Sunday 25th March

Every single human being is wonderful, even those few flawed and broken, or what we might consider not quite whole humans, are wonderful.  The texture of their skin, even when broken and cracked and chapped – soon heals, the gentle fall and curl of eyelashes never fails to amaze, the eyes themselves, each a window to the soul within, the hands which express and show and hold and sometimes harm.  All of it – and each and every one is marvelous.  And when you occasionally are in a crowd, at a concert say, or a football match, or just shuffling along down a tube corridor, you cannot help but wonder that we are all so similar and yet each of us quite quite unique too in this mass of say a few thousand.  Then when you think about a city like London, which I always considered must be the largest in the world but which is rapidly being overtaken especially in the far East, with its teeming how-many-millions of people, all different but all basically the same, how large that number becomes, suddenly we are into the millions.  The human population is estimated at about seven billion, which is about one thousand cities of London full, and again each one much the same and yet vastly different.  At this point one begins to wonder at the enormity of numbers, to try to physically count them would be impossible and we would die before we achieved it.  And human beings are far and away from being the most populous of species, even among the animals; there are far more fish of some types in the sea and most insect species number far more individuals, which we can only assume are similar but each one different too.  Then we have the plants, where billions are incredibly small fry; has anyone ever tried to estimate how many individual grass plants there might be.  When we try to think about bacteria and all microbes numbers are simply no use to us, as there are millions on each individual human let alone in the air around us.  And I ask myself, why this enormity of numbers should exist; is it DNA run riot, or just that there is real safety for a species in numbers? But we look at numbers from the wrong perspective, we each have our single identity, and we therefore look at all numbers as multiples of ourselves, whereas we should maybe be looking at mankind as one, and grass and ant as one too.  Then perhaps we wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by the enormity of numbers.

Saturday 24th March

I bought this book because I happened to see an advertisement for it on the Underground.  I had somehow missed the review of the book, which is strange because I am quite thorough in perusing the book reviews in the Sunday Times, and would be most surprised if this was not featured.  I recognized the name, and remembered reading a couple if his books, oh, quite a few years ago now; Nice Work was certainly memorable.

Well, I bought the book without even reading the synopsis, and stuck it on the shelf.  I have just read it, and was quite surprised to find that it was a biography of H.G. Wells.  Well, actually a sort of fictionalized biography, quoting real events and letters, but making up a lot of conversation and all of the emotions.  It works remarkably well, because it is essentially real, and unexaggerated, but reads more like a novel.  And of course, with the subject matter one had to make nothing up, the story is quite remarkable.  I knew little of H.G.Wells except having read a few of his popular novels as a younger woman, and I sort of knew that he and Rebecca West had a fling.  What I hadn’t realized was what a fabulously complicated love life he had; it’s a wonder he found time to write anything at all.  He was also a socialist and a leading thinker on science and mankind and society.  A real renaissance man, and yet today he is hardly ever mentioned.  Which just about puts it all into perspective, here was a giant among men, a prolific writer and a well known public figure for many years, and yet he lies forgotten.  He predicted among other things Atomic power and manned space flights and aerial warfare, and he is remembered if at all for an early sci-fi novel ‘The War of the Worlds.’  But it is his tangled love-life, falling successively for young and beautiful intelligent women who he seduced and usually abandoned that makes him so fascinating.  His second wife ‘Jane’ seemed to acquiesce in his pursuit of and ravishment of these women, while remaining passive sexually herself.  I just wonder if there was far more going on here than even David Lodge surmised. The book is beautifully written and quite a triumph, but I feel that if I had never read any of or knew nothing of H. G. Wells, I might have lost interest early on.  So a writer’s book I feel, and I give it seven out of ten.

Friday 23rd March

And of course I am in the fortunate position of being able to do just that, but try as I might I am always up by seven. Even when feeling poorly, with a sore throat, a runny nose, or just that seasonal depression that comes on one in the winter, when you look out over grey misty dirty looking skies, and the rooftops opposite are wet and the slates greasy looking, and the lovely London skyline looks smudgy and unwashed, I haul myself out of bed and downstairs I plod.  My hand goes out automatically for the switch on the kettle, and stifling a yawn I reach in the cupboard for a cup, and like a blind man the familiarity of the tea jar is soon under my hand as I feel the drug under my fumbling fingers, and drop the life-giving tea bag into the mug.  No matter how I try, and I have believe me, I just cannot lie in bed.  I feel so self-conscious just laying there.  I try shutting my eyes, but cannot return to sleep when I know the accusatory alarm clock is there watching my every attempt at slumber.  Does this come from years of work, no, I think not; it is somehow innate in me.

