Thursday, July 18, 2002
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Off to see T'Endeavour
We are going up to Yorkshire for a while - starting at Whitby and on to the N. York Moors. We finish at York for 2 nights; I found a Chinese B & B there on the Net!! They gave us great dilections on the phone, so we should find it easily. Noodles for breakfast and I have hopes of a futon! From the booking conversation it sounds a hoot - we can have acupuncture, or a head massage in our rooms at reasonable rates. See you (all 3 of you) when we find T'Internet cafe. You didn't think I could go without a fix did you?
We are going up to Yorkshire for a while - starting at Whitby and on to the N. York Moors. We finish at York for 2 nights; I found a Chinese B & B there on the Net!! They gave us great dilections on the phone, so we should find it easily. Noodles for breakfast and I have hopes of a futon! From the booking conversation it sounds a hoot - we can have acupuncture, or a head massage in our rooms at reasonable rates. See you (all 3 of you) when we find T'Internet cafe. You didn't think I could go without a fix did you?
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Regression
I have been going through cupboards in Dodie's room today, such a hard thing to do. I found an envelope labelled in my grandmother's hand - "Hair of all our children" which contains a single lock of hair of each baby wrapped in a little tissue packet - my mother, Dodie, and brothers Jack & Ernie. What seized me was that mum's was golden blonde and the other three dark. She was always different. As I worked on, finding photographs, wedding cake silver shoes, dancing slippers, ghostly scent bottles, I slipped into their lost world and was happy to be with them for a while.
Philip Larkin
Home is So Sad
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
I have been going through cupboards in Dodie's room today, such a hard thing to do. I found an envelope labelled in my grandmother's hand - "Hair of all our children" which contains a single lock of hair of each baby wrapped in a little tissue packet - my mother, Dodie, and brothers Jack & Ernie. What seized me was that mum's was golden blonde and the other three dark. She was always different. As I worked on, finding photographs, wedding cake silver shoes, dancing slippers, ghostly scent bottles, I slipped into their lost world and was happy to be with them for a while.
Philip Larkin
Home is So Sad
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
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Wednesday, July 17, 2002
The hidden self
A dear old gel told me today in the Post Office that she had made an appointment for a second hearing aid. "I'm getting worse", she said, "all the hairs in me ears have fallen out, so the sound can't get through". This wonderful theory set me pondering about common misconceptions we hold about our bodies. Years ago Jonathan Miller did a TV series called "The Body in Question", a sort of philosophical and anatomical review. I have never forgotten the first programme.
He went out into the street and asked people to point out where their vital organs were - stomach, heart, liver, kidneys. Most people got something wrong - heart on the right, kidneys under the front ribs etc. Asked to draw an idea of how big each of the organs were, even more wildly wrong answers emerged. One woman, I remember, thought her heart was walnut sized and shaped exactly like something on a valentine card. Miller then went into a path' lab and there in dishes were specimens of the relevant human parts. I had been scoffing at these other twits, until I realised that I had undersized the liver by half, and had no idea how big my spleen was or where it lived.
Today, with so much vivid pathological detail about, I expect people would come up with a more realistic view of their innards, but I wouldn't put money on it.
A dear old gel told me today in the Post Office that she had made an appointment for a second hearing aid. "I'm getting worse", she said, "all the hairs in me ears have fallen out, so the sound can't get through". This wonderful theory set me pondering about common misconceptions we hold about our bodies. Years ago Jonathan Miller did a TV series called "The Body in Question", a sort of philosophical and anatomical review. I have never forgotten the first programme.
He went out into the street and asked people to point out where their vital organs were - stomach, heart, liver, kidneys. Most people got something wrong - heart on the right, kidneys under the front ribs etc. Asked to draw an idea of how big each of the organs were, even more wildly wrong answers emerged. One woman, I remember, thought her heart was walnut sized and shaped exactly like something on a valentine card. Miller then went into a path' lab and there in dishes were specimens of the relevant human parts. I had been scoffing at these other twits, until I realised that I had undersized the liver by half, and had no idea how big my spleen was or where it lived.
Today, with so much vivid pathological detail about, I expect people would come up with a more realistic view of their innards, but I wouldn't put money on it.
