Valentine – CD Sample Tracks
Track 1: Forbidden Fruit
Track 2: Male Chauvinist Pig Blues
Track 3: I’ll See You Again
Track 4: Twelve Hours Of Sunset
Track 5: Acapulco Gold
Track 6: Commune
Track 7: Magic Woman
Track 8: Che
Track 9: North Country
Track 10: Forever

Roy Harper – Forbidden Fruit video

Roy Harper – Male Chauvinist Pig Blues video

There are mp3 demos on Roy’s website:

http://www.royharper.co.uk/shop/product_info.php?products_id=9

Stormcock is Roy’s masterpiece but “Valentine” is almost as good – and quite a bit more accessible. A collection of love songs, yes, but there is nothing predictable or sloppy here: these songs have truth, tenderness, anger, frustration, humour – and loads of bittersweet twists and turns to keep you interested. Some of the tracks rock out very nicely with assistance from Roy’s “heavy” friends, but mostly the feel of this album is gentle, acoustic (very fine guitar as always from Roy)…quite seductive in its way.

The LP has now been re-issued as a CD

records  Valentine – Roy Harper  home

RBS to cut 3,500 UK support centre jobs

Around 3,500 Royal Bank of Scotland employees are set to lose their jobs, after the lender announced a second wave of staff cuts among its nationwide business support centres.

In total 20,600 UK-based jobs have been cut, with the bank keeping many operations under review for further staff reductions.

RBS ships more jobs abroad

Unite, Britain’s largest union, said it expected 500 jobs to be shifted to RBS operations in Singapore, India and the US.

A spokesman for the taxpayer-owned bank (up 0.35p to 46.13p) confirmed that many positions would be moved abroad, but said the bank had not yet decided how many.

Retrenchment is good for RBS

but not for the newly-unemployed.
Martin Flanagan of The Scotsman says “Painful it may be for the victims but retrenchment is good for RBS.”

‘Unlike many of our competitors we remain committed to our long-standing principle of situating customer contact work within the country or region where the customer is located,’ said the bank.

Reaction on the London Stock Exchange has been rather surprising:

records  RBS cuts jobs and ships jobs abroad september 2010  home

A few photographs of “Nickel Creek” I found on the Internet and then arranged as I thought best with one of their most creative songs “Eveline”

A fine trio featuring violin, mandolin and acoustic guitar

records  “Eveline”-Nickel Creek  home

Dan Brown is the best-selling author of Digital Fortress, Deception Point, Angels and Demons, The Da Vinci Code and The Lost Symbol. He is a graduate of Amherst College and Phillips Exeter Academy, where he has taught English and creative writing. He lives in New England.

With The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown masterfully concocts an intelligent and lucid thriller that marries the gusto of an international murder mystery with a collection of fascinating esoterica culled from 2,000 years of Western history.

A murder in the silent after-hour halls of the Louvre museum reveals a sinister plot to uncover a secret that has been protected by a clandestine society since the days of Christ. The victim is a high-ranking agent of this ancient society who, in the moments before his death, manages to leave gruesome clues at the scene that only his granddaughter, noted cryptographer Sophie Neveu, and Robert Langdon, a famed symbologist, can untangle.

The action kicks off in modern-day Paris with the murder of the Louvre’s chief curator, whose body is found laid out in symbolic repose at the foot of the Mona Lisa. Seizing control of the case are Sophie Neveu, a lovely French police cryptologist, and Harvard symbol expert Robert Langdon, reprising his role from Brown’s last book. The two find several puzzling codes at the murder scene, all of which form a treasure map to the fabled Holy Grail. As their search moves from France to England, Neveu and Langdon are confounded by two mysterious groups-the legendary Priory of Sion, a nearly 1,000-year-old secret society whose members have included Botticelli and Isaac Newton, and the conservative Catholic organization Opus Dei. Both have their own reasons for wanting to ensure that the Grail isn’t found.

records  The Da Vinci Code Dan Brown  home

BBC PROMS 2010

Live from the Royal Albert Hall, London

Presented by Catherine Bott

‘I think our recordings have been put in the classical, folk, pop, rock, avantgarde, chillout, world and dance sections of record shop,’ says Arthur Jeffes, leader of Penguin Café, the 21st-century reincarnation of the Penguin Café Orchestra made famous by his father Simon Jeffes.

For its debut in this Late Night Prom the Penguin Café’s wide-ranging lineup of ukulele, dulcitone, penny whistles and guitars alongside violin, cello and piano, is supplemented by the Northumbrian smallpipes – played by their star champion Kathryn Tickell.

Kathryn Tickell (Northumbrian smallpipes)
Penguin Café.

link to the programme notes

Simon Jeffes was born in Sussex. After spending some of his early childhood in Canada, he returned to England. He started to play the guitar at the age of thirteen and subsequently studied classical guitar, piano and music theory and attended the music department of Chiswick Polytechnic with the intention of going on to music college. However finding that academic studying did not suit him, he embarked on a series of experiments. He did not find any of these areas particularly satisfying and eventually formed the Penguin Cafe Orchestra in order to develop his work as a composer. He describes its genesis thus:

“In 1972 I was in the south of France. I had eaten some bad fish and was in consequence rather ill. As I lay in bed I had a strange recurring vision, there, before me, was a concrete building like a hotel or council block. I could see into the rooms, each of which was continually scanned by an electronic eye. In the rooms were people, everyone of them preoccupied. In one room a person was looking into a mirror and in another a couple were making love but lovelessly, in a third a composer was listening to music through earphones. Around him there were banks of electronic equipment. But all was silence. Like everyone in his place he had been neutralized, made gray and anonymous. The scene was for me one of ordered desolation. It was as if I were looking into a place which had no heart. Next day when I felt better, I went to the beach. As I sat there a poem came to me. It began ‘I am the proprietor of the Penguin Cafe. I will tell you things at random.’

female vocals appear to be lacking, but I’ll search on YouTube …

Penguin Cafe Orchestra – Perpetuum Mobile

As featured on 3Breakfast this morning (3/9/2010)

Penguin Cafe Orchestra- Music For A Found Harmonium

The Penguin Cafe Orchestra-Telephone and Rubber Band

records  Penguin Cafe  home

Hardback funny fiction from Terry the prolific. In very near perfect condition, with the outer sleeve also in fine fettle.

