Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

I planted you in late July,
Didn't think you'd grow this high.
My neighbours think it's down to luck,
I know it's not, it's thanks to muck.
You're twice my height and then a bit,
Thus proving the great strength of manure.

Richard Hawley 's Cole's Corner is a retro style collection of atmospheric songs by an ace musician with a highly individual voice. Mellow with an underlay of gravel. The title song has been on pretty endless repeat here for several days; it summons up cold city nights, lights on a dark river, an exciting ache of waiting for love. I only picked up on it after hearing him sing at the Mercury prize 'do', where the Arctic Monkeys just cheated him of the best album award. I note that REM and Scott Walker, whom I rate, rate him. Hawley is a pleasant, unpretentious guy - 'My only ambition now is to get a new kitchen because ours is falling to bits. I've told our lass that if I win the Mercury Prize, she can finally get in touch with the bloke at MFI.'

I wish I could stop this habit of obsessing over pieces of music and wearing out my affection for them. It's entirely to do with the pursuit of a highly desirable but transient mood. Last week, pre-Hawley, I had borrowed Mahler's 2nd Symphony from the library, the Elisabeth Schwarzkopf recording, and played the final movement to death. Talk about going from the sublime to the cor-blimey.

Have been reading Angelica Garnett's Deceived With Kindness; a Bloomsbury Childhood. The daughter of Vanessa Bell (sister to Virginia Woolf), she was gifted with great beauty and a variety of artistic talents. She achieves a fine objectivity in recounting the vagaries of her childhood among Bloomsbury Group eccentrics; what a spectacularly odd bunch they were. Unsurprising that she followed her mother's path to severely complicated relationships, marrying Bunny Garnett, the former lover of her biological father, Duncan Grant. By and large, the Bloomsbury women must have loved their men for their intellects for they were an uninspiring lot in the looks department.

Angelica has a readable crisp style and a gift for transmitting characters:
'Grandmamma had put on her embroidered chinese shawl. Her hair was piled high in the fashion of the 1890's, stained a faint yellow by the combs that held it in place. On her feet were tiny black leather pumps. Her skin was soft as down, her lips pleated around the edge as though drawn by a thread. Her pale prominent eyes were very like those of Clive, and her hands so fragile that they reminded me of the claws of a marmoset.'

I pay my monthly visit to a local retirement home. The little lady I go to see is turning into a yet more fragile miniature of herself. Hardly eating, closing down, dreaming, knowing only that I am someone she might be happy to see. Her face beams as I approach, but she no longer really knows me. I deliver the box of sweeties, and sit trying to amuse her by pulling silly faces behind my hand, painting her nails silver, letting her try on my rings.

After a while, in defence against the terrible blandness of the process, I start to look around the circle of old women who are listening to a CD of Gracie Fields' Greatest Hits. The happy brashness of the songs covers the coughs, the smacks at flies settling on spindle legs, the mutterings of the confused.

A carer, a bleach-blonde saint with five earrings in each lobe, cuddles old Winnie whose face over her shoulder assumes the ecstasy of a person unused to love. Everyone is immaculately kept, hair done, shoes polished, brooches pinned to cardigans. The assisted loo visits start in preparation for dining room tea.

I become aware of one new face, not so old, Italianate with dark eyebrows. She still has good teeth. She is trying to rise from her chair, all the while speaking a litany: " I must finish it, they will be waiting. The back door will be closed, I must get down. The bell. They trust me, I can't, oh dear, oh, pass it to me. I must get finished. I need the job. The back door will be closed..."

I go and sit next to her and say "Relax now, you don't have to work any more; you're like me, we are retired, they can't bother us any more, relax." " I know," she says "This is a only a silly job, anyone could do it." "What job?" "Machinist, machinist men's collars, I press. They're waiting. I must watch the door. I need it. I can't.." And so it continues on, time after time. If ever there was a case for low dose Prozac this is one. Pointless agony of mind, based on ancient anxieties.

Finally, I kiss my friend goodbye and take my teacup down to the kitchen. "Where is Miss B. today?" I ask. "Oh she's gone, didn't you know, it was her funeral this morning. She had her hundreth then just seemed to fade out quite quickly." I am devastated, the lady of the strong will, daily walker, backbone of the place is gone. As I close the front door, walk into the open sunlight, I see Miss B, as I photographed her, sitting reading on her bench, hat at an angle. God bless.