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Tuesday, July 16, 2002
TOMAS
I have added to my Thomas Shakespear website the latest discovery received from Chile. A very nice chap called Mauricio has taken the trouble to check cemetery records, and found my (misspelled) Thomas for me; the trail goes a bit cold after that, but it's a step forward. (Oh, I used the' marquee' html tag on the front page to emphasise the link to the news, my nephew will be horrified). I was lucky in striking up a correspondence with Ian - the most distinguished figure in South American railways currently, a very high-powered fellow - his emails are always short and on the hoof, but germane and interested; he found Mauricio, enthused him and put him in touch. I have made some good mates through this site.
I have added to my Thomas Shakespear website the latest discovery received from Chile. A very nice chap called Mauricio has taken the trouble to check cemetery records, and found my (misspelled) Thomas for me; the trail goes a bit cold after that, but it's a step forward. (Oh, I used the' marquee' html tag on the front page to emphasise the link to the news, my nephew will be horrified). I was lucky in striking up a correspondence with Ian - the most distinguished figure in South American railways currently, a very high-powered fellow - his emails are always short and on the hoof, but germane and interested; he found Mauricio, enthused him and put him in touch. I have made some good mates through this site.
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BREUGHEL'S DANCERS
In Breughel's great picture,
The Kermess, the dancers go round,
they go round and around,
the squeal and the blare and the tweedles
of the Bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles,
tipping their bellies (round
as the thick-sided glasses
whose wash they impound);
their hips and their bellies
off balance to turn them around.
...William Carlos Williams 1944
In Breughel's great picture,
The Kermess, the dancers go round,
they go round and around,
the squeal and the blare and the tweedles
of the Bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles,
tipping their bellies (round
as the thick-sided glasses
whose wash they impound);
their hips and their bellies
off balance to turn them around.
...William Carlos Williams 1944
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Skip to my loo...
I was reading about dance in 15th and 16th century Europe, its diverse performance styles separating the classes. Do you recall images of peasants dancing in the Breughel paintings - grinning and prancing all akimbo? Pleasure was made apparent, to a vigorous accompaniment of bagpipes and drums. But in the 15th century the courtly dance was slow, impassivity counted as elegance. Its most expressive movement - (familiar from "Romeo & Juliet" productions) was that formal upward meeting of the man and woman's palms, stroking and parting on a rising arc. A lovely, timeless gesture, with restraint and intimacy combined.
Male costume had by then evolved from the long "dress" of the 14th century, gradually shortening to reveal a fine turn of leg, and more besides. It finished up as little more than a frilly belt above the hose. Dance manuals of the period were extremely insistent in giving instructions on the secure and balanced tying of the codpiece - a matter of 'please adjust your dress before dancing!'
Talking of courtly dance............!
-
I was reading about dance in 15th and 16th century Europe, its diverse performance styles separating the classes. Do you recall images of peasants dancing in the Breughel paintings - grinning and prancing all akimbo? Pleasure was made apparent, to a vigorous accompaniment of bagpipes and drums. But in the 15th century the courtly dance was slow, impassivity counted as elegance. Its most expressive movement - (familiar from "Romeo & Juliet" productions) was that formal upward meeting of the man and woman's palms, stroking and parting on a rising arc. A lovely, timeless gesture, with restraint and intimacy combined.
Male costume had by then evolved from the long "dress" of the 14th century, gradually shortening to reveal a fine turn of leg, and more besides. It finished up as little more than a frilly belt above the hose. Dance manuals of the period were extremely insistent in giving instructions on the secure and balanced tying of the codpiece - a matter of 'please adjust your dress before dancing!'
Talking of courtly dance............!
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Sunday, July 14, 2002
He had a dream..
I've been able to help someone in a complex medical situation - and to witness an odd phenomenon.
For 6 months A-- has had trigeminal neuralgia, an excruciatingly painful facial condition - even wind blowing her hair causes agony. She was prescribed Phenytoin, an anti-epileptic commonly used for this condition. The neuralgia continued. One morning A-- collapsed and was admitted to hospital with bronchial pneumonia. She didn't respond to antibiotics, made slow progress. Back home again, she was still ill and desperate. Though her consultants and her GP reassured her, she believed that Phenytoin was the cause and begged to be taken off it. No other therapy was suggested, an appointment with a neurologist was made for 3 months hence.
At this point, her husband told me how frantic they were... and he described his dream of the night before - "I'm part gipsy, my gran was full Romany and I see things. I dreamt that A-- was normal, she'd been cured by taking steroids - I could see the packet of tablets clearly - we were so happy."
I offered to check medical databases and dig out what I could about Phenytoin. I came up with plenty of evidence - including the following exact match to A--'s condition:
Ann Intern Med, 1981 Oct 95 (4):452-4
Acute pulmonary disease caused by phenytoin.
