Moving on

This is how I want to remember the garden

Well it is nearly time for me to leave Hedgelands. In another week and a half I’ll be living in a modern development which I hope will give me some time to consider my future without the distraction of the heavy workload, not to mention financial cost, of remaining at Hedgelands. Sadly, it means leaving the very positive aspects of living here behind as well. However, I can still get myself into the countryside fairly quickly here in Devon and a much easier to manage house will give me more time to spend walking in beautiful places without the nagging guilt of the neverending list of things to do that living at Hedgelands entails.

I’ll leave the blog open. I do have the written versions of many of Steve’s poems. After I have had time to settle I’ll review them again to see if any have been left off this blog.

How am I feeling? Ready to move on in many ways. My life will be easier financially and physically. I’ll be closer to friends (just round the corner in fact) and I’ll be able to walk to work which will be good for me. But . . . I still feel sad about leaving even though I know it is for my own good.

In the year since Steve’s death I have gone through a rollercoaster of emotions which looks set to continue for some time to come. I have however made my peace and some progress in getting myself ready to re-write my future. It won’t be a straight line to the new path or paths I may find myself treading. I try not to let fear be my guiding emotion for too many minutes of the days. I met up with Steve because I was a curious and gently adventurous person and I owe it to myself and to Steve to make something positive during the rest of my life. To do otherwise would be to waste this incredible life changing and enhancing accident. I hope that others who have lost their partners will draw some strength from the few initimations of my experiences of losing my best friend, lover, husband. It can be a very lonely process and I’ve drawn strength from reading how other people have coped and not coped with the new life they never really wanted to experience.

Wishing you all the very best
Michele
aka Mrs cynicalsteve

mmm there’s a toad in my pint

Toad in the dining room (former dairy) at Hedgelands

I recall the good natured competition or rather sharing of the most unusual animals to invade the home and tonight I can add one more beastie to the list of creatures that have snuggled up somewhere within the thick walls of Hedgelands.

As any slave to a cat can tell you, when Felix starts paying attention to dark areas under chairs and refuses to come away even when smelly tuna is wafted in their direction, it is time to foster a bit of concern for what might have decided to drop in for a little visit.

Socks and Sweetie (aka mekis – the most evil kitten in show) this evening around 9.30pm were paying particular attention to the space under an old armchair. Normally a big spider is unlikely to hold their attention that long and mere promise of the T word is enough to lure them away.

mmm rather worrying symptom that. So I prepared myself mentally to match wits with, hopefully only, a mouse. Deep breath and then push the chair away and hope that my cats haven’t inherited a ‘pointer only’ gene.

A flash of brown moved swiftly into the shadow. Damn – it looked rather fatter than a mouse. Rats . . . a rat. So a quick call to Socks and Sweetie to get stuck in and fulfill their genetic destiny at which point they lost interest (typical).

So I thought, I might as well flush it out and hope it goes for the kitchen where I might be able to coax it out the door. Of course, I reckoned my chances of achieving that hovered minutely above nil but nothing ventured . . .

So yet more deep breaths and another shove of the armchair and a Mr or possibly Mrs Toad (quite a big one really) was something of a surprise.

So there it is trying to regain the shadows and I’m in the kitchen looking for something to gather this fat, cobweb bedraggled toad up and transport it outside to the rainsoaked great outdoors where it belongs.

The only thing that I thought gave me the necessary distance to hopefully keep me from squealing like a deranged toddler if it moved towards me was a pint glass. Back with the pint glass and hoping the toad had not found somewhere else to hide and, whew, there the toad is and now there it is scooped up into the pint glass. Rather a big toad that fills the bottom of the glass and how the hell did it get into the dining room? I have a few theories but I’m leaving the renovation to others and I am absolutely certain they will find more charming visitors during their labours.

So to set toad free but not before I get proof that there was indeed a toad in the dining room (formerly the dairy). Oh and she did try to escape and I did squeal like a deranged toddler which sounds amazingly like a toad when they squeal actually.

So a quick-ish dash upstairs to get the camera and just pointing straight down and click the perfect close up of a toad in the bottom of a pint glass.

Trying not to scream too much, as by this time toad was really keen to leave, I gathered up the keys to unlock the door and set toad free into the rain and probably to become mealtime for some inexperienced cat or fox or badger.

Ok, it isn’t as charming as a fox in the bathroom but it certainly is different.

all the best
Michele
PS buyer found but contracts not exchanged yet.

Terrible terrible dilemma

Although this post appears under Hedgelands Garden Rescue it is in fact about a decision I have made to relinquish Steve’s garden to someone else who can create their own dream garden or space.

I have had frequent reminders from family and friends that my financial resources are too feeble to enable the work that needs doing. I was being quite stubborn (one of my less attractive traits) and insisting I could carry on with my plans to rescue the trees at least from the snarl of brambles and tackle the work on the house as best I could.

In preparation for support of my idea of staying and doing the work myself I had three estate agents value the property and give me advice on how works would affect the value. Well all three said don’t waste your money and especially not on the garden. Hedgelands is a rennovation project and its appeal lies in its location, situation and the fact that it is a blank canvas with some very nice mature trees and a stable block.

This was a difficult message to hear but one I finally heard. And just as well because a number of white goods have decided to ‘die’ and the works to repair the mess left by the chimney stack has proved to be more expensive than expected.