I promised a couple of highlights from a church crammed full of history, St Catherine's, Ludham, in the Norfolk Broads. There has been a church there since the 11th century, the present structure dates from the 14th.
Above the chancel arch, facing the congregation, is a naive and very rare representation of Christ on the Cross, painted during Mary I's reign (1553-8). The original roods (crosses) would have been destroyed in the Reformation; Mary, who set herself to restore the Catholic faith to England, made sure of their replacement in all churches.


When Elizabeth took the throne she ordered that roods again be destroyed and replaced by her Royal Arms. But at Ludham they merely painted Arms on canvas & stretched it to cover the rood. Who knows why they did so - resentment, or thrift, reverence or defiance? When officials came much later to install properly painted Arms, for some miraculous reason the old paintings were rolled and blocked up in the cavity of the rood loft stairs. They stayed there, undiscovered, until 1879 when local archaeologists found them. They were reinstalled together - an exceptionally rare pair and a fabulous historical footnote, now facing west and east above the arch.

And there are woodwoses on the font! Another great rarity. These were the wild men of Roman & Greek myth, or the men of the woods who in medieval times were widely believed to lurk in the dark woodlands covering England.

Children surround me lately, there are new families moving in around us and the triple attractions of biscuits, a wild garden and a couple of indulgent old gits bring them to us quite often. Nearly every exchange holds a pearl.

Tonight I sat by another nine year old doing homework, writing, spelling and defining words with Qu in them. Studiously, until I proposed quack, whereupon noises broke out. Concentration on Qu didn't preclude his listening to his mother and I chatting.
T: "What do you do for Christmas, Anna?"
A: "Usually we have people in for lunch. We used to throw a party every year, it was a tradition for ages, but I can't seem to be bothered with it now. Too much work"
T: "How about if we did one together? I could help with the food and stuff."
A: "I don't know, it might be fun if I can get it past G. I find them a bit of an effort to be honest, do you like parties?"
Nine Yr old: "Oh... I do, I love them, I went to a really WILD party didn't I, Mom? It was great, there was a pool. It was just WILD."
T: (Whispering) "Actually, it was a birthday party for an eighty year old we knew, in a retirement village. It was all real old folks, but he got on fine and they made a great fuss of him."

Van Gogh: Window in Vincent's Studio

This came up in a 36 hour period by the path through a nearby field. It has thin tassels coming out of the top cap. I can't find my helpful identification book The Joy of Mushrooms. Where did that endless Joy of... publishing concept come from I wonder? Irma Rombauer perhaps? I have no intention of eating the thing so the matter is not urgent.

I drove the bouncy roads of the open fens to Ely on Sunday through bright fields of harvest stubble, infant sprouts and sugar beet. The huge Norfolk sky full of sun and cloud wisps did its usual job of making me happy. It was a perfect day for wandering by the river, families out in force and a fashion parade of cruisers and narrowboats passing and re-passing among the ducks and swans.

I had a piece of unexpected luck, strolling along Waterside, to find an exhibition at The Babylon Gallery of 53 photographs by Walker Evans - a Hayward Gallery touring show. This influential recorder of the American vernacular produced pictures of the South during the Depression that illustrate painfully what real poverty entailed. He famously recorded poor white sharecroppers as well as black southerners.
He chose to illustrate the lives a few named families, those of Allie May Burroughs (left) being the most memorable; two images from these stay powerfully with me. The Grandmother's grimed legs and feet which illustrate a pathetic tradition, the inheritance of a man's worn out working boots. Another is of a tiny glass dish on a mantel-shelf, the wife's treasured and only posession of any intrinsic beauty. That is, except for her husband whose beauty must have provided some consolation.

I put myself on the mailing list at Babylon; there's a new exhibition opening on the 23rd "Fenlandia" where webcam images illustrate a series of strangely beautiful landscapes. I fancy that. I can combine it with something on in the cathedral. Maybe just evensong.

I had a taste, today, of what it's like to be a spy making a 'drop' and waiting to see if it would be retrieved. My contact turned up, as you may see from the (deliberately blurred) figure. She has just found my package left by the statue of St Edmund. It was Ruby (an alias - anagram of Bury), who writes the lively local blog "Living in Bury St Edmunds". We had a delighful hour together, but I'll let her tell you the full story .

Our American tenants are home today, having a BBQ social on their public holiday. It's a celebration of the contribution made to their nation by workers and unions. A concept celebrated internationally by festivals I applaud and acknowledge. But until reading the story of Maya's Granny's father I had forgotten to be deeply grateful.

Con: We've got a new rat, it's brown. Will you come and see it, oh please, please, we could go now, please? Mum wouldn't mind.
Anna: I can't go visiting, Con, I've been gardening, I'm absolutely filthy.
Con: It's OK, it won't matter, the rat's filthy too.