Michael JR, Rudin ML.
Acute pulmonary disease may occur as part of the hypersensitivity angitis produced by phenytoin sodium. The clinical features of the pulmonary involvement are fever, dyspnea, hypoxemia, and bilateral radiographic infiltrates. The pathologic process is an interstitial pneumonitis that appears reversible with cessation of the drug and treatment with corticosteroids.
PMID: 7283296 [PubMed - indexed for MEDLINE]
A-- took the articles to her GP whom, God be praised, read them attentively. She went seven shades of pale & had her admitted to hospital at once. That neurologist sees her on Monday morning. I wonder if steroids will be on the agenda?
Information specialists have their uses! So do Romanies. If you would like my favourite link to a useful medical search page, then bookmark this - try 'Databases' - PubMed.
I've been able to help someone in a complex medical situation - and to witness an odd phenomenon.
For 6 months A-- has had trigeminal neuralgia, an excruciatingly painful facial condition - even wind blowing her hair causes agony. She was prescribed Phenytoin, an anti-epileptic commonly used for this condition. The neuralgia continued. One morning A-- collapsed and was admitted to hospital with bronchial pneumonia. She didn't respond to antibiotics, made slow progress. Back home again, she was still ill and desperate. Though her consultants and her GP reassured her, she believed that Phenytoin was the cause and begged to be taken off it. No other therapy was suggested, an appointment with a neurologist was made for 3 months hence.
At this point, her husband told me how frantic they were... and he described his dream of the night before - "I'm part gipsy, my gran was full Romany and I see things. I dreamt that A-- was normal, she'd been cured by taking steroids - I could see the packet of tablets clearly - we were so happy."
I offered to check medical databases and dig out what I could about Phenytoin. I came up with plenty of evidence - including the following exact match to A--'s condition:
Ann Intern Med, 1981 Oct 95 (4):452-4
Acute pulmonary disease caused by phenytoin.
Michael JR, Rudin ML.
Acute pulmonary disease may occur as part of the hypersensitivity angitis produced by phenytoin sodium. The clinical features of the pulmonary involvement are fever, dyspnea, hypoxemia, and bilateral radiographic infiltrates. The pathologic process is an interstitial pneumonitis that appears reversible with cessation of the drug and treatment with corticosteroids.
PMID: 7283296 [PubMed - indexed for MEDLINE]
A-- took the articles to her GP whom, God be praised, read them attentively. She went seven shades of pale & had her admitted to hospital at once. That neurologist sees her on Monday morning. I wonder if steroids will be on the agenda?
Information specialists have their uses! So do Romanies. If you would like my favourite link to a useful medical search page, then bookmark this - try 'Databases' - PubMed.
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Thursday, July 11, 2002
I keep singing.....
"We all have a dream of a place we belong
The fire is burning, the radio's on
Somebody smiles and it means I love you
But sometimes we don't notice when the dream has come true ".......
(You've Got a Home - Pet Shop Boys)
"We all have a dream of a place we belong
The fire is burning, the radio's on
Somebody smiles and it means I love you
But sometimes we don't notice when the dream has come true ".......
(You've Got a Home - Pet Shop Boys)
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THE BOY JOHN
I bought an early copy of Sidney Grapes' "The Boy John: letters to the Eastern Daily Press in Norfolk Dialect 1946-1958." A treasure, a permanent bedside book. Sidney lived in the Broadland village of Potter Heigham where he owned a garage; he wrote to the EDP in broad Norfolk dialect about village life and characters. The letters were eagerly awaited and built up an enormous following - I remember my grandparents reading them out to us. The Norfolk accent and idiom are difficult to reproduce, and these are masterly attempts at recording it. He finished each letter with a little aphorism from his "Aunt Agatha" or his "Granfar" - here are a few of the best:
Aunt Agatha she say:
- "Troubles are like bearbies, the more you narse 'em, the bigger they grow"
- "Wen yow weigh up people yow wanter watch not only wot they do, but also wot thay dornt do"
- "She's a werry wise woman wot say nothen, at the right time"
- "Reality is wen yow leave dirty dishes in the sink, and they are there wen yow git hoom"
- "All husbands are alike, only they have different faces so you can tell 'em apart"
- "I don't like to repeat gossip - but what else can yer do with it?"