With a heavy heart I decided to put Hedgelands on the market. I know that even though this isn’t the path I would like to take it is the right one for me at this moment (I hope!). I can’t do justice to the garden nor can I do justice to the house. It will not be easy to leave but I have my memories and will take a few survivors with me.

Hedgelands is now listed on Primelocation and is being sold by private tender (informal sealed bids) by Stags Tiverton office.

I’ve spent this morning showing three sets of people around and roughly a dozen have seen it this week and it hasn’t even been in the papers yet.

I did indeed have the guttering renewed and two windows replace and the stack has now been repaired and rendered on the outside. Some images are posted for you to see. The builders Jack in the Green have done a great job and I can wholeheartedly recommend them for traditional and modern rennovation and repair work.

Steve’s favourite birds (swallows) turned up on Good Friday and are having a feast on the clouds of insects. The birds are creating a din with their calls and so the cycle begins again. Hedgelands the nursery for young animals and new life. The plants that have survived thus far are thriving if obscured by the brambles, nettles and weeds. I am hopeful that some of his trees will survive the transformation.

I will definitely miss living here. It is a lovely spot. The first eight years were fabulous and creating the garden with Steve was so rewarding on so many levels. The small amount of work I’ve done since he died hasn’t been very enjoyable and that is down to Steve not being there.

The garden was Steve’s dream and I was priviledged to share in that dream. Now I know it is time to let someone else create their dream here at Hedgelands.

I hope that people will continue to read Steve’s blog and enjoy the doggerel and banter.

More adventures in cob

Back from the lime course yesterday which I can heartily recommend to anyone currently residing in (or considering same) a period property which include stone built and georgian. Mike Wye runs this course several times a year and the first course of the year was completely booked.

But first the pics (I seem to have mastered the gallery function!). From left to right first pic is one of the crack in the wall with modern filling solution. Second is a close up of the concrete flue which needs to be removed and the hole in the wall repaired. Third photo was taken during the big snow of my favourite morning trees but this time from the office which was formerly impossible due to the chimney stack being in the way.

Back to the Course

The course was a little bit of most of the basic things that go into building and maintaining cob and other traditional buildings. The things that weren’t covered were working with mass cob or any joinery work. I personally would not want to tackle any structurally important work myself but would be happy to try plaster/render inside when the time comes.

Making cob blocks

I had the camera in my pocket but got engrossed in the course and didn’t take one image so you will have to endure my description.

To preface this I don’t reckon forming your own cob blocks/bricks is really a viable solution for most enthusiasts except for those who want to self build and are competent.

Treading: Fairly simply clay, straw and water are tread into a well mixed mass. The role of the bullocks was taken up by 10 course members in wellies. Jolly hard work too even on a cold drizzly day!

Fill the metal form: The next step is to put the web cob mix into a metal form which is roughly breeze block shaped and sized. Pack it in well using wellied foot. Once full . . .

Remove from form: making sure there are no stones in the way of the flat metal plate that is just smaller than the form, two people using excellent hold, lift and plunger action slide the wet block out of the form. Now leave to dry for 6-8 weeks.

Building the stone base:
We went through stone work (very difficult for someone like me who is rather picky and slow) There is definitely an art and an eye needed to do this work ‘quickly’. The stones are not uniform in shape. Don’t think I will tackle this sort of thing for important structures. I might have a go at remaking the well ‘housing’ though.

Pointing:
Again I’m not a natural but could be persuaded to have a go at removing shot pointing and repointing. I don’t have any traditional walls that require this though (whew!)

Plastering/Rendering:
This was the part of the course I was most interested in. It is a minimum of 3 stages but two of those are normally repeated.

Harling – basically flinging in a controlled and skilled manner lime render slurry at bare cob or brick walls. This is the key stage for helping the next layer of render to bind to the wall. Good coverage but thin. Very messy! Can apply the next coat of render in 1-2 days in ideal conditions.

Haired course – a much firmer lime render mix with hair teased in. The hair reduces slumping. This course can be about 10mm or so thick. The action of applying render is different to modern skimming plasters. A second coat of haired lime render/plaster can be applied. Hollows in the cob are filled with this plaster mix. Building layers are ‘roughed up’ to create a key for the next layer. A slow process as it needs to ‘dry’ and times between coats can be 7-10 days in ideal conditions.

Smooth (unhaired) course – Internal work – this is a slightly looser mix (think ever so slightly runny porridge). The first course of this is about 1mm thick. At this stage internal plaster can be sponge finished and you are done. Or you can add a second finer plaster. If you add a finer plaster the coat is finished with a devil float which is just a wooden float with a nail slightly protruding. I quite liked the look of that but the final coats of plaster cover it up.

External work is slightly stiffer and thicker but again you can finish it with a sponge and tight circular motion.

Other important details

The lunch was in an old pub at Shebbear. I was too knackered to notice the name! However, excellent food and divine chocy fudge cake!

Closing

Buckland Filleigh is a bit tricky to find! But I didn’t go too wrong except when I doubted myself. This was the first time I had driven somewhere that is totally unfamiliar to me since Steve died. Steve was the navigator and map reader as I am hopeless at it. I left at 6.45 for a 9.15 start and it took most of that time. Got back in plenty of time to fetch Socks from the vet. He is still not himself.