There are several ways you can divide people up, and one is that some are early birds while others are night owls.  Edward strangely was more of the latter; he had no difficulty in dozing in bed until past ten at the weekends, and always affected surprise that I had been up for hours already, and had the dishwasher and the washing machine loaded and running, and often a small pile of neatly ironed clothes beside me, while had had been fast asleep.  Conversely of course, I get that sleepy feeling coming over me as soon as the loud triumphant music of the Ten O’Clock news starts, often being fast asleep on the sofa by the time Hugh Edwards has finished reading the first item.  I seem to have a natural watershed between 9.45 and a quarter past ten.  If I can get over this hurdle I am fine, if something distracts me and I am still awake at half past ten I get a second wind and am wide awake again until twelve.  But even on those rare occasions when in company or after a concert I am not in bed until one  in the morning, as soon as the hands of the clock reach six-thirty, there I am itching to get out of bed and start the day.  So even though weary and tired, some days I feel like staying in bed, there I am, up with the larks as usual.  It is only when I have finished my tea, and surveyed the Breakfast news do I question my irrationality.

Thursday 22nd March

Ah me, I must be getting old – I have just been caught out by the oldest scam in the book.  It happened like this, and of course I wasn’t expecting it at all, it came right out of the blue.  I had walked through Hyde Park, and fancied a look at the river, so decided to cut through Knightsbridge and head down Sloane Street and to the Chelsea Embankment.  I was ambling along, enjoying the early morning sunshine, and marveling at the outrageously rich boutiques inhabited by the super rich and wondering how anyone could really justify paying several hundred pounds for a rather ordinary looking pair of shoes.  I crossed the road toward Cadogan Gardens just near the Carlton Tower and just a few feet in front of me a woman in her early thirties suddenly threw her hands up in the air, and bent down and picked something up, exclaiming, “A ring.  A gold ring!”  Of course I stopped and, intrigued, walked the few steps toward her.  “How lucky,” I said, “I wonder who could have dropped it?”  The woman, who I guessed from her accent was East European of some sort, was trying the ring on her finger.  She suddenly turned to me and said, “it doesn’t fit me, you have it.”  and shoved it into my hands.  I turned it over in my hands, it was certainly chunky and had some sort of mark inside.  “I will take it a police station, then.” I said, not really sure if I would because I suspected that most lost property is never claimed and will be taken by the police themselves.  I was still in some sort of surprised shock I suppose, when I felt my sleeve being tugged quite violently by the woman.  “You must give me some money, I have no food to eat.” And her hand went to her mouth as if putting invisible food there.  I half-realised, but wasn’t completely sure that it was a scam, and maybe out of embarrassment, maybe out of conscience I opened my purse.  Luckily I had no notes there, and I gave her some small change and a couple of pound coins.  This of course, failed to satisfy her, and she kept repeating the gesture of hand to mouth at me.  I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I have no notes.” even though I did have some in the side pocket of my handbag all along.    I walked off with this woman following me and tugging at my sleeve every so often, and putting empty fingers to her mouth.  I knew by now she was just a beggar; well I had given her a few coins so please leave me alone.  The gold ring was almost certainly made of brass, maybe a plumbers’ olive bought for a few pence in a hardware shop.  Eventually she gave up the struggle.

At school there used to be a bit of a racist joke. What is the definition of perpetual motion – A Jew trying to get sixpence out of a Scot.   Well, she had met her Scot in me, and I had won.  And maybe as a souvenir, or as a trophy, and brass or not, I had kept the gold ring.

Wednesday 21st March

I am sitting in a Starbucks window seat, not on one of those ridiculously high stools with their narrow high counter, or in the leather sofa designed specifically to induce sleep on it’s habitué’s, but at a plain wooden table and chair where my croissant and latte (medium, not grande thank-you) wait to be consumed.  I am looking out over one of my favourite  parks; Green Park, and rightly named it is too, with its stately trees and sweeping slopes of rolling green grass.

The sun is streaming into my window and I am basking in it, gently turning my face to feel its warmth. At last it seems that Spring is finally here.  I was up particularly early and out by six-thirty today.  Walking, just walking and thinking about the world, life and my book, maybe plotting and planning the next moves of the protagonists in my new story.  It is going slowly, but quite well despite that. I am not the sort of writer who can just write reams and reams.  Mine is a process of constant re-reading; I read it as if someone else had written the story so far and I have to read it anew and begin the process of immersing myself in it, starting to believe in my characters, to begin to live their lives for them, before I can start to write the next bit.  I am just the humble translator of their thoughts, a slave to my characters whims.  Some days I don’t quite get there; I just read and re-read and maybe all I have achieved is changing a couple of adjectives, or maybe substituting a semi-colon for a comma.