Great fun with taking the pee out of opera, and some larger than life caricatures.
I get the impression that Terry Pratchett is unaware of the good side of opera, but it’s still a good story.

records  Maskerade – Terry Pratchett  home

Book 1 (of 3) of the Pendragon cycle. Set in roman Britain and mixing the legends of Arthur and Atlantis, the Pendragon cycle runs to approximately 1500 pages of quality fiction. Well executed and very well researched fiction.

A paperback edition in fair condition, published in 1988 in the UK (1987 USA).

records  Taliesin Stephen Lawhead  home

At 8 a.m. Horace finished gardening and made a drink. At 8.10 a.m. he uncovered the easel at the rear of his cave, moved it nearer the daylight and continued his illustrated translation of the words of the prophet. At 10 a.m. he had one slice of unleavened bread and half an apple, then knelt to pray. The shiny surface of the icon briefly showed his reflection and he noticed with mild concern how stressed and haggard he looked. He felt rapidly reassured by his commitment to and connection with the unseen world of the spirit articulated by the prophet. * Horace creaked a little as he struggled back to his feet. He rubbed his aching knees and wondered, for maybe the ten thousandth time, if he should make a more comfortable arrangement in front of the icon. He turned and gasped with shock as he looked out to the glare of the sun. Could he be still in the land of spirit? Was this a temptation from the devil? If so, it was a very subtle one, since the young girl looked anything but seductive. She took a few uncertain steps into the cave, nervously twisting her long black hair in one hand. ‘Hello?’ said Horace. It isn’t usually a question, but the tone of Horace’s voice was clearly thus. The girl smiled self-consciously and tucked her head down between her rising shoulders. Her hair piled on her shoulders and half concealed her face. ‘Are you lost?’ Horace asked. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘I’m Kate.’ ‘Hello Kate. I’m Horace. Would you like something to eat? It bears a very minor resemblance to bread. Also to granite.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Kate. ‘It looks ideal. An ideal partner to apple, I bet.’ Horace looked at Kate. He tried various combinations of furrowed brow, arched eyebrow, sucking of teeth and such like. Kate returned the gestures with interest, substituting a pout for the furrowed brow, since she lacked the necessary years for a convincing wrinkle. The silence dragged on and on and the orientations of brow and lip seemed to be exhausted. Kate showed no sign of easing Horace’s discomfort. ‘Funnily enough,’ he croaked, then cleared his throat. ‘I do have a large tub of apples. The tub is out of sight, as it happens.’ ‘Hmm,’ said Kate. * Kate ate her apples and something-like-bread while Horace stood just outside the cave, seeking inspiration. What on earth was he to do with her? And how best to maintain his timetable of devotions? Fleetingly he had an image of putting Kate on something called a bus that would take her home, but realised this was a glimpse into the nightmarish parallel world of barbarians… * Horace felt mildly breathless, but was pleased to find himself prepared to continue his illustrations on schedule. Kate sat nearby at her own newly-assembled easel, and proved to be an industrious worker – speedy though somewhat careless. He was aware of Kate’s excellent posture, perched on her stool so lightly and free of his habitual hunch, as though with the slightest effort of will she could leave the stool altogether and float peacefully, languidly above it. She was struggling with the colours though … * Horace gave Kate a few tips on shading one colour into the next to create a blend. He realised he was late for prayers. He pointed to his ancient mechanical watch and nodded towards the icon. Kate grinned and leapt from her stool with a peerless absence of dignity and bounded towards the icon and knelt, singing merrily. ‘Is something wrong,Horace?’ Kate asked. ‘No.’ ‘Oh good. You sighed, that’s all.’ Horace mentally recited the articles of his faith but felt irritated by his lack of concentration. He was getting stabbing pains in his knees and wondering what to do about Kate’s abundant energy. An idea presented itself the next morning as he woke … * Horace laughed out loud as he pushed Kate on the swing. She sang tunefully, fitting the tempo to the tide of the swing. He felt sure Kate was an inch taller than the day she’d arrived. It felt a little worrying to realise that had been only two weeks ago. The way she grinned at him whenever there was a chance of using the swing gave him a very warm glow. He’d made a pretty good job of the swing, given the limited materials. A steady breeze from the South took Kate’s hair to one side. The pendulum (which was Kate) added a forwards and backwards trailing effect. Their laughter returned very quietly after its trip to the distant rock face of the higher mountains. ‘We’re late,’ said Horace, as they hurried back to the cave. ‘Tut tut!’ They arrived back at the cave in time for prayers, Kate positively glowing after her swing in the sunny but cold air. She produced a handful of nuts and berries for him, and he wondered how she found the time to collect them. she was certainly more adept than him and finding fresh fruit, and he’d better start thinking about preserving some for the winter. Kate had decorated the swing with woven strands of vines and stalks from the surrounding hillside, Horace wondered why he’d never thought of such details himself. Horace looked at his reflection as they knelt together to pray. He looked younger, and just a shade fatter. He was comforted by his ability to help Kate with illustrations, because most of the time she seemed to be teaching him things. Still, there’s no merit in pride, as the word of the prophet so wisely reminded those that had the sense to read it. * Kate was running up the hill towards the cave and shouting excitedly. Horace couldn’t make out any words, just the high-pitched song of youthful glee. What on earth can she have found on this barren hill, he wondered. There’s our garden and the swing and then miles of heather, poor grass, weedy trees and outcrops of granite. Impassable mountains behind us. Horace had a shock as Kate came around the path past the huge boulder that he regarded as the end of his, or rather their, garden, and he saw a large dog in pursuit. He reached for his stick then realised Kate was still smiling and holding a stick that the dog was playing at biting. ‘And then were three,’ Kate grinned. Disarmingly, thought Horace. With a smile that, it probably endangers my legs as well. * ‘He’s done it again, Horace,’ said Kate. ‘He’s what?’ ‘He keeps trying to lead me towards the desert. Come and see if he does the same for you.’ Horace hesitated and fretted about his timetable. ‘Come on,’ said Kate. ‘we can stop the clock!’ The dog tried to lead Horace, just as he had Kate. ‘What do you want boy?’ Horace asked the dog. He turned to Kate, puzzled. She spent more time with the dog and clearly knew his ways. Kate just smiled and shrugged. The dog looked happy, waiting in front of them and panting. ‘He’s smiling,’ Kate explained. ‘Hmm,’ Horace conceded. ‘He’s a good natured beast, that’s for sure.’ The dog sat and cocked his head on one side. Kate took Horace’s hand and led him past the dog to where they could see down the hillside and miles beyond. ‘Barren,’ said Horace. ‘The dog knows something we don’t,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe somebody is injured out there? But then the dog would be impatient, worried…’ * ‘I dreamed of building a kiln in the desert,’ said Horace, one morning after prayers. ‘Where the dog wants to go!’ Kate smiled and fancied the adventure. ‘We could go and have a look.’ ‘And it might mean nothing,’ frowned Horace. ‘Or something!’ ‘We could make a kiln here, where it’s safer,’ suggested Horace. ‘If there were more trees for firewood! Which there isn’t.’ * ‘I’m a bit concerned about taking you into the desert,’ said Horace, close to his wit’s end. ‘You are very young for such a barren place.’ Kate whistled as she sewed the sheets together to complete the upper section of the tent. The dog played at chasing invisible friends, or possibly enemies. Horace declared their load of provisions to be nearly complete. ‘We’ll have to find fresh water every few days,’ he said. He looked at the sky – no signs of bad weather, and some cloud meant the nights wouldn’t be quite so cold. ‘We can make a note of every place we find water, and if we are really stuck we’ll backtrack,’ Kate suggested. ‘Nothing will go wrong,’ she smiled. He seemed such a fusspot in her view, which was strangely amusing. ‘Come on then,’ Horace sighed, ‘we’re ready to go.’ The dog barked, sensing imminent adventure, and Kate danced around him with joy. * The water never proved to be an issue at all. Four uneventful days into their journey Horace said, ‘This is the place,’ and they stopped. ‘How do you tell?’ asked Kate. ‘You fancy a sit down?!’ Horace gave her an old-fashioned look with his old-fashioned face and Kate giggled. ‘To be honest, I Don’t know how. But here is the spot.’ ‘There’s plenty of dead wood around,’ Kate conceded. ‘I don’t mean you!’ she added. ‘I never suggested that you might, madam!’ ‘Miss, if you please!’ ‘Miss, kindly begin erecting our shelter, if you have nothing better to do,’ pleaded Horace. ‘Tell you what.’ ‘I’ll tell you what?’ ‘Tell you what, Horace. I’ll pitch the tent!’ * The following morning Horace rose to find the prophet had maintained the illusion of the physical world sufficiently for the sun to have circumnavigated the dark side, the dew was evaporating, the clouds promised a bounty of desperately needed rain one day soon, and Kate and the dog were running around the tent apparently seeing which of them could be the most primitive. Too close to call, thought Horace. After their usual travellers fare of rice and remnants, Horace began collecting together stones to build a kiln. His dream had glossed over the practical details of design, shape and type of stone, mortar and such. Kate was a willing, and much younger, helper, and even the dog had a talent for fetching pieces of dead wood from below the elderly trees. A mystery tour coach from the parallel world of barbarians came by soon after lunch carrying Dribbler the pasty salesman, Mascot Piranha the mad artist, Ford Perfect (searching for beetle juice), Parry Hotter (brat of school age), Andrew Bolkonski (Russian mafia boss), and sundry others, which will hopefully prove to be a source of nightmares for the copyright lawyers. Two days later Kate woke to find the world frosty in the extreme. Dog had been sleeping outside, apparently unconcerned by the temperature, but his whiskers had developed icicles. Kate attempted to thaw them out with her hands and accidentally broke a couple, both ice and whisker. It is cold! she thought. ‘And on the third day, it froze again, according to the whiskers,’ she declared as Horace emerged from the tent. ‘What?!’ ‘The poor dog has icicles.’ She pointed. ‘It’s a fine winter coat he’s got though, don’t you think?’ ‘I do. Sometimes.’ Horace attempted to glare in a disapproving way, but found it impossible while smiling. ‘We’ll complete the kiln today, and maybe have the first test in late afternoon, while the breeze is helping.’ Kate beamed, genuinely pleased. * ‘It’s amazing,’ Kate crooned. The kiln was glowing red hot, just from sunlight reflected from the several mirrors, and a fire of dead wood. Horace had shovelled in plenty of dull grey stones and now added a few drops of honey and one of blood from his carefully pricked finger. Even the needle had been sterilised in the kiln. ‘Are you sure you’ve remembered all the details from the dream?’ Kate asked. ‘Yes. I made notes of all I could remember.’ Horace blocked the air inlet at the base of the kiln and declared the task to be completed as far as he could tell. ‘Can we open it soon?’ asked Kate. He shook his head. ‘Not until tomorrow morning, for sure. It might even be too hot then.’ Kate looked fleetingly disappointed, then ran off to play with the dog. It seemed one way of passing the time, Horace conceded. * ‘Come quick, Horace,’ Kate shouted. He’d learned to spot her varieties of excitement that didn’t indicate danger, and this was of that variety. Kate was leaning over the opening of the kiln, and peering intently, open-mouthed. Horace looked in and saw tiny silver snakes writhing out of the depths of the kiln into the surface, and the stones appeared now like glass. ‘Can we hold them,’ Kate asked. ‘They might bite.’ ‘The glass balls!’ ‘I’d rather wait until the snakes have left,’ Horace advised, as she knew he would. * Kate and the dog followed the snakes , but they moved very slowly, and fanned out into every direction, so they returned to their tent to sleep. Kate was fairly bursting with excitement, as ever, and Horace wondered if he could improvise a swing for her. ‘A rope from one of those trees will do, with a knot for a seat!’ Kate burbled. ‘It’s going to take ages for the snakes to get anywhere. I wonder what they eat?’ she asked. Horace filed the question away, then realised he’d run out of memory. He’d realised this the day before, but as he’d run out of memory, he’d already forgotten. How did children come up with so many questions? He might have asked her this already, but he couldn’t remem… ‘We’ll pile the glass balls, which I’m sure were plain rocks, into something obviously man-made. Then if people come this way they maybe won’t disturb them.’ ‘After they’ve taken the pile apart to look for treasure!’ ‘Cynic!’ ‘We could make a sign saying, “The treasure isn’t over there in the mountains, honest” then they’ll go to look in the mountains!’ The mountains were duly helpful and echoed Horace’s previous words. ‘Nice trick,’ said Kate. * Horace, Kate and the dog walked on day after day, trusting the dog to lead to something meaningful. The desert was turning green, and plenty of other colours if you looked close enough. They peered into the foliage and saw every bloom or leaf had baby turtles making their first timid steps out into the world. ‘This is the snakes work,’ Kate whispered. ‘Could be.’ We’ll be at the mountains soon,’ she added. ‘You make that sound important,’ said Horace, and Kate smiled. Part 2