What next?
Monday the builders show up to replace two windows in the extension and replace the guttering. Yeah!

Adventures in Cob

Chimney Gone - sorry it is dark

[caption id="attachment_375" align="alignnone" width="384" caption="Before Removal"][/caption]Hoping all of the doggerelist’s friends, sparing partners and loved ones had a perfect start to their new year. For myself it was a quiet reflective affair but even the ‘bad’ alone moments had and have their place.

The chimney stack full of wet

I’m a naturally curious and impetuous person regarding certain things. It started way back when I wondered what would happen if I stuck a fork in the electrical socket. I was saved from myself on that particular occasion but the trend was set. However, I don’t want to bore you totally ridgid so I’ll hurry the tale up a bit and just skip to how this chimney stack came to disappear after decades reign of damp.

Discovery

In the post shock – early panicked time after Steve died, I tried to tidy up nearly five years of chaos in the house (which I’ve barely made a dent in by the way). I found plenty of evidence of earlier and successive attempts at papering over the cracks.

Of course, we knew that the house decor had long since fallen from grace. However, a dinnerplate sized active wet patch above a filing cabinet in my least favourite room sent me into a real panic. There was no point in not taking down the five or so layers of heavy wallpaper to see what the wall behind was doing.

Flashback – a few weeks earlier

Just to give some background to this tale – a few weeks earlier a lovely colleague at work (Conservation Officer) and her friends who are cob building specialists came to Hedgelands and spent two hours roaming the house and piecing together a timeline for the building, pointing out the different phases, noting any remedial structural work required and how urgent it was and generally sharing their expertise of caring for these old buildings. I was very reassured and the list of urgent ‘do soon’ jobs was fairly small and affordable. Guttering was top of the list.

Not only did I receive reassurance but a few tips on how to tell if a cob wall is a bit dodgy. If you strip back the paper and give the wall a shove it moves. This tells you the render either has separated from the cob wall or that there might be no cob left behind the render.

Back to the least favourite room

I duly stripped back some paper and exposed the wall surface and shoved and it gave. Deep breath – *!@#!!! So I excavated a hole to see if there was a wall left behind the render. Phew, there is the cob but it feels a bit damp. I went outside and saw the chimney directly behind the damp patch and it looked a likely culprit. A strangled call to the builder to come and quote for remedial works.

This was all before the Christmas and the wait wasn’t too bad. I like having the little I have in the bank so I can feel well off for a short period at least.

The beginning of . . . a small restoration

First stage – removal of chimney which has now been completed.

Of course I was warned that working with cob that has been entombed in hard cement renders can be a bit surprising. Worst case scenario is the cob is not there having washed away over the decades leaving the hard render behind to collapse spectacularly without warning.

Less bad but not great are evidence of cracks and smaller holes. Cracks happen when timber lintels rot away and the cob settles or when modern materials are used in the conversion from thatch roof and small windows to (in this case Cement) roof and bigger windows.

This particular chimney had been reduced in height and backfilled with the rubble and then capped with no air vent. Either through condensation or incursion the chimney was wet inside. Why the previous occupants didn’t just remove the chimney and re-render I’ll never know but I have a few choice words to share with them!

A building engineers pass the little place basically sound with a prescription of renewed guttering and chimney stack to be removed. So although I was slightly alarmed at the evidence of a crack it looked like an old one and it hadn’t significantly damaged the integrity of the wall.

Next stage – drying out (the cob, silly!)

The cob will be exposed for a few months to give it time to dry out a bit. Then the render will be replaced with lime products. The interior will have to be gutted and fixed but it might have to wait until I sort some other structurally important things like the former front door now a window which was (surprise surprise) bodged.

Oh and I’m signed up for a course in lime rendering in March so I will have a much better understanding of what working with cob is like.

Too much for one person . . .

I’m aware that 5 and a half acres of ground including a cultivated garden gone wild and an old property in need of total rennovation is a lot for one poorly paid person to handle. My decisions about any works to be done on the house and in the garden (euphemism for money to be spent) need to make sense if I stay or if I decide to sell. For the time being I am happy to stay and current economic turmoil certainly would make a desire to sell up a terrible and near impossible one to fulfill.

The story of the blue tit under the floor boards

I’m sure that Steve told this one much better than I am about to but here goes.

The setting is the master bedroom – it certainly is bigger than the average sleeping chamber but very simple. There are pine (newish) boards for flooring which are stained a dark oak colour. The walls are papered (sadly) and an old dark rose colour (don’t ask I was obviously in a romantic phase at the time).

The other important detail is Steve had phenomenally acute hearing. I’m deaf as a post.

Steve and the cats were aware that something was scratching under the floorboards. This sort of thing is a worry as rodents spring to mind. Mice are not so bad but rats are definitely not something you want under your floorboards. Anyway this noise carried on for a few nights and at dawn I decided to get up and shine a torch through the cracks as I had heard something near the window.

I wasn’t really expecting to see anything much but as I gazed down a little black eye gazed back and it was surrounded by yellow and blue which forced ‘its a blue tit’ from my lips. Steve just gave me a look that said ‘daft woman!’ and I said ‘I’m telling you it is a blue tit!’

So the decision to lift a floor board and set this little thing free was made and done. We closed the bedroom door to keep the cats out as we quite like blue tits and wanted to spare the little creature being played with to death and also spare a cat or two the embarassment of taking a leap out of the open window.

