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.

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)….

‘Tec tonics….

“The detective novel is the art-for-art’s-sake of our yawning Philistinism, the classic example of a specialized form of art removed from contact with the life it pretends to build on.” V.S.Pritchett

Ever wanted to write a whodunnit but found that your intended sleuth’s idiosyncrasies (for idiosyncrasies he – even, these days, conceivably she – must have) have already been pre-plagiarised? It’s tricky to find a niche that hasn’t already been stuffed with blood-stained corpses and dysfunctional ‘tecs. From mediaeval monasteries to contemporary colleges, any institution worth its salt must have on its roster some quirky soul with a backstory which allows him not only arcane knowledge denied to the usual authority figures, but also interesting faults just sufficient to hinder without totally preventing his solving of The Mystery.

Let’s not kid ourselves: the spoof list of Rather Daft Detective Ideas will have been done many times before….and I’d be surprised if the late Miles Kington hasn’t done his fair share….which lo and behold google confirms….nevertheless….whither the whodunnit….?

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Police in Stickshire are baffled by the seemingly unconnected deaths of three consecutive Chief Constables in their HQ on the same day (this being one county where the Appointments Committee is more than efficient)….the senior officer in charge doesn’t waste time investigating the deaths himself, instead standing at the main entrance scrutinising passers-by in a hopeful search for the senile old lady who can crack the cases….

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Dysfunctional ‘tecs are two a penny – until you read about Coma ‘Tec, the ultimate dysfunctional sleuth….suffering multiple organ failure and on life support in a hospital bed, unable to communicate, his mind is free to analyse each apparently insignificant clue and to find the connections which will crack the case….at least, that’s what his team hopes as they organise a rota to dictate their findings to him….

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A locked room is discovered which may or may not contain a dead body….Chief Inspector Schroedinger is undecided whether or not a crime has even been committed….

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A dead bee is found, disturbing the calm of the beehive. Inspector Busby investigates. Beefore long she has discovered a web of deceit and opened a can of worms. No flies on her though, so waspishly she earwigs on the colony. Something bugs her about this case; an atmosphere of pure weevil pervades. It’s just not cricket….

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The bodies of two elderly men are found swinging from a tree. Detective Superintendent Godot is assigned to the case; don’t hold your breath….

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An extremely gloomy Swedish Police Inspector spends six hundred pages solving a simple murder case. Every detail of the investigation is painstakingly set out…. Note: for extra verisimilitude and gloominess, this book, although originally written in English, has been translated into some Scandinavian language or other and then retranslated back into English….

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Chief Inspector Felix is called in to investigate the brutal murder of a dog. But he can’t be arsed and curls up in front of the fire and goes to sleep….

Nature Notes….

We saw our first pair of swallows yesterday – they may have arrived earlier; yesterday was the first day I looked out for them. In any case, they’ve come too early – it’s been so cold recently that the cows aren’t out yet, hence few bugs for the birds.

The arrival of spring is confirmed by the under floor scrabbling of nesting blue tits – still haven’t worked out how they gain entrance, but no longer worry about it. Also, this morning, the first pair of low-flying jets blessed us with their cacophonous mating flight – no idea where they nest, just very grateful it’s not here.

Cock pheasants squawking all over the garden to defend their territory and harems – noisy indignant things, but pretty….and destructive….although not as destructive as the hind and fawn who are cheeky enough frequently to come within a few yards of the house. We generally allow ourselves a couple of minutes of awed contemplation before swearing at them and chasing them off – although only to a part of the garden where we can pretend they’re doing no damage.

Spring also heralds an influx of dozy wasps and hornets into the office….to be replaced later by the nightshift of wood-boring beetles and moths, which have an unfortunate habit of falling into one’s liquid refreshments.

Yes, this is a desperation post….to add a little overdue relevance, I’ll wish WS many happy returns….

anonymphs II….

Having just trivialised the issue of anonymity vs full nominal disclosure for commenters on blogs in the previous post “anonymphs”, I feel pomposity mode taking over….

An argument I’ve made before is why shouldn’t people choose to keep different facets of their lives separate from each other by donning one or more pseudonyms online? Some have perfectly ordinary interests in arts, sports, politics or other pursuits that they simply don’t wish to discuss at work or in particular areas of their lives. Yet this eminently reasonable desire is frequently seen as threatening by those who use their real names online – the argument usually being that anonymity encourages abuse. Well, I see little evidence that using one’s real name is much of a deterrence in that respect. Not that we should be afraid of a bit of robustness or feistiness in online debate – one can show oneself to be a fool whether named or cloaked; and both entities should be free to call a fool a fool. Heaven forfend that all online debates should emulate the vicar’s tea party.