Horace arranged the large sheet on an improvised easel. ‘Another day!’ he exclaimed gleefully, and Kate smiled. An hour or so painting every day before they continued their trek had proved to be a wise move. Life didn’t have to be all slog, and Horace found it easier to remember this now that Kate was around looking so much younger and vulnerable than himself. He was beginning to suspect that her youthful appearance was largely illusion. There was something wise about her. Wisdom being Horace’s trade, so to speak, this was somewhat irritating; not that the prophet approved of irritation… Horace was surprised to find himself whistling when Kate reminded him that it was time to pack their tent and make tracks. Life is eventful, he mused. Whistling! What would the prophet think. What would he whistle? Only kidding your holiness… * After many days travelling across the Plain of Rubedo towards the distant mountains they finally came to a town. It seemed to be a junction of several paths, possibly trade routes, and there were many people, donkeys and camels. The aromas and sounds made a pleasant contrast to their quiet and uneventful journey, though Horace found the girl and her dog very fine company compared to his previous complete solitude. Horace shaved before they entered the town and got quite a surprise when he came to the first shop window. He went to peer inside but due to the light he could see only his own reflection. ‘I look years younger!’ he raved. ‘I didn’t mean to shout,’ he added. Kate smiled, but not very enthusiastically in Dog’s opinion, and a dog’s opinion is never quite as humble as the mere humanoids assume. Indeed, many dogs don’t even bother to learn human speech, deeming it a poor use of their considerable intelligence. ‘You’re probably right,’ said Kate. ‘Pardon?’ asked Horace. ‘I’m just talking to the dog,’ she explained. ‘Having a bit of help shaving makes a difference,’ added Horace, returning to his reflection. He felt inches taller as he walked along the street, enjoying seeing fresh faces – more and more of them as they approached the town centre. Kate shrugged and the dog scratched itself behind the ear in a meaningful manner after carefully sitting in the dustiest spot. A friendly young woman took Horace’s arm and began chatting. Well, this is a pleasant place! thought Horace. Pleasant people, indeed! Life back in the cave seemed to pall in his memory, yet it had felt good at the time. Purposeful, busy, peaceful, dedicated. The dog began jumping up at Horace and the young woman. Horace told it to get down. ‘He does make a fuss sometimes,’ he explained, and the woman nodded non-committally. A fine tolerant type, thought Horace. He looked around for Kate, but she was walking some way behind him and seemed to be in a mood. The young woman imitated drinking from a cup and pointed towards a doorway. Horace smiled back and hesitantly peered into the room. Nothing ventured nothing gained, he thought. And I do feel parched. Horace peered back, briefly, through the shady doorway into the glare of the afternoon sun. Dog seemed to be keeping Kate company at a seat by the public drinking fountain. They seemed safe enough, Horace thought, so he went further inside into the smoke, music and mystery. It’s a brave man who’d try anything funny with that dog. Or with Kate, for that matter. * The ‘girly’ as Horace had taken to calling her shrugged voluminously as he left following the dog. ‘I’ve lost custom to irate wives or girlfriends before,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve even lost custom to a combined team of wife AND girlfriend once, but never before have I seen an elderly gent with a hang dog expression exiting prematurely hanging behind a dog.’ ‘It could be a first!’ conceded her work colleague. ‘And not likely to set a trend.’ She smiled, despite the loss of potential income. ‘I bet he didn’t have any money, anyway,’ shrugged girly. ‘You didn’t know it was an opium den? And worse!’ demanded an irate Kate. ‘She looked about the same age as you,’ complained Horace. ‘Over the paint? What about those wrinkles around the eyes?!’ ‘Wrinkles?’ said Horace. ‘The ones beneath the paint? The disguise?’ Horace shook his head, glad of seventy years of suntan to hide his blushes. What most worried him was the fact that Kate apparently did know of opium dens. What did she mean about worse things? And where had she been before arriving at his cave to learn so much? He’d tried asking once, but the answers were so baffling and evasive he’d got a headache. ‘Wherever the life force beckons,’ she’d said. ‘Where the first blade of grass emerges from virgin Earth,’ was another time. ‘Fresh every day,’ she’d added and he’d discovered the joy of migraine. Horace emerged from his reverie into the arguably present and allegedly real world to find Kate patting Dog affectionately, making it oh so plain that he was a more valued and reliable fellow traveller than Horace the Muggins. ‘Such a WISE hound,’she crooned. That night Horace looked into his shaving mirror and prayed quietly to the prophet. ‘Should I do something about my falling hair?’ he asked, since it was falling out at a steady rate. Girlys, whether by design or disguise, were clearly bad news, but he found himself wanting Kate’s approval. Not that she’d notice his ageing hair anyway, he thought. ‘Yea, thou art bald like unto the coot,’ boomed a mysterious voice, and Horace jumped. The sound seemed to reverberate from all directions as though he was in a cavern. ‘Never again shall hair grace the top of thy head all the days of thy life. Worm!’ ‘Okay. Okay. I was only asking!’ he complained, finally recognising the young voice. He turned to see Kate, apparently now in a better mood. ‘Ahha,’ he exclaimed. ‘You do impersonations! Very impressive. And where did you learn that sort of male voice?’ ‘Once upon a time when the world was green, the clay congealed to form a worm. After many moons the worm divided into two. The two worms …’ ‘Okay, all right,’ complained Horace. ‘I was hoping for the name of the town, the type of building and the date, more or less. I’ve had my quota of headaches for today.’ Kate smiled, and so did Dog in Horace’s opinion. ‘He’s only panting. It’s the heat,’ Kate explained. ‘I didn’t even speak!’ complained Horace. ‘Let’s count our blessings, eh little dog?’ murmured Kate, so quietly that Horace could only just hear. * The following day as they were preparing to leave the town, Kate smelled freshly baking bread and smacked her lips enthusiastically. Horace smiled as Kate hurried away, following her nose like all good intuitives are inclined to do, sometimes to excess. ‘I’ll steer clear of smoky dens today,’ Horace affirmed. He sniffed. ‘Mind you, smoke wafting from yonder cooking stoves smells appetising, not to say healthy. The dog nodded sagely, secretly hoping there would be fried onions. The onions gave him wind, the wind annoyed people, and Dog found they left him alone to ponder his new theory about the incomparable boredom of solving simultaneous equations by iterative methods. He was tempted to calculate the boredom quotient by the self-same algebraic method just to be bloody minded. Several dozen people sat around a large fire and two elderly men with apparently random arrangement of teeth – large, small, cracked, yellow, gold, missing, lopsided – tended a few huge black pots from which spicy fumes arose. ‘No women of ill-repute,’ muttered Horace. ‘Not in recent decades, anyway. And I do need something to eat.’ He swallowed and gently admonished his taste buds for being such victims to the world of the senses. Having settled himself before a huge bowl of “spicy camel, millet, vegetables, fruit and today’s mystery extras” he translated – BOGOOTTS yelled the acronym on the sign (buy one and get only one, thou tight sod) – Horace was invited by his neighbours to join a game of dice … * ‘Oh may the prophet help me,’ groaned Horace as he had the familiar feeling of being led, once again, into a better life by a mere dog. Coins jingled in his hand. Dog cocked one ear and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Mere?’ he seemed to ask… Kate glared at Horace as he traipsed out of the market behind Dog. ‘Welcome back … ,’ said Kate. ‘Hello Kate,’ began Horace. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘ … Dog.’ Kate finished. ‘Did the strange man swindle any old ladies or fellow crooks?’ She patted Dog in a loving manner. The dog, Dog, looked mightily pleased, yet not a bit surprised at his treatment, which he so clearly deserved. Horace spent another sleepless night wondering at his stupid behaviour. Had everything he’d ever learned counted for nothing once he’d travelled into the world of crowds. Now and then he had bad feelings about Kate – maybe she was a trick of the devil, meant to lead him into temptation? A pleasant mood, in its way, but Kate was so obviously disappointed in his failings, so she could hardly be serving the evil one, unless his main aim was suddenly the promotion of paradox. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of this in the writings of the prophet. Paradox would surely cause people to think for themselves, and the evil one wasn’t that way inclined. Think OF themselves, maybe… * That night Horace dreamed again of a woman. A young woman. A glamorous young woman, even. They’d left the town and market place way behind and Horace woke in a mood, feeling such images were just another headache. So far as he could remember, he was now about 70 years old, and the prophet was either testing him to distraction or had gone slightly mad. He looked nervously up at the sky, and was relieved to note the absence of thunderbolts. ‘Clearly a glamorous woman is not to be taken literally,’ mused Horace, ‘but maybe the prophet does want me married?’ ‘Sorry Horace?’ asked Kate. ‘Just muttering to myself, Kate.’ ‘We’ll be insight of the mountain path tomorrow,’ added Kate. My eyesight is weird, thought Horace, sometimes Kate looks about twelve years old, sometimes about forty. ‘Ah, the consolations of age,’ he moaned. ‘Pardon?’ ‘Nothing.’ * ‘Home!’ shouted Kate, pointing up the side of the mountain. Horace could see nothing to distinguish this mountain path from thousands of others. There were weeds, the occasional goat, one rather odd passing place bearing the legend ‘Lay-By of Sissyfoot’ where a mean looking fellow chained to a post was sweeping leaves. Round and round he went, seemingly imprisoned by his task. Kate assured Horace that she recognised the terrain and Dog was ready to follow. Thank the prophet they are younger and fitter than I, thought Horace. No sooner had they begun the climb than Kate complained of feeling dizzy and Horace had to carry her. There were narrow paths where goats and sheep had worn the grass down, boulder strewn levels where Kate leaned on the larger rocks and Horace was able to rest a while. The dog, may the prophet bless his little furry paws, was the epitome of patience and good behaviour. Horace wondered more than once if the dog understood why they were so slow labouring up the mountainside compared to their four-legged friend. Could it understand that the old man had to carry the normally fit young girl? Did it just accept things as they were? Would it waste hours asking itself unanswerable questions? Probably not… *