I bought an early copy of Sidney Grapes' "The Boy John: letters to the Eastern Daily Press in Norfolk Dialect 1946-1958." A treasure, a permanent bedside book. Sidney lived in the Broadland village of Potter Heigham where he owned a garage; he wrote to the EDP in broad Norfolk dialect about village life and characters. The letters were eagerly awaited and built up an enormous following - I remember my grandparents reading them out to us. The Norfolk accent and idiom are difficult to reproduce, and these are masterly attempts at recording it. He finished each letter with a little aphorism from his "Aunt Agatha" or his "Granfar" - here are a few of the best:
Aunt Agatha she say:
- "Troubles are like bearbies, the more you narse 'em, the bigger they grow"
- "Wen yow weigh up people yow wanter watch not only wot they do, but also wot thay dornt do"
- "She's a werry wise woman wot say nothen, at the right time"
- "Reality is wen yow leave dirty dishes in the sink, and they are there wen yow git hoom"
- "All husbands are alike, only they have different faces so you can tell 'em apart"
- "I don't like to repeat gossip - but what else can yer do with it?"
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Tuesday, July 09, 2002
New Directions
GNOD - an experiment in artificial intelligence pulled out these personalised choices for me, intriguing....
Music: Dead Can Dance, Lisa Gerrard and Yello. None are familiar, wonder what they say about my taste - old hat, mainstream, esoteric? I'll find out.
Books: Philip Pullman and Bab Balaban Actually, I have been meaning to read the Pullman for a long while - so that was spot on. Bab's new to me!
GNOD - an experiment in artificial intelligence pulled out these personalised choices for me, intriguing....
Music: Dead Can Dance, Lisa Gerrard and Yello. None are familiar, wonder what they say about my taste - old hat, mainstream, esoteric? I'll find out.
Books: Philip Pullman and Bab Balaban Actually, I have been meaning to read the Pullman for a long while - so that was spot on. Bab's new to me!
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SLIMESPEAK
On the midday news prog. today - Menzies Campbell MP under fire about arms contracts said in a pained tone "Robin Cook did not ask for an ethical arms policy, he asked for an arms policy with an ethical dimension". So that's clear then.
On the midday news prog. today - Menzies Campbell MP under fire about arms contracts said in a pained tone "Robin Cook did not ask for an ethical arms policy, he asked for an arms policy with an ethical dimension". So that's clear then.
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Monday, July 08, 2002
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WEEK-END
We are assuming sociability again. Friday night, Jean and Paul for supper - fish pie, salad, garlic bread, little fruit tarts. Followed by an unbelievably foul goat's cheese; everyone tried to look unconcerned as the taste hit the buds, but facial rictus and desperate swigs of wine told all. It was from Wales via Tesco's. I think I'll write - someone should check out that goat for its own good.
Saturday - garden day, picked up 42 molehills, the b-----r has wrecked the orchard grass, which is now strewn with stones. Perhaps I could stick some goat cheese down the runs, we don't seem to have any success with traps.
Sunday, a great day with Sammie who arrived from King's Lynn at 9 am so we could hit the boot-sale at Santon Downham - it turned out to be a lot of rubbish, only bought a couple of CD's. Back for coffee in the garden & then over to Pat to pick vegetables for lunch. She was full of joy that her wonderful new collection of Verbascums had been featured on Gardener's World - we watched the video clip and danced with glee, then had G & T's walking round the garden.
Sammie brought her new electric steamer - I crave one and asked her to give a demo to convince Gordon it's a good idea - we did chicken breasts and the marvellous veg' in about half an hour. With cheese sauce it was fit for a king - we ate on trays watching the Men's singles final at Wimbledon. Finished up with evil Tiramisu ice-cream. Walked it all off over Foulden common where the wild flowers were magnificent. Cups of tea under the fir tree, Sunday papers and a game of cards and it was 10.30 and time for her to go. I shall miss her so when she moves to Oxfordshire. To have a very young friend is a great gift, and a great compliment - she is 33 years younger than I and yet we seem entirely comfortable together.
We are assuming sociability again. Friday night, Jean and Paul for supper - fish pie, salad, garlic bread, little fruit tarts. Followed by an unbelievably foul goat's cheese; everyone tried to look unconcerned as the taste hit the buds, but facial rictus and desperate swigs of wine told all. It was from Wales via Tesco's. I think I'll write - someone should check out that goat for its own good.
Saturday - garden day, picked up 42 molehills, the b-----r has wrecked the orchard grass, which is now strewn with stones. Perhaps I could stick some goat cheese down the runs, we don't seem to have any success with traps.