We eased the board up and out flew a blue tit straight for the open window. I gave Steve a look that said ‘what did I tell you?!’. He gave me a look back ‘Bloody hell she was right!’.

Of course we couldn’t figure out how a blue tit got under the floorboards. No structures directly abut floor level. My guess is there is a small opening somewhere and a mini tunnel in the cob that leads there. If I stay here long enough to rennovate the bedroom I might be able to prove that theory.

Pics – not exactly pretty but I feel that the house has been liberated even though I’m at the start of some not terribly exciting repairs. But who knows perhaps another cob dweller can gain an understanding and some comfort from these rather dull pics.

As always, comments are welcome (but not compulsory) as are verse and conversation about other things.

Michele

Autumn Colour . . . shame about the sunshine

Steve's favourite birches

[caption id="attachment_371" align="alignnone" width="420" caption="One of my copperfoil rounds"][/caption]

Not our oaks but my favourite view in the morning

[caption id="attachment_366" align="alignnone" width="420" caption="View from the office 25 Nov 2008"][/caption]

Autumn Colour November 2008

I thought I would share a photo of some of the autumn colour the garden produced a few weeks ago. Sadly, the sun has not been out much and so the image is a bit dull looking. Amazing how green the nettles, brambles and weeds stay.

Other news – Hedgelands the house has been passed reasonably sound if a bit in need of a spruce up. Guttering repairs and demolition of a disused chimney stack to be completed but can wait until the new year. Garden restoration will begin with me reclaiming the wood from the propagation ‘beds’ and fighting my way through the brambles to remove glass lights and other hazards. Personally – routine gets easier and life gets harder at the same time. Time is running away and I have no idea where it goes. Apologies!

Lastly, I’m glad that people are still enjoying reading through Steve’s and friends’ conversations and verse. I worry about how best to leave something behind so that Steve is remembered in some way and cob walls and trees seem so fragile – his blog may be ‘forever’ in google cache heaven.

Michele – The undergardener

More pics then!
Steve’s favourite birches
Colour Wheel copperfoil art glass round
Favourite morning view
View from the office today –

Continuing the work of The Gardener

Message from Mrs cs:

I would like to convey my heartfelt thanks to those who have felt moved to send me messages both publicly and privately. My apologies that I have not yet manage to reply to you personally but I will do so once the obvious chaos dissipates.

I haven’t found many unpublished works by Steve that I feel are appropriate to add to this site at the moment. I am working my way very slowly through all of the posts and printing them for Steve’s Dad but I do find it hard at times. However, I have been giving some thought to what to do with Steve’s blog.

Certainly, I feel it is entirely appropriate to leave it ‘live’ so that others who have an interest in doggerel can read it. I have also been considering adding a new page to document the ‘rescue’ of the garden which is sort of where our on-line life started many years ago with a little website documenting the garden and plants which is still out there frozen forever in the year 2006. I do wonder whether it is ‘right’ to use Steve’s blog for this purpose, so if you have any thoughts about it please don’t hesitate to share them.

I’m still trying to sort out what I have to live on and trying to adjust to life without Steve so there won’t be a lot of news as we go into Autumn and Winter. The good news though is Steve’s Dad is going to make it possible for the garden to be kept in its present form (1 acre) so I won’t have to make too many agonising decisions about where to cut the garden off. It also means that there is a real prospect for me to remain at Hedgelands.

My plan is to create a new page or pages to share progress (or the lack thereof) in the garden (this post being the first). I don’t expect many to read this part of the blog and to be honest the work (and the progress reports) are dedicated to Steve – besides his ashes can’t be scattered about until I’ve got the grass at the very least under control!

Michele
(aka Mrs cs)
PS . should visitors wish to comment or post doggerel, poetry, questions about plants or gardening I have left that facility (for the time being) in place. Sadly, I will not be quite as engaging or talented a host as Steve but I will do my best.

addendum

I wanted to let you know about the doggerelist’s memorial service for completeness and to thank you all who have felt inspired to share your thoughts and feelings in this relatively public place. I am very thankful for these kind words.

His memorial will take place on Tuesday 26 August at Exeter and Devon Crematorium in the St Peter Chapel at 3.30pm. The service will be held in the humanist tradition and I hope I can convince the official to read some of Steve’s lighthearted and silly works (my favourite at the moment is ‘A mole by any other name’ which in truth is a collaboration with our dear Mishari).

Please do not feel pressed to attend. I think Steve would be happy to have a few jars raised in his name at any appropriate time. I know he left me instructions to ‘be happy and have fun’ and ‘take care of myself’ a couple of years ago when he thought his illness was moving in that direction. I will try my best to keep the promise I made, but it may take a while.

I have found a few unpublished items in his Drafts section but he obviously didn’t feel these were up to his own standards and so I shall respect his judgement. I have also found some poems handwritten that spoke powerfully of his struggle to live with his illness. I know he did not espouse ‘poetry as therapy’ but he crystallized his thoughts and situation. I can only say ‘You can but thank you for choosing not to’.

I will leave comments open for a while for those who might wish to propose other verses written by the doggerelist. I am also aware that there are other gems that have not been gathered in. Should you locate one I would appreciate a brief note of where to find it.

