me yesterday by having most of these items in their sale.  And by offering me an extra 15% off if I buy them in May.  There's nothing like saving money to induce a flurry of spending.

I Plant A Plant

I was planting some cowslips that my longest serving friend's mother gave me from her garden when it struck me that I was planting a plant.  I started thinking about this satisfying state of affairs.

I have subsequently become a little obsessed with words that exist both as nouns and verbs, and which can be used in the same simple sentence.  There are quite a few of these, but top of the list so far for me is 'pod' which - in addition to leading me to think about bending to pick peas in a summer garden, then podding them, eating them raw - can also be spun through 180 degrees and remain itself.

So far, my thoughts have led me in this circle:

I drink a drink

I request a request

I dance a dance

I risk a risk

I touch a touch

I kiss a kiss

I whisper a whisper

I promise a promise

I wave a wave

I text a text

I drink a drink

I realise all this has very little to do with cowslips.

I Kill A Bird

On my way home today, I was driving into town - no more than 20 mph - when I noticed a bird flying in on the extreme right of my peripheral vision.  Its arc was wide and in a moment it had flown down and in towards the underside of my car.

Everything about this death seemed soft: my foot on the brake; the bird's low flight; the quiet thud of its body - bone and feather - against the wheel arch; the flurry I saw in my left wing mirror.  Even the scale of this loss -  perhaps a thrush? - seems soft, against all the other losses.

All evening, I've felt a blur of regret, a sense of what Gerard Manley Hopkins calls "cloy" in his devastatingly beautiful poem, Spring.  I've felt the ache of gratitude for all the life of this blustery Mayday - for "all this juice and all this joy", for the "rinse and ring" of it.

I Solve Most Of My Problems

I was chatting on the phone to a friend (one of my best) this weekend, and she was telling me how she'd failed in a situation she was describing involving the unexpected arrival of a More-Than-Annoying-Person.

"Did you lose it?" I asked.  "Did you run around screaming?  No?  Under the circumstances, you did well not to break the law."

The problem is, we concluded at the end of laughing, that we both routinely set ourselves standards which are not only unattainable, but also unnecessary.

According to Wikipedia, a source I can now (having resolved to lower my standards) consult without shame, perfectionism is a personality trait characterised by a person's striving for flawlessness and setting excessively high performance standards, accompanied by overly critical self-evaluations and .... [yawn].  The next sentence says something about unattainable ideals.  Well stuff that.

"So," I said to my friend, with the conviction unique to hypocrisy, "your standards are far too high.  Lower them.  If, say, your benchmark was in this instance, 'Deal With Annoying Person Whilst Avoiding Criminal Activity', you'd have reached it with, dare I say it, room to spare.  Instead of feeling like a failure, you should be proud of yourself."  She had to agree.  

Taking my own advice, I am spending this evening with a glass of wine, busily lowering my standards all round. 

I Review A Performance

I’ve been to Rome – did I tell you?  It amazed me.  Whilst I was there, I mislaid my duties for a while – it wouldn’t have been a holiday otherwise.

I missed doing several loads of washing, I missed quite a few meetings, and I missed April’s Shrewsbury Poetry @ Eat Up which included one of the few available performances of Standing for a Seat featuring the Triumvirate of Paul Francis, Ian Lakin and Steve Harrison.  So this evening, after a day of meetings at work, and dressed in cleanish clothes, I popped down to Much Wenlock for a showing at the Priory Hall.

Standing for a Seat opens with Steve’s poignant poem in which he recollects ‘the first time’ (that he cast his vote).  He’s right.  It’s a big moment – a coming of age, a rite of passage, a transition into adulthood which only makes sense in the remembering, with the benefit of hindsight.

 

Next we were teased with the non-appearance of Dave C. before Paul’s satirical tribute to Russell Brand – Russell is a movie star, and we’re his backing band.    The musical theme was made a reality by Ian and his first song, with its lyrical nod to Bob Dylan – Hard times, they are a-changin', was sung in his rich and easy-on-the-ear voice.

 

What then followed was a well-informed tour in five parts through some familiar and less familiar political history and commentary.  For me, the highlights of the 45 or so minutes of poetry and song included Steve’s vivid imagery – his idea of our ballot paper Xs as penciled kisses hadn't struck me before, and the thought of my folded ballot paper amongst many, poured out like fish to be counted and sorted into species is simply beautiful.  Ian’s songs are lyrical and feature interesting chord transitions for the discerning musical palate.  I particularly enjoyed his anti-London-focus song which recommended: Let’s all move to Birmingham, it’s really quite large, They’re building a John Lewis, there’s no congestion charge.   Paul’s sharp commentary also took me to new places – the real split in politics, he argues, is not between parties, but between those who are daft enough to give a toss, and those who aren't.  The thought of A little touch of Tony at the polls sent a shiver down my spine whilst his Verity poem, delivered without script, is a tour de force.

 

I know from speaking to university students that there are many political virgins out there who have never used their hard-won right to vote.  They would do well to see Standing for a Seat.  It might prompt them to make this May 7^th, however confusing an experience it might be, their first time.

Next Show -  Victoria Hall, Broseley, Friday May 1st 7.30pm

I Anticipate A Holiday

In preparation for my Roman holiday, I've just Googled, 'What do Romans do?'  The first result starts like this: 'Some things Romans did for fun were horrible.'  Having watched Russell Crowe fighting his way to a dubious and vengeful moral victory in Gladiator yesterday evening, I couldn't agree more.  

The next result of my inquiry discusses the Roman invasion of Britain.   This makes me remember that I've never visited the site of the fourth largest Roman city in Britain, Wroxeter.  Wroxeter is just outside Shrewsbury, where I've lived for over twenty years.

The third: 'Your stay in Rome is all about your state of mind.'  I'm still thinking about that one.

The original saying which prompted my search: si fueris Romae, Romano vivto more ...  When in Rome do as the Romans do ... has been attributed to St Ambrose, to St Augustine, and to other purveyors of such wisdom.  If I follow this advice, based on my experience as a Londoner who's never been to Madame Tussaud's, I probably won't visit the Sistine Chapel, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, or even the Coliseum, arena for many of the horrible things Romans did.

What I might do is sit around in cafes with my sons, anticipating a bowl of pasta, noticing the latest trends in Italian fashion, imagining Keats, here but dying, drinking 'a beaker full of the warm south', enjoying dolce far niente - the sweet Italian art of doing nothing.