Several days patiently carrying Kate over the large chasms to progress up the mountain did a lot for Horace’s stamina, but the air was thinning and he had to rest more often. It felt like most of his breath was used in the simple task of breathing; panting in fact. Horace had the uncanny and rather worrying feeling that she looked years older than when she’d arrived. Not older in an aged sense, taller and wiser. He never counted the days, except for keeping track of the feast days of the prophet, but Kate had first appeared a couple of months ago, rather than years. Could children really grow up so fast, or was it just his feeble eyesight? Also, the higher they went the more pure she appeared; even her suntan was fading. Leaving behind The Plain of Rubedo? wondered Horace. Though I was the only one toreally made a fool of myself there, he mused. Horace realised, as he turned up the sleeves on his shirt, that his weeks travelling with Kate had added muscle to his arms and tone to his skin. On the third day of their ascent he’d suddenly became light-headed, maybe due to the thinner air, possibly the exertion, and he began reciting poetry. ‘I didn’t know you’d learned poetry,’ said Kate. ‘Was it written by the prophet?’ Horace shook his head, puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. He thought Kate didn’t appear surprised. Maybe he’d better write it down before he forgot the words? ‘Moly Hoses, what a climb, I’d rather have a lager and lime!’ Kate improvised, by way of response. ‘Lager and Lime?’ asked Horace. ‘A favourite tipple of the barbarians,’ Kate explained. *