Sunday, a great day with Sammie who arrived from King's Lynn at 9 am so we could hit the boot-sale at Santon Downham - it turned out to be a lot of rubbish, only bought a couple of CD's. Back for coffee in the garden & then over to Pat to pick vegetables for lunch. She was full of joy that her wonderful new collection of Verbascums had been featured on Gardener's World - we watched the video clip and danced with glee, then had G & T's walking round the garden.
Sammie brought her new electric steamer - I crave one and asked her to give a demo to convince Gordon it's a good idea - we did chicken breasts and the marvellous veg' in about half an hour. With cheese sauce it was fit for a king - we ate on trays watching the Men's singles final at Wimbledon. Finished up with evil Tiramisu ice-cream. Walked it all off over Foulden common where the wild flowers were magnificent. Cups of tea under the fir tree, Sunday papers and a game of cards and it was 10.30 and time for her to go. I shall miss her so when she moves to Oxfordshire. To have a very young friend is a great gift, and a great compliment - she is 33 years younger than I and yet we seem entirely comfortable together.
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Wednesday, July 03, 2002
LAME? MOI?
 | You are Fozzie! |
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Tuesday, July 02, 2002
EZZER'S DAY OUT
We ask what Esme would like as a thank-you for all her recent kindness and she says "A day at the coast, with a visit to the Brazen Head bookshop". So on Friday we set off early for Burnham Market, me driving, G in the back with Robbie the black spaniel. Fizzing up the Foulden Road towards Swaffham we had our first laugh.
E. "That's where they found the headless body in a pink nightie, up that lane there. She was a redhead"
A. "How did they know that, if she was headless?"
E. "Well how do you think you daft beggar?"
G. "Honestly!"
Onward past Fakenham and through those two lovely little villages, the Creakes - where a stream runs along the edge of the main street, small bridges cross it leading to the cottage doors. Suddenly the road climbs, opening to a wide view of pastureland, small churches tucked between fields. There is a promise of unseen sea at the horizon.
Burnham Market is a bustling, prosperous village, with delicious shops - Ezzer's mecca. We start in the garden shop, gorgeous sculptures, swing seats, herbs, hammocks, stone jars, and, her downfall - Green Men in wood and stone. Like me she is an inveterate cathedral lover, and part of her fun is finding carvings of the green man. Today she buys a repro' of one from the Norwich cathedral doors. Then to the delicatessen for me to buy a piece of stinky Reblechon cheese from Haute-Savoie, runny and expensive, about which everyone else will complain until it is buried in the boot.
Finally, the bookshop and the promise of an hour's browsing before lunch. What a shop! Masses of local topography, boxes of pamphlets and booklets, a children's section with all the old 'Rupert' annuals, Biggles and Just William first editions - G digs in here. I rummage the art books and then "Misc" where I find "The Boy John Letters" - Norfolk dialect writings from the 50's - of which more anon. I buy Ezzer a copy of Eileen Soper's "Wildings" as souvenir of the day. Of course I see something I cannot have - this rare illustrated edition of my favourite "Water Babies" priced at £125. Ohhh, the desire.....
Lunch is modest, Esme rejecting the "Hoste" pub with its nouvelle cuisine, and plumping for a small cafe where they make their own soup and bread and locally-caught crabs are on the menu. We resist home-made treacle tart.
Robbie gets restless, anticipating a walk as we drive along the coast road to Holkham. The sun is gone and a sharp wind stirs up. We park on "Lady Ann's Road" (£2!), then walk up through the pine woods to the open beach of fine sand...no sea, the tide is far out...it always damned well is. We 'power walk' for about a mile, the dog at full stretch, and then the miracle occurs.
I hear a skylark. Gazing up I can just see it as a black spot hovering above the dunes at the back of the beach, singing its heart out. That is pleasure enough, and unlikely just here, surely? Then we become aware of five small black spots flinging themselves up out of the scrub, giving short high cries. Her young are learning to fly and to sing - the mother bird comes down slowly, and they make passes towards her, fall, try again. We watch until we are too cold to stand still any more; but we have seen a rare event.
Rubbing sand off Robbie with an old towel, we drink the flask of coffee and agree a last visit to Holkham Hall pottery just up the road to see if they have any Jubilee commemoratives that aren't naff. We go and they don't.
Heading back home through a suddenly sunny evening Ezzer says "Thanks for a lovely day, let's do it again next week!"