For some (certainly not all) of those who choose to use their real names, especially on the literary-type blogs which are the arenas we’re mainly talking about, self-publicity is a factor. And why not? Nothing wrong with that; nor is my use of my pseudonym any different in that each post elesewhere could be construed as a shameless plug for this blog. But not everyone has something to sell or promote. Another subset of names hope that their comments are somehow given extra weight because of who they are. This reader, however, pays more attention to the comment than the author (I did warn you I was feeling pompous….) I’ve no doubt I’m not alone in this; on the other hand, I’m sure many readers ignore the pseudonymous and hang on every word of the named.

Yet there’s a real person behind each pseudonym….and for all the reader knows, the pseudonym may well belong to someone even more celebrated than the revered names; someone, perhaps, who feels confident enough to let his/her words speak for themselves. I’m certainly not an incognito celebrity, but nor do I feel it relevant to append a list of academic qualifications or life experience to each comment I make online, which is effectively what some mean when they demand I decloak. I don’t have a BA in EngLit, nor have I published a novel or a slim volume of poetry – are these details more important than what I actually say? It’s not inconceivable that I’ll talk complete bollocks as a direct consequence of these deficiencies – but if the Published Author (BA) can’t spot that from my words alone, just how much should I trust his/her judgement?

I also wonder how much better we actually know named commenters than the pseudonymous – heck, let’s use the word “anonymph”. Here on this blog we have some apparently real names – Billy, Jane, Mishari, me (!) – alongside some anonymphs – MeltonMowbray, wordnerd7, fmk, Iamnothere (perhaps on other blogs, some of these names are anonymphs and vice versa.) But speaking personally, and with no intention to disparage, I have no more evidence for the actual existence of those in the first group than for the anonymphs. Everything I “know” about both groups comes from online sources. So why should I have more respect for the “named” or take more account of what one group says than the other? For all I know, the two groups could be mappable, each “real” person also being behind one or more anonymphs. Indeed, from my perspective, there could be only two people responsible for every comment on every blog I’ve ever read: me and someone else….but I’d better stop before I inadvertently outline a scifi novel….

What’s in a name….

I’ve posted here before some pictures of Michele’s stained glass compositions. Her other interest is designing jewellery – there’s a link on the blogroll to her site.

She’s often stuck for titles for her various creations, and wondered whether there were any suitable lines or descriptive phrases from poetry that might be useful.

One possibility that I found was from Drummond – “Phoebus arise,/and paint the sable skies,/with azure, white and red.” Or maybe from Shakespeare’s LLL – “They sparkle still the right Promethean fire.”

Anything referring to light or astronomical matters also make good titles – she’s recently used “Midnight shadow” and “Solar Flare” – as well as colours and textures. I’m stuck for ideas, and any suggestions would be gratefully received.

[Michele adds]: Just to clarify I thought that it would make an interesting design challenge for me to create jewellery with poetic phrases as inspiration.

Now you see them, now you don’t….

Here are some more plant pics, all taken in 2003 or 2004. To me they’re pretty pictures; to the two roe deer we saw in the garden this morning (a doe and last year’s fawn), they would seem to be more of a menu….we watched them for several minutes before deciding enough was enough (the doe was munching her way through a rather nice shrubby dogwood, one of the coloured stem types….)

Hedgelands, August 2004.

Airy delights….grasses and grass-like foliage were Michele’s particular thing, and a big feature here….they still are, except now not always the pretty ones….

Helenium – don’t ask me which one….a tiny nursery just up the road has a big range, from which we supped well….

Neat contrast, but again I’ve forgotten which corydalis this is….everything planted was recorded in a big book, all seed sowings recorded in another, and I was rigorous about labelling; so if this little beauty ever resurfaces I’ll probably be able to identify it….

Colour clash….says it all….

Clematis “Fair Rosamond” [sic - picture label misspelled.] One of my favourites, and a great contrast squirming through a Cotinus. Fortunately these early- to mid-season Clematis cope well with neglect. Anyone who plants one of her close relatives, C “Nelly Moser” should be shot, though; it’s one of the few plants I loathe….

Late summer hot colours….

Carpinus leaves (I forget which species; it’s one of the more uncommon ones.) One of Michele’s “arty” pictures, taken in Autumn at Batsford Arboretum. She was looking for ideas to translate into stained glass.

Beards in the garden….

Two of my favourite garden residents: one ate the other….