A beautiful woman approaches. She is holding hands with a new born girl – her daughter. ‘A daughter too,’ wailed Horace as he woke. ‘The prophet, with all due respect, is one chapati short of a vindaloo.’ ‘You’re awake then,’ observed Kate. ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ moaned Horace. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asked Kate. ‘Not likely…’ ‘we’ll be there soon,’ Kate consoled him. ‘By midday. I can walk now.’ *

Dog yapped excitedly, they turned a corner and Horace saw many people coming towards them. In the distance Horace could see a group of modest dwellings arranged around a many steepled temple featuring vividly coloured glass windows. On either side the land sloped down steeply; they really were at the top of this part of the mountain range. ‘Welcome Queen Minerva,’ the people chanted. Horace turned back and nearly fainted. The people were greeting Kate with great fondness and familiarity, and placing a crown on her head. ‘Kate?’ said Horace. Kate, or rather Minerva, shrugged. ‘Some things never change,’ he said. Queen she may be, but she still looked thoroughly mischievous, which felt oddly reassuring. Kate/Minerva headed towards the temple and encouraged Horace to follow. Dog was already in the lead. *

Horace settled into life near the temple, having been shown a quiet hut where he could keep himself to himself. After several days alone reading the word of the prophet, Horace became so frustrated and moody that he hurled the book to the ground and stamped on it. His heart beat alarmingly and he felt his inner world falling apart. He looked very drawn and realised he’d even been studying the text while cooking his dinner – a lizard that he’d trapped with dog’s help the day before. ‘Is it bedtime,’he groaned. ‘Who cares,’ he added and fell asleep by the fire. Horace dreamed of a changing room near his home, his cave in the desert: The changing room is somehow part of my cave. It is an addition. I’m feeding a stove but it’s empty. There is no fire and whatever I put into it is just wasted. A lady with her young daughter appears outside the changing room near the temple. ‘We’re next!’ she says. A lady with a young daughter appears on the other side of the changing room, down some steps into the market place on the plains. ‘We’re next!’ she says. Horace woke in a rage. ‘Why don’t they just leave me in peace?!’ he raved. ‘I was better off months ago as I’ve been for years! Decades, even!’ The stove made him recall the kiln they’d made and fertile it had seemed with snakes and turtles. He felt a pang of guilt on realising he’d never have met Kate if he really had been left alone, but was it worth it? ‘Are you okay?’ Kate kindly asked, appearing on cue. ‘I’m totally baffled,’ said Horace. ‘By what?’ asked Kate. ‘Everything! But I no longer care. Isn’t that weird?’ ‘Ah. Progress … ,’ said Kate. ‘Hmm,’ complained Horace ‘Full marks for enigmatic, not much for helpful.’ ‘Does the little man need help, then?’ Kate sweetly smiled and left him alone.