Con: Are you a millionaire?
Anna: Don't be daft, why do you think that?
Con: Well, all this garden and the house. My dad says you must have a bob or two.
Anna: (Choking) It was left to me by my family. I'm not rich.
Con: (After a bit) Anna, who will you give this place to when you die?
Anna: Well, I'm not off just yet.
Con: No, but when you do.
Anna: Well, I've been looking out for a polite boy, who works hard and is very kind to rats...
Con: Honestly? Ohhhh, you're just kidding.

Con: (Eating a Rich Tea biscuit) Are there any of those wafers I had last time? These are quite nice but they drop off in the coffee when you dip them in.

Con: Can I see that mood ring that changes colour?
Anna: It's in the drawer. Look it's bright green. That means joyful.
Con: It's gone blue on me.
Anna: You're a bit miserable then, according to the card. Black's the worst.
Con: (Face buried in hands) I'm thinking about my dog that died, to make it go black.
Anna: It's only a joke thing, you know, it works on body heat.
Con: So it doesn't actually know? That's a lie then, I thought it really knew.

Anna: You're getting too close to the flames. What would your mum say if I sent you home all roasted?
Con: I spect she'd just say it would save her getting a dinner. Can we have another bonfire tomorrow?
Anna: I should think so.
Con: We'll burn more pine needles to make crackles? I could collect up cones with that pick-up thing, they go off bang. And, afterwards, you could come up and see the rat?

It was a great trip. I have put a set of photos with their stories on Flickr. One spends the first couple of days tossed around in the hurly burly of Festival street life, running to venues, jumping on and off buses, devouring galleries, chatting to strangers and spending a fortune on coffee breaks. Then things settle down, one tires of bagpipes, nose-flutes and too much walking. Instead there's time for a seat outside a cafe and a bus ride through the changing architecture of suburbs to its terminal. The four days were full of new sights and faces. Rather than reportage, I'll just sketch some highlights:

The apartment's kitchen window looked out past trees to the main railway line. Since my last flat in London sat nearby the tracks, I love living with the sound of trains, watching their lights race by in the dark, standing, lazy, sipping tea and watching tightly-packed commuters pass. I'd have paid extra for the privilege of going to sleep to the song of rails.

A young alternative magician performing in a small dark room winkled me out of my seat and made me draw pictures for him on a hidden pad. Then he told me what I had drawn, Always, always, these people unerringly pick me out. Do they see intuition, intelligence? No, a hyper-attentive mug who looks compliant. We met him in the bar later and he thanked me for being a trouper. But he didn't buy me a drink.

The Robert Mapplethorpe photographs were worth the time we spent on them, the simplicity and clean beauty of his b & w prints was stunning. The S & M and homoerotic stuff was, cough, stimulating, no longer shocking really - well perhaps a bit, we are almost unshockable now. His portraits captured essence of person every time. He had been so beautiful in the Belmondo mode, it was painful, but not surprising to see the sad self portrait of 1988 before he died. Seeing the real Ron Mueck sculptures close up was more shocking, the grossness of their size, the precision of his reproduction of human physiology - goose-bumps, whiskers, blue veins observed. The pieces were displayed with too much reverence. While I loved the tender treatment of the two old women, I am not so sure about him now. This review (which is a stunning piece of criticism anyway) puts its finger on some of my disquiets. We saw the World Press Photograph Competition at the Parliament - brilliant, disturbing.

Our old friend Flora met us for lunch at Mussel Inn, an expensive seafood place; she had a bottle of wine on the table before we got there so we didn't see the price, such tact. I ate halibut for the first time, it tasted of nothing. But the huge shared starter plate of mussels done with a cheese and bacon sauce was delicious and Flora and I got happily greasy-fingered while G toyed with his bread roll. Not a Mussel-man. He had a good steak on the last night.

I regret to tell you that I made a personal mistake (only slight) while laughing at Count Arthur Strong's performance - particularly the idiocy of his blind tasing of Picallilli; he was achingly funny. It's worth a fortune to have that cathartic sort of hysterical laughter. Josie Long (who won a Best Newcomer award) was gently amusing. I can't take the harder stuff. There were a couple of short plays, one about a lonely librarian who swore a lot about his lot. The music was good, a great night with the Indian sitars, a fair guitar recital one lunchtime and some early cathedral music. So we covered a bit of everything. Not enough Fringe though, to be honest. Never mind, we'll have to go back next year.