Salvia leucantha – I had dozens of tender Salvia species, which needed a phenomenal amount of work to renew each year by cuttings. My favourite genus….I had a particular soft spot for S. confertiflora, which flowers very late (November here), and whose foliage has the most unforgettable aroma (not your typical culinary sage pong; savage and meaty). Michele hated it….

How can your heart not sing when in the cherry blossom season?

The veg patch used to be so productive….I haven’t been down there for two years….

Michele threatened me with a fate worse than death if I published this picture; but if she’s daft enough to show me how to fiddle with the picture archive….

cynicalsteve’s message to the world….

Mush, mush….

Abnormal service will be resumed as soon as possible….

We apologise for the break in continuity, but cynicalsteve’s brain has turned to mush. In the meantime, here are some pretty pictures….

Rhyme suspect….

In the comments to my last post, “The Craving”, I ventured this on its parent piece:

“It’s all those internal rhymes & repetitions that do it for me – it’s almost a song. And it’s so distinctive, that it’s absolutely impossible to employ the same rhyming scheme & metre without appearing to pastiche Poe (clearly mine here is a pastiche, but even if one didn’t nick lines wholesale, and wrote from scratch, one couldn’t avoid the comparison.)

Difficult it is to come up with an original rhyme scheme – anything new would have to be so complex or tricky just to avoid what’s been done. An interesting challenge, though.“

But now I wonder – has everything easily comprehensible been done? Is the only way to find an original metrical template to choose a large number of metrical feet and rhyme only prime numbered lines? I can’t believe there’s not a simple line with straightforward rhyming yet to be discovered. There’s obviously something very primeval in your standard iambic quadrameter/pentameter/heaxameter, ABAB, that hits the spot; limericks, sonnets (of various flavours) and villanelles aren’t immediately obvious forms, and yet they sound right, too. The patterns in “The Raven” aren’t a priori obvious either – but once heard, never forgotten.

Have we ticked all the boxes already, with only variations on known themes and free verse the options? I’ve only twice tried to escape from patterns already familiar to me (not counting crass attempts at free verse) – one was novel but atrocious (I know where it is, but it’s not reproduced on this site), the other I liked (and it lingers in a previous post; but its relative simplicity suggests it’s almost certainly not original….)

I suppose my real question is: would I be wasting my time trying to find an original form? I’d be grateful in the meantime for any examples of unusual (but reasonably regular) metres & rhyming schemes.

Roses are red, Poppies are….?

I promised angela some pics of Michele’s stained glass poppies and here they are. Well, I say “poppies” – these are actually various species of the genus Meconopsis, so not true poppies (Papaver), although closely related.

Splendid flowers, Meconopsis, and famously difficult to grow outside their natural habitat, which is for all bar one species, the Himalayas and China. Damp summers and cold, dry winters are their preference; failing that, hard work with the watering can is required, and, for the very fussiest, home-made umbrellas to keep off the winter rains. I doubt they’re a goer in Australia, though, however ingenious and dedicated the gardener. Cumbria, Devon and Ireland are places which allow the gardener a sporting chance of success, but wherever you live, success is never guaranteed with these capricious beauties.

There’s barely a colour not available somewhere in the genus; red, blue, violet, white, purple, yellow….and the blues are of an intensity to which no picture ever does justice. They range in size from 2m+ to delicate beauties less than 15cm tall. Many species die after flowering, adding poignancy to the display. We have grown each of the three species depicted here (and many others besides), although M delavayii never flowered; some plants just seem to have a death wish….we were particularly proud one year to have dozens of separate examples of M punicea in flower; it’s a tricky one.

Apologies for the quality of the photographs; despite its appearance, the third panel is rectangular….the first two panels are approx 22cm tall, the third, 55cm.

Meconopsis delavayii

Meconopsis punicea

Meconopsis grandis

See Emily Display….

Who says grime doesn’t pay….? The graph above shows recent blog stats, and the big arrow indicates the date of publication of my Dickinson diatribe (dates for some peculiar wordpress reason are in the American style, month first); lo! those gently rolling hills become veritable Alps….of course it’s all relative; absolute figures are nothing to shout about, which is I why I removed the scale on the vertical axis….

Hello treason….

Just a brief postscript to the comments (thank you!) on the previous post:

Emily’s Ghost is at home in the attic
(She neglected to ask, which is undemocratic)
Looking on is the Picture of Dorian Gray
His inscrutable eyes can See Emily Play….

Oscar, Emily & Pink Floyd, eh….?

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Moving swiftly on….we all know what is meant by the “hello trees, hello sky” school of poetry. Heck, I used the disparaging phrase myself recently. Yet a google search returns not a single poem with those words. I’ve been trying to write something doggerely beginning with that phrase for a while, but just can’t. It seems unparodiable to me.