Horace went away from the palace and houses towards the lake and walked around it. He remembered that in the dream the steps down to the second woman and child were stained and unsavoury. The doorway out to the woman by the temple was not. He felt he’d been found wanting on their travels through the market towns, but sensed the dream image wasn’t only about him. Maybe he’d needed the journey to realise what a sorry state the world he’d ignored had become. The idea wasn’t convincing. He imagined the prophet waiting for him after his death, and felt sure he’d be judged a failure. * ‘I’ve ruined my book of the prophet,’ he moaned, ’stamped it to dust,’ and he realised he’d have to write his own. Maybe he could remember lots of it; maybe even all of it … There was something in his stubborn mood that said he’d stick by everything he’d done. He’d do the same again, probably. This path was too hard for mere mortals, he’d done his best, and who could ask for more than that? He took out his pad and with an almighty sigh wrote his first words.

thought no.1 Live a life devoted to love and love is what you’ll attract! But try this with the dregs of the world and they’ll walk all over you with glee … dog training techniques work better with the resolutely ignorant. This felt a very poor start, but at least the book was under way. Horace turned a corner and found Kate waiting for him, wearing her crown. She was accompanied by a young girl. Kate wore an expression exactly the same as the prophet in Horace’s fantasy of his day of judgement. Horace held his breath, fearing the worst. ‘Welcome Horace,’ said Kate, and smiled beautifully. She took his left hand for a change and the young girl took his right, carefully enclosing his fingers around his pen and notebook. They led him into the temple where he discovered all the dice players, ladies of ill repute and men of ill temper that he’d met on his journey. Horace was surprised and disappointed. ‘This is the reward for seventy years devotion to the teachings of the prophet?’ he grumbled. ‘Back into the gutter?’ The crowds paid little attention to Horace and he wandered among them. Why would Minerva, the prophet or anyone choose to assemble such people in a temple? He listened to two men bartering. Not once did they look each other in the eye, and even the gestures of friendship were lies; calculated ploys to mislead the other, to gain some sort of advantage, to make the other feel under obligation or debt. He watched girlie’s older work-mate proclaiming in a loud voice how everyone looked up to her and sought her advice. Several times girlie chipped in with a comment or question and there was no evidence that it had even been heard. The epistle of ‘How wonderful I am’ went on … and on … and on. Girlie developed a vacant, depressed expression and began to drool. ‘What is the point of such a life?’ Horace growled. He realised that someone was following, probably had been for ages. He repeated his question – ‘this is some sort of reward for a lifetime of struggle? I could have been idle, selfish and probably much happier!’ ‘And asleep?’ asked Kate. She smiled knowingly, with just a hint of rebuke. She pointed to the young girl who was walking through a gate towards an enclosed garden of trees, flower beds and a large pond. Horace followed the girl and found a cosy corner walled in on two sides by a vertical bank. Evergreen palms formed a roof to the enclosure and his easel and paints were already set out, together with his cooking utensils, a table and two chairs and his notebooks. Dog sat at the entrance, facing outwards. A guard dog of sorts, thought Horace. Horace examined his unfinished paintings from their travels, his new notebooks of original, hesitant words and shrugged inwardly. He arranged the works-in-progress into two piles and found he’d put the easier tasks at the top of each pile. This surely merited a wry smile; he looked around to see if Kate was still spying. She wasn’t. He tried the seat, found it comfortable and moved it a little to improve the daylight – sunlight filtered by leaves – onto his desk. ‘I have work to do,’ he declared, and suddenly felt totally at home.

records  Kate and dog  home

Following the psychogram (1st class) delivered faster than the speed of light by Olf Mail , from Hermes Trismegistus (the patron saint of all sufferers of triple vision), we are pleased to reply to members of Wits End e-Community:

The olf is the epitome of all things that can’t be pinned down. Probably.

It can’t even decide whether to be part of the physical world (like the alleged electron or plausible proton) or the psychic ( like an archetype. E.g. it’s Great Uncle Mercurius).

So, it is the elementary particle of the archetype of all opposites and indecision.
Or, it is the archetype of the elementary particle of all opposites and indecision. Maybe.

One advantage of its elusive character is that, rather than merely arguing about whether to do something, it is more likely to decide that it’s already done it! But unreliably so. This makes it the ultimate mail delivery and publishing system:

Forget Blogger, fret ye not about email, stxff the US mail, waste not thy time on Virgin Atlantic, discard thy magic picture box. Parley by Olf! Always on time! Frequently early!! Often lost!!!

I came to type in this story / nonsense, for example, and found most of it already typed; complete with typos!

The olf done it.

At its best, the dear olf did once enter the physical world all awash with benevolence and good intention. It borrowed a letter ‘a’, rearranged itself somewhat and invented the loaf. Unsliced, wholemeal, with added toasted seeds and probably a few currants.

At its worst, it once sidled into the physical world, stole a letter ‘u’ not caring if anyone was looking, and invented foul – the sliced white, factory made, constipating glue best used for chewing, spitting out and moulding into chess pieces.

Over the millennia many adventurous types have tried to capture an olf, either in this world (details below) when anything both new and bizarre appears. Crop circles, American Unilateral Disarmament; Microsoft goes Open Source; institutions admit the existence of individuals; witless warmongers are pensioned off as peace envoys – sure signs that an olf is about. Or in the other world, following years of silent meditation, shamanic dance or tobacco supplements. But of course the olf (Olf) is always elsewhere.