Please take care of yourselves.
Mrs cs.

In loving memory

It falls to me to write the last post for the doggerelist. He died in the early hours of this morning. He was a wonderfully intelligent man who was cruelly cut down by illness the last years of his life. I know he enjoyed greatly the intellectual challenge that the real poets and scholars presented to him. He couldn’t always follow you but he loved the banter. He left no written instructions but had mentioned something about King Crimson Starless and Bible Black – so if you ever hear it playing please spare a moment to remember the doggerelist.

Mrs cs aka doggerelist

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn (but no roses….)

I haven’t posted any plant pics for a while – here’s the last tranche from the folder….all from 2004 or thereabouts….by coincidence, all are shots of individual gaudy flowers….and taken on sunnier days than those offered by this year’s summer….

Leonotis leonuris from southern Africa….I think it’s technically a perennial, although not in the UK….a strange looking plant which sprouts three or four tufts of bright orange flowers at intervals from its stem like a series of garish inverted grass skirts….

Magnolia wilsonii….beautiful downward facing saucers, lemon scented….

One of the newer Papaver orientale hybrids whose name I forget….

A blood red P. orientale in bud….we had several different P. orientale hybrids – they’re more or less indestructible, so I have high hopes that at least a few remain under the nettles….

A cute spring flowering pulsatilla – could be P. cernua or P. zimmermannii – from Eastern Europe….

Kniphofia hybrid….one plant I read about and desperately wanted to grow was a 3m high tender kniphofia species….this isn’t it….

Gentiana asclepiadea….one of the easiest and tallest gentians….

An unusual Rudbeckia species….[very unusual, as it's actually Ratibida pinnata, he says with hindsight]….it bugs me greatly that I can neither remember its name nor find my big blue garden notebook in which is recorded, very nerdily, the name and location of practically every plant in my garden….

Clematis x durandii….a non-climbing hybrid….

Ipomoea….a climbing annual variety….

Given all the daffodil parodies scattered throughout the blog, this just had to be the last picture….Narcissus poeticus recurvus, the so-called “Poet’s Daffodil”….but it’s not very Wordsworthian….

Dumb questions….

Once upon a time, one of my duties was to help out in a weekly class where the basic principles of pharmacology were demonstrated to medical students. In pairs, the future doctors performed a simple experiment not dissimilar to those performed by pioneers in the field a century or so previously, whereby a dose-response curve to a particular compound was constructed. Crucial to such experiments was (and still is) the preparation of a series of dilutions of the compound in question. Naturally each dilution vial must be distinctly labelled with a marker pen to avoid confusion. One week, I noticed that one pair of students seemed to be having trouble getting started. When I offered to help, one of the students asked, “How do I get the top off my marker pen?”

As some of you will be aware, I have been much exercised recently in trying to deal with scrapers: people who copy others’ blog posts and use them as hooks to their own battalions of dodgy websites. There is an established process to deal with these copyright infringements which, although relatively simple, is nonetheless fiddly, and must be followed accurately. In trying to understand the process, I’ve asked questions on various forums; questions which, to those familiar with these things, must be irritatingly familiar. Some people have responded with patient advice which they must have provided to others dozens of times before; others have been dismissively ratty. The assumption sometimes seems to be that with all the information available online, one must be an idiot not to be able to work the process out via a few searches.

I am sure there are plenty of nuclear physicists unable to boil an egg; brain surgeons who don’t know when to prune their fruit bushes; and rocket scientists who scratch their heads when their cars malfunction. (Many poets notoriously can’t even drive….but that’s another story….) Similarly, there are plenty of smart people out there who are at sea with one or more aspects of computing, even though they use the wretched machines daily. But getting answers to computer-related queries can be a fraught business. Those experienced in this field often seem disproportionately patronising. And yet, from discussing scraping on this blog and Michele’s, it’s become clear that even people who are knowledgeable about certain aspects of computing can be in the dark on DMCA notices and how to serve them. No-one is an expert in every field. Even smart people can ask apparently dumb questions.

D.Litt….

It is a truth universally acknowledged that you can’t write anything remotely literary unless either you’re on drugs or you’ve given them up following a heroic struggle. Fortunately help is at hand for the pharmaceutically challenged: a new age of chemical inspiration is about to begin. Novel drugs will shortly be released which will not only result in the removal of the very phrase “writer’s block” from future dictionaries, but will also enable writers to elicit inspiration selectively in their chosen genre.

So if you find yourself stuck for a plot for your next whodunnit, just pop a pill of texasolvin and your mind will instantly come up with a convoluted mystery. Need help with your next Aga saga or similarly themed pink-covered book? Chixalit is the drug for you. Would-be comic novelists even have a choice of stimulation: icudnastoplaffin or mysydzasplitin should help the jokes flow. Graphic novels are stimulated by a dose of pikchurzazwel.

Nor should non-fiction writers feel left out: for biographers there is a series of compounds known as the laifantimes; travellers may find travlinanritin as essential as antimalarials; and for religious writers the controversial new compound skipixibuc is the answer to their prayers. If your literary criticism has lost its sparkle, cemiotix signifies the way forward.

Neither have poets been forgotten. If your finely crafted verse suffers from an excess of rhyming fervour, why not try norimzatol or its derivative rimezaborin? There is even an antidote to these should you overdose: tozatappin. Just be careful though, for some test batches of poetry drugs were contaminated with kalthisapome.