It appears that “hello trees, hello sky” is anyway a corrupted version of fotherington-tomas’s [sic] alleged “hullo clouds, hullo sky” in Willans’s superb Molesworth books. But the same principle applies: is there a single poem out there which includes either of these phrases, or a recognisable variant thereof? I shall be so disappointed if the concept has never been used, knowingly or otherwise….

The consequences of it….

After the previous post’s ultra-silliness, down to earth with a bang. M & I live in an old house, which we share with two invited guests, black & white moggies, and an unknown number of uninvited ones. We know there are bats somewhere in the house, but that’s ok. We have had birds nesting under floorboards and under the eaves (years ago we lifted a floorboard in the bedroom to investigate mysterious scratching noises, and out flew a blue tit.) We do try to discourage them, but don’t worry when they win. There is always the odd mouse about, which I unapologetically deal with in the old-fashioned way.

But yesterday it became apparent we had a more serious problem. Skittering in the roofspace above the bedroom interested the cats (good early warning system, cats, although ours have yet to catch anything bigger than a spider – admittedly, here the spiders are sometimes bigger than the mice….) They then heard it under the floorboards or in the walls. This morning, woken at 5am by a bad dream, I heard it scrabbling in the cob wall of the bathroom downstairs. And I could see tiles moving. (I don’t think it is a poet, before anyone suggests it – read the previous post if you don’t get this joke….)

You will understand that both of us have been up since then, pottering to take our minds off it, waiting until a sensible hour to ring the pest control guys. This kind of anxiety exacerbates my illness, which already threatens our ability to stay here, with the huge garden which I can no longer maintain, and the few acres of soggy grass, for which we once had great plans. My inability to deal with it, either physically or mentally (a few years ago, I’d have simply gone out and bought a bag of itbait, and sorted the problem) brought into focus the reality of our situation. We can’t realistically stay here, yet the house is essentially unsaleable after several years of neglect.

The upshot of all this is that I’m hardly in the mood to write any doggerel. (And my real intention has always been to write something more substantial; whisper it softly, but cynicalsteve really wants to write a novel….trouble is, that my powers of concentration are poor….too frequent pain, constant discomfort, and, not surprisingly, Olympic standard depression. Hence the short funny stuff, the two-fag knockoffs, which is the best I can manage.) Nor do I feel up to bantering on external blogs.

I’ll probably write again about it; just don’t expect any funny stuff. And should I be so inconsiderate as to try to write more serious verse – don’t read it. It’ll be far too toxic to assimilate.

An apology for Carol….

Anyone who knows me (far too few)
Knows I wouldn’t sell their fun for mine;
Mistakes are made, regretted, learnt from too -
A prank may sadly cross the undrawn line….

What to say about the Guardian Books blog Christmas poetry competition? It produced a worthy winner in Billy Mills’ miniature, and a few other interesting pieces (some dross as well, since I’m being honest here, and have plenty of mud clinging to me, crying out to be flung back….)

And a squabble in which I am cast as the villain of the piece. (On the spur of the moment, and just before the deadline, I submitted a second poem under an old screen name. It was deliberately inept (deliberately not even meeting the competition rules, which in the furore no-one noticed) and I just assumed it would be passed over with embarrassment by everyone, and taken as the ramblings of an illiterate fool (which the persona in question had sporadically acted out for the past few months elsewhere.)) No-one else knew of my dual nature (that seems clear from subsequent comments.) I even have other screen personas who could have (but didn’t) contribute, had disruption been my aim (it wasn’t; I was trying to win fairly with my own genuine, but also inept, entry….) It made no difference to the outcome of the competition.

Unfortunately, mischievousness on the part of one poster reacted explosively with a sense of grievance on the part of another. Rumours abounded concerning voting irregularities; sticks were grasped by the wrong end. Waters were muddied by other irrelevant suspicions and long-running jokes (am I alone in sometimes wondering whether entire threads are generated by a handful of posters with a menagerie of screen names….?) None of this had anything to do with my spoof entry (and it transpired that I wasn’t alone in submitting twice); but, stupidly, I volunteered that information in the hope and naive belief that it might calm the storm. If I’d kept schtumm, it would probably have blown over more quickly.

Carol had put in a great deal of thought to the process, which was for our benefit, not hers. I think everyone who contributed to the threads enjoyed at least some aspect, whether as writers or readers. Thank you, Carol. I feel sad that she has been upset by the fuss. I shouldn’t have spoofed; and I shouldn’t have mentioned it subsequently. I apologise to her with all humility for my contribution to the affair, and also to Billy for distracting attention from a worthy winner.