I used to fret and worry that this writing was so slow, but it doesn’t matter.  Of course as a rationalist and an atheist I realise that nothing matters at all in the history of the Universe, in the immense spaces of time passed and yet to be played out, the entropy of the Universe, the death of the myriad stars, the workings of a single human mind, let alone the entire species or the survival of the planet itself counts very little. But then again contrary and simultaneous at the same time everything matters too.

Ah, the sun is warm on my face – surely this is the only God worth worshipping, for without its daily blessing we surely cease to exist.  Let us hope that it continues to burn brightly and that we don’t throw too much shit into the atmosphere to block out its life-giving warmth.  So while the sun is still shining, have a nice day.

Tuesday 20th March

Don’t you find it depressing when these Annual events come round, it reminds one of the passing years and that one is growing older, and the speed they seem to recur makes it feel as if one is growing older faster and faster too.  And nowadays the Budget is such a stage-managed event; it is more to garner headlines than to make any real difference.  I mean, everyone is talking as if getting rid of, or reducing the 50p tax rate is a done deal; it almost seems pointless waiting for Wednesday’s announcement, it won’t be a surprise now.  But that is the way things are done nowadays, stories and hints are trailed in the press as if they are leaks when in fact they have been planted by the very politicians who exhibit such surprise at their very suggestion.

Whatever Mr. Osborne decides in his wisdom, or more likely as a compromise with the hurt feelings of the LibDems, who are getting the sharp end of the public’s anger whatever they do, let us hope that it can get the economy going again.  The one thing that is sorely missing is Confidence, but that is largely because the wretched Coalition went overboard on Austerity, and the need to reduce the deficit so quickly.  In all probability they may have made it worse, by making everyone so scared that no-one is moving house or buying new cars or going on expensive holidays.  Like a lot of little squirrels we are guarding our dwindling store of nuts, because everyone has been telling us we are in for a very hard winter, lasting several years, and nuts may be hard to find in the future.

And what is it with the Tories that they hate the Public sector so much.  If conditions and pensions are much better in the public sector, then surely any government should be passing legislation to make the private sector as well provided for too.  It is a myth that the Private sector always gets it right, and that the Market will set the right price for everything.  The Market has no conscience, has no brain, cannot see into the future and is not concerned for anyone’s survival but its own.  The Market is not God, and even if it were, it would only go to prove that God can be a nasty-minded little so-and-so at times.

Politics is a pendulum, which each party tries to swing one way or the other, only time will tell if it has swung too far in one direction too quickly or still has further to go.  Tick Tock.

Monday 19th March

That was the catch phrase that epitomized what the Pythons were all about.  Quite often after a remarkably silly sketch John Cleese in his radio announcer voice-over, or sometimes in a dinner jacket in front of a microphone would look dead serious and say, “And now for something completely different.”  And of course the next sketch would be just as stupid, or maybe some of the same stuff.  The most ironic thing was that of course the Pythons themselves were something completely different, so it actually made no sense, because everything they did was so completely different that it didn’t need saying.  It was also very subversive humour, I am not sure if my mother ever really got it, and Grandma would just get bored, pick up the paper and say, “I really don’t know why you watch this rubbish Catherine, it’s just a lot of men acting silly and using funny voices.  Are you sure there isn’t something on the commercial channel?”  I would smile sweetly and say, “It’s nearly over Grandma, not much longer to go.”

I don’t remember really laughing out loud while watching Monty Python, not like we all did at Hancock, or Steptoe and Son.  This was a different sort of humour, often a subtle comment on society and its stuffiness.  Looking back it was a natural progression from ‘That was the week, that was’ and ‘The Frost Report’.  Maybe it was a conspiracy of the young, in much the same way that ‘South Park’ became for a much later generation; to the older generation, in the latter case, me – a load of rubbish, and not even funny, but to the cognoscenti, those in the know, those young enough and hip enough to be in on the joke it was obvious what it was all about.

I loved the Python’s mix of music and cartoons too, and I think that this perfectly reflected what the ‘sixties’ was about.  It wasn’t just music, or fashion, or politics, but art and literature and cinema too.  It was a refreshing new style after the drudgery and privation of the war years, and the conformity of the fifties, suddenly everything seemed possible.  And was, really.   And for my generation, it has been much the same ever since, a bit of punk, new wave, rave etc:, but essentially it is all the same, nothing new at all really.