Incidentally, there is some evidence that two of the earlier, less desirable, litdrugs are already widely available on the street: itzabad and mybuxapawlin.

Pryzezforal is anticipated to be popular amongst the Booker set, as is ritinzadodal. Martzaprat and makuwinzadic will have limited use. Initial hopes for nobelzasert have not been met in trials, and quidzin has shown efficacy in only a handful of cases.

Some compounds have been developed with the rarefied heights of the litosphere in mind: tukopisold and sloazucan. Others, such as tomaftatome are aimed blatantly at the lower end of the market. And for ghost writers? Proxipen, of course….

Happy litpill-popping!

once more, schlep for Man….

(Picture of attractive woman reading a book)….Booker longlist announced….blah de blah….Salman Rushdie….Booker of Bookers….gullible reading public….(subs – strike that last bit)….a Booker blog a day keeps the philistines at bay….filler, filler….first time novelist….(subs – insert picture of random First Time Novelist here)….(ed – how many words did you say?)….post-colonial literature….not since the first Booker contest in (subs – please check & insert date)….rhubarb, rhubarb….nostalgic depiction of childhood….echoes of magical realism….cross-generational story….English-speaking world….ying tong yiddle i po….boost for small publishers….fresh voices….Booker shortlist announced….(subs – insert picture of group of attractive women reading some Booker novel or other here)….should have been on the shortlist….multicultural/globalisation….doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo….sumptuously layered text….surprising inclusion on the shortlist….and the winner is….(ed – will this do?)….here at the Hay Festival….(subs – insert picture of deckchair here and loop back to the beginning)….

That damn Bell’s, sancerre & me….

    I
A can of ale, three nights ago,
  Alone and balefully loitering;
The fridge is where I always look
    For the slaking.

    II
But that can fail’d me; not enough!
  So piss’d off that the beer’s all gone!
The squirrel’s gran’ry may be full,
    But my fridge is done.

    III
There is a shop just up the road:
  Refreshments moist, some amber dew,
And (with a cheque) a fresh rosé:
    Fast run thereto!

    IV
I know a lady in that shop
  Not all that young; a fifties child.
Her eyes are cross’d, her foot not light,
    And her hair is wild.

    V
I made a beeline for the beer
  Some bottles too – a fragrant Beaune;
She star’d at me as I did shop;
    And made me moan.

    VI
I paid her with a bouncing cheque,
  And promis’d I’d be back ere long,
Then sidl’d off with bottled clinks
    And beery song.

    VII
I slunk back next day hellish sweet,
  To buy some mild, and whisky too,
And in a language strange she said -
    “I have needs too”….

    VIII
She took me to the storage room,
  And there I wept and sigh’d some more,
And there I shut my eyes and paid;
    There, on the floor.

    IX
And when she was at last asleep,
  And dreaming of – Ah! woe betide!
The fastest dash I ever dash’d,
    To the cold outside.

    X
Yet: I need more ale, more whisky too:
  Ale warrior as I was, for all
I tried – that well-built dame sans merci
    Hath me by the balls….

    XI
I see her starv’d lips in the morn
  With horrid warning gap’d full wide
When I awake and find her still here;
    Me on the quiltless side.

    XII
And this is why – I still need beer;
  Though unalone and balefully loitering,
At least the fridge is full when I look
    For the slaking….

Powell Dancing….

Really, you shouldn’t be reading this if you haven’t read the books in question: for one thing, you won’t get the jokes; and for another, here there be spoilers….neither should you read on expecting erudite analysis or a straight review: I haven’t read all those tedious canonical novels which are no doubt subtly referenced in “Dance”; and twelve densely packed books on frankly I can’t remember most of the details from the earlier ones….although I have seen the eponymous Poussin painting: a visit to the Wallace Collection is a must if you live in London: it’s off the tourist track but not difficult to find….if you know where it is….

I’ve just finished Anthony Powell’s majestic sequence of novels, “A Dance to the Music of Time” (aka “300 Characters in Awe of an Author”) and what fun it’s been. After laying down the final book I feel, as anticipated, bereft. Others have been here before. Part of me feels, as Ed Lake has exhorted, that I should start all over again, in order to appreciate Powell’s painstaking early set-ups whilst the pay-offs are still fresh….

Except that there aren’t really any pay-offs. Cunning as it was of Powell to subcontract the writing of the final volume “Hearing Secret Harmonies”, to Iris Murdoch (the hazily defined cult, mysterious standing stones, and the unidirectional daisy-chain of unrequited love between unusual people with unlikely names constitute unarguable proof), neither of these wonderful authors is at their best tying up loose ends or putting stories out of their misery. In particular, Widmerpool’s death, after a lifetime of behaving like an elephant in an origami showroom, is profoundly unsatisfying. Granted he’s been humiliated in the previous book and a half; but this reader wanted to see him suffer a bit more….

Likewise with Pamela: self-immolation to gratify the proclivities of Gwinnett seems an oddly selfless end for such a supremely selfish woman; totally out of character. I feel cheated by Powell’s casual shooting of both our fox and our vixen; we loyal readers deserve (and have earned) a longer and bloodier hunt. Trapnel would have turned in his gutter had he known….