We ask what Esme would like as a thank-you for all her recent kindness and she says "A day at the coast, with a visit to the Brazen Head bookshop". So on Friday we set off early for Burnham Market, me driving, G in the back with Robbie the black spaniel. Fizzing up the Foulden Road towards Swaffham we had our first laugh.
E. "That's where they found the headless body in a pink nightie, up that lane there. She was a redhead"
A. "How did they know that, if she was headless?"
E. "Well how do you think you daft beggar?"
G. "Honestly!"
Onward past Fakenham and through those two lovely little villages, the Creakes - where a stream runs along the edge of the main street, small bridges cross it leading to the cottage doors. Suddenly the road climbs, opening to a wide view of pastureland, small churches tucked between fields. There is a promise of unseen sea at the horizon.
Burnham Market is a bustling, prosperous village, with delicious shops - Ezzer's mecca. We start in the garden shop, gorgeous sculptures, swing seats, herbs, hammocks, stone jars, and, her downfall - Green Men in wood and stone. Like me she is an inveterate cathedral lover, and part of her fun is finding carvings of the green man. Today she buys a repro' of one from the Norwich cathedral doors. Then to the delicatessen for me to buy a piece of stinky Reblechon cheese from Haute-Savoie, runny and expensive, about which everyone else will complain until it is buried in the boot.
Finally, the bookshop and the promise of an hour's browsing before lunch. What a shop! Masses of local topography, boxes of pamphlets and booklets, a children's section with all the old 'Rupert' annuals, Biggles and Just William first editions - G digs in here. I rummage the art books and then "Misc" where I find "The Boy John Letters" - Norfolk dialect writings from the 50's - of which more anon. I buy Ezzer a copy of Eileen Soper's "Wildings" as souvenir of the day. Of course I see something I cannot have - this rare illustrated edition of my favourite "Water Babies" priced at £125. Ohhh, the desire.....
Lunch is modest, Esme rejecting the "Hoste" pub with its nouvelle cuisine, and plumping for a small cafe where they make their own soup and bread and locally-caught crabs are on the menu. We resist home-made treacle tart.
Robbie gets restless, anticipating a walk as we drive along the coast road to Holkham. The sun is gone and a sharp wind stirs up. We park on "Lady Ann's Road" (£2!), then walk up through the pine woods to the open beach of fine sand...no sea, the tide is far out...it always damned well is. We 'power walk' for about a mile, the dog at full stretch, and then the miracle occurs.
I hear a skylark. Gazing up I can just see it as a black spot hovering above the dunes at the back of the beach, singing its heart out. That is pleasure enough, and unlikely just here, surely? Then we become aware of five small black spots flinging themselves up out of the scrub, giving short high cries. Her young are learning to fly and to sing - the mother bird comes down slowly, and they make passes towards her, fall, try again. We watch until we are too cold to stand still any more; but we have seen a rare event.
Rubbing sand off Robbie with an old towel, we drink the flask of coffee and agree a last visit to Holkham Hall pottery just up the road to see if they have any Jubilee commemoratives that aren't naff. We go and they don't.
Heading back home through a suddenly sunny evening Ezzer says "Thanks for a lovely day, let's do it again next week!"
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CONRAD VEIDT
Have you ever heard of him? Probably not if you are under 70! As one does, I asked Dodie one day which film star she used to fancy. Quick as a flash (at 96'ish) she said "Well, I liked James Mason for his voice, but Conrad Veidt - oh, he was simply gorgeous. He was often rather menacing, but he had that look, and the German accent was awfully attractive."
The name meant nothing to me. I was bumming around among some links this week and found this new site - Veidt's autobiographical revelations. It came too late for Dodie - she would have loved me to read it to her, but I enjoyed it on her behalf. It's a fascinating document giving insight into the Hollywood scene at the time of the talkies transition. His love of England is very endearing. Do listen to the Debussy.
Have you ever heard of him? Probably not if you are under 70! As one does, I asked Dodie one day which film star she used to fancy. Quick as a flash (at 96'ish) she said "Well, I liked James Mason for his voice, but Conrad Veidt - oh, he was simply gorgeous. He was often rather menacing, but he had that look, and the German accent was awfully attractive."
The name meant nothing to me. I was bumming around among some links this week and found this new site - Veidt's autobiographical revelations. It came too late for Dodie - she would have loved me to read it to her, but I enjoyed it on her behalf. It's a fascinating document giving insight into the Hollywood scene at the time of the talkies transition. His love of England is very endearing. Do listen to the Debussy.