I am longing for someone to come up with something really new and say in a semi-serious voice, “And now for something completely different.”

Sunday 18th March

And what a song to complete a week of song titles; a hit from the first moment I heard it.  The Small faces of course, who else – the original Cockney boy band to beat all boy bands, with their cheeky smiles and cute haircuts, they were the ultimate Mod band.  And such genius musicians; Ian McClagen on organ, Kenny Jones on drums, the irrepressible Ronnie Lane on Bass and everyone’s favourite Steve Marriott, the original Artful Dodger on guitar and vocals.  And what vocals, he could sing sweetly and loud in the same song, and always, even when singing in broad cockney, perfectly in tune.  I loved all their songs, but the favourite by a London mile was Lazy Sunday Afternoon.  Another of those absolutely infectious songs that no matter how you try to ignore it, it worms its way under your skin.  I can still remember them on Top of the Pops, probably pissed out of their little brains, falling about with laughter and the audience of young girls with straight long hair and mini-skirts absolutely enthralled to them.  Well, in time honoured fashion the band broke up, with Stevie ascending to the short-lived stratosphere of heavy rockdom with Humble Pie.  Strangley hardly anyone listens to or rates Humbe Pie at all these days, whereas the Small Faces are still treasured. The remains of the band cast around for a new lead singer, and got both Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood to join them and became even more famous as the Faces.  And although no-one can deny Rod had a great voice, he never quite matched Stevie for sheer power.

So, what a week….Monday Monday, so good for me…..Tuesday Afternoon…..Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. …..Thursday’s Child……Friday on my Mind……Saturday night at the Movies…..and ….Lazy Sunday Afternoon.

Saturday 17th March

Tough one this, for ages I could only think of the worst song Elton ever wrote “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’ or ‘Saturday Night Fever’.  Thank goodness I remembered just in time the lovely Drifters song ‘Saturday Night at the Movies’.   The sixties were such a mixed-up time musically, there was of course straight Pop music with the Beatles, the Beach Boys, The Stones and the Who, but there were also the crooners, Matt Monroe, Kathy Kirby, Sinatra and Elvis singing ever more turgid stuff, to say nothing of Engelbert, our current Eurovision last hope, all belting out ballads, and there was still a bit of jazz around – the Temperance Seven and Acker Bilk.  From America – was coming the sounds of Bob Dylan and the new bands like the Byrds and The Doors, but also all that wonderful Soul music that had started with Stax and Atlantic and Aretha and Otis, and now was being dominated by Motown and Smokey Robinson, The Four Tops, The Supremes and of course The Drifters.

I always loved this song, and it’s spiritual brother Under the Boardwalk, which seemed to paint a picture of Urban America in the early sixties which to us culture starved Brits seemed exotic beyond our wildest dreams.  And of course the song is not about the movies at all, but about the girl one goes there with, and what we all knew went on when the lights went down; an invitation to illicit sex if ever there was one.  And it is another of those wonderful Soul classics of which there seemed a constant stream, and all such wonderful tunes, you just have to sing along with them.  So, even though one is snuggled up on the sofa with Puddy-Tat and a good book as soon as this song comes on it is always Saturday Night at the Movies.

Friday 16th March

This was a big and I think the only ever hit for the Easybeats in 1966, the year when everything in Music was accelerating at a pace, and each week saw great songs emerging.  The song and the sentiment capture perfectly the exuberance and excitement of the young as they struggle through the working week in eager anticipation of Friday, the start of the weekend.  Work in those days was seen as a real drag – all the fun, the action, the music, the drink and the sex would be happening on Friday night.  And it still does, for many of us.  Nightclubs and bars and lots of restaurants are busiest on a Friday night, as of course are A. and E. departments, and Police Stations.  For a few years I worked at Islington and after work a few of us would go to the pub next door for a couple of drinks.  The release, the relief of knowing there was no work tomorrow was wonderful; a lightheaded devil-may-care attitude seemed to come over us as soon as we were out of the office and laughing and happy we started the weekend in earnest.

I quite liked the song in the sixties, and became happily re-acquainted with it when Bowie in 1973 recorded it for his album of brilliant covers ‘Pin-Ups’ with the marvelous picture of him and ‘Twigs the wonder kid’ on the cover.  It is this even-better-than-the-original version I have always loved.  It really zings along and is just so infectious you cannot help singing “Monday morning feels so bad, every-one seems to nag me, Coming Tuesday I feel better, even my old man looks good.’

So come on let’s get through the week once more, the drudge of existence at work, the days fall like dominoes ‘cause I’ve got Friday on my mind.