At least Powell admits the existence of sex come the later volumes. That Nick slips it to Gypsy early on is casually slipped in by Powell: blink and you’ll miss it (Gypsy may well have concurred); whereas in the last couple of books, there is hardly an uncarnal sentence: liaisons homo- and hetero- are to the fore. Jolly good too. In between these extremes various pashes are outlined; I expect the dramatised TV series did all three variants proud (I haven’t seen it: I’m waiting for the promised Quentin Tarantino film adaptation: “Kill Ken Vols 1&2.” (The musical version will no doubt be called “A Dance to the Music of Tim”: notwithstanding that Mr Rice is primarily a lyricist….))

The sequence as a whole “is about” lots of things*: I’ll say here that “it’s about” the way some people seem to come and go in one’s life while others are mysteriously re-encountered on a regular basis. Had the books been written from Widmerpool’s point of view, we might have been treated to the hitherto unread scene where Ken takes out a restraining order to prevent Nick from stalking him. Indeed, some other characters might with justification greet Nick with “You looking at me, pal?” The role of coincidence is not understated. The preternaturally self-possessed Nick’s Big Secret is, I suggest, that he regularly mainlines shredded copies of an early version of “The Little Book of Calm”: how else to explain that he never once, despite witnessing some extraordinary events, lets loose a “Strewth!”, let alone the “Bugger me!” with which most of us would have been tempted….?

There is, to be fair, some justification for Nick’s placid demeanour: unlike the vast bulk of humanity who, after marrying and procreating, must pay a modicum of attention to their partners and loin-fruits, he, pace Lynne Truss, eats, shoots and leaves. He marries – if not at haste, then at least in lust – and then subsequently barely mentions his cypher – I mean his wife, Isobel – for the remainder of the series. When asked about her (by a former lover) in the final book, he changes the subject. His kid(s) (one, certainly; maybe more: who knows? Certainly not us readers) are even better behaved; only appearing post-partum as a transparent plot device to justify his visit to his old school, there to bump into – but no! Enough spoilers for now: in any case, you’ll never guess….

And that reminds me: “the” school is mentioned, as is “the” university and “a” non-specified but undemocratic and dictatored (dictated?) South American Country – rack my brains as I have, Powell has me foxed here (although I’ve narrowed down the South American Country….) Lots of undefined locations throughout actually; which is how I’d write a novel, truth be told….

There are so many beautiful details though: the titles of imaginary novels are my abiding memory – so silly and yet too plausible to list. And don’t you think if X Trapnel were alive today he’d be blogging his fiction whilst simultaneously taking the piss out of established writers? A name floats into view as a contemporary parallel – but alas! It’s slipped away….

The twelve books are wonderful: read ‘em and….? Meanwhile, I’m still left with the problem of what to read next: deduct ten points if you were about to suggest “The Alexandria Quartet” – I’ve tried and tried and, although I have read it before, can’t get into it now….I thought maybe some Coetzee; or possibly that early Booker winner by Newby (if I can find it); “Midnight’s Children” ? (yes; I know….); or should I try to plug some of the gaps and read something worthy and canonical….? Or perhaps something completely different: tell me, and I’ll review it here….if I get past the first half-dozen pages….

****

My Ten Dance Heroes (in no particular order)

Stringham
General Conyers
Mrs Erdleigh
Bithel
Ada Leintwardine
X Trapnel
Jeavons
General Liddament
McClintick
Gwinnett

****

My Ten Dance Villains

Sillery
Scorpio Murtlock
Jean Templer
StJohn Clarke
Kenneth Widmerpool
Pamela Widmerpool
Barnabas Henderson
Mrs Erdleigh
Isobel Jenkins
Nick Jenkins

****

*Should you want to read better analyses of “A Dance to the Music of Time”, I suggest this site, where some Andover College students’ essays are published: a few, I think, find connections unintended even by AP; others are spot on; all are thought-inducing. Good stuff.

nostalgesia….

When I were a lad all good poetry rhymed
And had rhythm and metre and style.
Spoken aloud t’ words thundered or chimed
(Which made learning t’ buggers worthwhile.)

Back then, poets wrote about poetic things
Like Greek urns, or that Burns piece on mice;
Or t’ lad who remained up on deck ’till well-singed,
And t’ Raven I thought were quite nice.

Ornithologists, most of ‘em: keen on bird guff,
Allus rattlin’ on about sparrers,
Or nightingales, owls (whether hooting or stuffed; )
Even chickens that haunt wheeled red barrers.

Em’s immortality, Bill’s narcissisity,
Albatross Sam and Jack’s pitiless whore;
Alf’s equine massacre, Will’s domesticity,
Paradise John, Hal’s monotonous squaw.

Proper poets they were, writin’ verse with their quills:
Red roses and summers’ days, gold daffodils,
Blue hills remembered, the riffin’ of “If”;
(No rude stuff ’bout blue pills for members unstiff.)

Mighty rulers of yore, inspirational muses:
Them’s suitable subjects a real poet chooses.
Like everything else, verse has gone to to the dogs:
I’m blamin’ it all on these new-fangled blogs….

Wordsworth’s worse words….

We need a break after 300+ comments on the last thread….and this is all there is: apologies to anyone offended, but in all fairness, this is my first smutty doggerel here….I shan’t make a habit of it….

I fondled lovely Miss McCleod,
Palpated all her hills and dales;
When all at once she cried aloud:
A ghostly haunting banshee wail….

GUsundheit….

“You’re not bad, GU Books Blog,” the young dog said,
“But your tone has become rather light;
And some of your writers aren’t all that well-read;
Do you think, for a litblog, that’s right?”

“In the past,” GU Books Blog replied, “we were pleased
When our articles tickled the brain;
But now blogs about books on which people have sneezed
Will attract far more hits in the main.”

“Yet before,” said the pup, “you attracted a crowd;
Not all of us crusty old fogeys:
But now all I see are the proud unibrowed,
Just responding to blogs about bogies.”

“You are snobs!” cried the Books Blog, “elitist and picky!”
Besides which, you’re simply too few:
We’d rather draw millions like Facebook and wiki
Than expend any effort on you!”

“So it’s kids’ books and Kindles, celebrity fluff,
And a once-a-week pome for the weird:
Do you think,” said the young dog, “that’s really enough
For a site that was once so revered?”

“But today,” said the Books Blog, “who on earth reads?
You’re all browsers, not readers, and so
Our articles follow where everyman leads:
And he’s hardly the sharpest, y’know.”

“That’s apparent,” said pup, “from the comments he leaves,
And from him I expected no more;
Yet the guys who write comments at cynicalsteve’s
Are the creme de la creme and top drawer.”

“We do Hay,” sighed the Books Blog, “for day after day;
Intellectual blogging or what?!”
“What….” thought the pup, who recovered to say:
“I’ll agree it’s a step up from snot.”

“You’ve the chance,” pup concluded, “to be a great site,
To draw volume and class to your blog;
With a little more planning, and less of the trite,*
You’ll get more than one man and a dog_{gerelist”….}

*Now, now….

doggerelology….

Having failed to live a poet’s life, I’ve had to go to college;
Poetics 101 should give my bard brain ample knowledge.
Poetaster Polytechnic’s just the place for me
(Since Oxford snubbed my metrical and rhyme-enhanced CV.)
(Who can blame them….?)

Looking through the syllabus there’s plenty to admire:
Alliteration lessons for the ladies of the lyre;
Seminars on assonance (assignments not required; )
And rhyming time’s at nine if your sublime lines ain’t inspired.
(Which this lot definitely ain’tn’t….)

This verse city’s no Varsity, no dons, no balls or quads.
Professor G, our tutor, is indubitably odd.
He starts each day by facing Hay and muttering a prayer
And lectures us whilst slumped within an autographed deck-chair.
(This is really rather silly….)

His deputy, the Vice Verser, is also somewhat skewed:
Free verse, says this lady, must be written in the nude.
Woe betide the bow-tied poet grafting in his cell
When she comes in to give him very merry villanelle.
(Sorry about that: the previous line sounds good but it’s totally meaningless….)

Eventually I’ll graduate, entitled to my card
Appending to my name the suffix “PHD and bard”
(That’s “Pretty Hopeless Doggerel” in case it wasn’t clear)
And just to prove the point I think I’ll end this rubbish here….
(Nothing to see here: move along….just carry on below where we left off chatting from the previous thread….)

doggerel….

I’m not sure what to call this piece: I had several titles in mind – “doggerel that is called doggerel”; “self-reverence”; “lynx hunt”; “punctuated equilibrium”; “arsy doggerel” – no matter; whatever the title, it’s a fall-flat-on-my-face piece….but I have nothing else to post….sharp-eyed readers may see what I was trying to do….I am indebted to Billy Mills for pointing me in the direction of some interesting poetry, although he may be less happy with the use I have made of it….

****

Dislike it: really, you should fiddle and fret
(and quite probably you do; you toads….)
it’s contemptible, disingenuous; yet
you can’t help yourself, though it forbodes

a lack of judgement on your, the readers’, part:
don’t you have jobs to do, or silence to wean?
processing these words isn’t the way to art -
live a life: stay away from the profane screen….

So you want to be a reader? Don’t do it.
don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it;
because I’m the only one who can do it right;
don’t do it, don’t do it; alright, do it….

(Hint: watch out for the moose (should there be a moose
in this piece….which would be odd, n’est-ce pas?)
this is a doggerel about doggerel: how obtuse
would it be to mention, desperately,
a moose, along with vices and virtues?)

Still: palpably moot, or moose, or pamplemousse,
we have doggerel of St Vitus vitality
mooning the reader, moody or rude (you choose: )
the thing is, a doggerel should neither mean nor be….

Or if not a moose, then a mouse on the scuttle
to tickle and tease the depth out of these words
I wouldn’t use torture – that’s way too unsubtle
for what’ll result if you squeeze the absurd….

Dear Mr (or Ms) cynicalsteve, would you mind
awfully printing out your entire oeuvre
rhymes and all? Your doggerel is much maligned
and I’d like to malign it more; with verve….
Your faithful servant, Ms (nee Mr) Leurker.

(Dear Ms Leurker: have a heart!
Rhyming verse is hardly art!
It doesn’t really need to be
dismantled in your PhD….)

As poets condense, we doggerelists inflate
but we never forget who came first;
in a parallel universe, though, we create
and the poets respond with bad verse….

Still, the rhythmic drums have spoken and you’re
counting down the stanzas, hoping soon there’ll be an end:
and you’re in luck
my friends….