Its Achilles heel is due, as ever, to a weakness of the flesh: its many adventures in the physical world have led it to discover biscuits, especially double-layered gizmos with jam, cream or colourful additives in the middle. The olf can, in fact, be captured by leaving a biscuit barrel open, then silently whopping an old cap over the top while the olf (Olf) is pigging itself.

If you do capture an olf, don’t start an argument. It’ll melt your brains…

P.S. There are believed to be many olfs, but they are all named Olf, which makes capitalisation a bit confusing.

records  the olf  home

Paperback novel in fair condition. 350 pages.

wiki says:
Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre (June 21, 1905 – April 15, 1980), normally known simply as Jean-Paul Sartre (pronounced [ʒɑ̃ pol saʁtʁə]), was a French existentialist philosopher and pioneer, dramatist and screenwriter, novelist and critic. He was a leading figure in 20th century French philosophy.

records  Iron In The Soul – Jean-Paul Sartre  home

After a certain amount of spying, we have located the critter and can offer this report from the “typist” complete with typos:

Whilst staying at the flute polish rehab centre, I was surprised to meet a wild-eyed, pipeaholic man who transpired to be none other than Count Backwards von Hundred. I confess I feel more tolerant of his weird ways since I heard his family history …

His father was an obsessive actuary – Actuary Factuary, as Count B calls him. Count Backwards wasn’t really a backwards child at birth; given the behaviour of one day old children how could you tell? He was in fact born feet first, hence the name, but I suspect he’s spent most of his life trying to prove to All and Sundry (Actuaries, est 1834) that his monicker doesn’t apply.

If ‘Backwards’ seems an unkind name to give ones child, please consider the plight of Backwards’ sister and brother:

Monsigneur Pink Damp Bawling von Hundred (now professor of family therapy at the university of Accrington, UpNorth, UQ) and Countess Damp Pink Screeching von Hundred, co-proprietor of The Dogs N Cats Rescue Centre (registered charity), Mount Carefully, Near Vienna (but not very), Austria. She runs the sanctuary, which specialises in treating traumatised dogs by letting them get famously filthy and have a good time, with her pal Mable Syrup who she met many years ago whilst an O Pear (as a yoof) in Windsor, London, DarnSarf, UQ.

Message from typist ends (small mercies …)

records  Confessions of an au pair – Mable Syrup  home

records  The Angel that presided o’er my birth – William Blake  home

In good condition, fairly well preserved cover.

Tracks:

“Hurricane Man/Rock ‘n’ Roller”
“Roccococooler”
“Eviction”
“Oh You Crazy Boy!”
“Things On My Mind”
“Exhibits From A New Museum/Green Lights”
“Face From A Window/Pretty/Hi-Jack Boogie/Slow Down”
“Capers”

Band Members;

Edgar Broughton – Lead vocals, guitar, bass guitar on “Hi-Jack Boogie”
Arthur Grant – Bass guitar, guitar on “Hurricane Man” and “Hi-Jack Boogie”
Steve Broughton – Vocals, drums, percussion, guitars, tubular bells, tambourine
Victor Unitt – Backing vocals, guitars, Spanish guitar on “Exhibits From A New Museum”, piano, lead vocals on “Oh You Crazy Boy!”

and guests:

Madeline Bell – backing vocals, “Rock ‘n’ Roller”, “Things On My Mind”‘ & “Face From A Window”
Doris Troy – backing vocals, ‘”Rock ‘n’ Roller”, “Things On My Mind” & “Face From A Window”
Lisa Strike – backing vocals, “Rock ‘n’ Roller”, “Things On My Mind” & “Face From A Window”
Maggie Thomas – backing vocals on “Oh You Crazy Boy!”
David Bedford – piano on “Green Lights”

I can post a demo track as a video if it proves popular

Evening Over Rooftops – The Edgar Broughton Band video

Edgar Broughton Band – Dropout Boogie video

EDGAR BROUGHTON BAND – ‘Out Demons Out’ video

records  Oora – Edgar Broughton Band  home

by Watson and Gray. Paperback edition. A very comprehensive guide to all things related to cycling.

records  The Penguin Book of the Bicycle  home

The stream below the tor at Roughtor, North Cornwall.

This flows from Crowdy reservoir – pic to follow …

Rough Tor is a favourite area for country walks:
This walk could be described as the ascent of Cornwall’s “Twin Peaks”, and although that may sound a little daunting, provided you pick the right day, take your time and take plenty of provisions then you will have a glorious day standing on top of the highest points in Cornwall.

records  Clear stream on Bodmin Moor  home

records  Favourite quotes  home

A steady rise in global temperatures since the 1970s has already shifted the high-altitude jet stream to the north by more than 1,000 miles. That shift has dragged the winter and spring storm track with it. The change will result in fewer big winter storms in Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Southern California, Western Colorado and Western New Mexico, concluded McAfee.

Studies by the UA’s Tree Ring Research Laboratory headed by Tom Swetnam have also found that warm, dry springs lead to a big increase in wildfires.

Another study by UA researchers Sarah Kimball, D. Lawrence Venable and others published in Global Change Biology produced a seemingly contradictory result: cold-tolerating Sonoran Desert plants have actually gotten a boost from the warming trend.

The most cold-tolerant wildflowers increased their germination rates, at the expense of the rest. Earlier work had shown that cold-tolerant annuals also do better on less water, which could account for the shift the researchers recorded.

widespread decline in the number of pinyon pine — the scrubby, drought-tolerant pine tree that often grows at Payson’s elevation.

Pinyon pines have died off on some 2.5 million acres in the past few decades. The researchers blamed a decade of drought, record-high temperatures, a dwindling snowpack and other changes.

There’s a wonderfully idiosyncratic take on Arizona’s future here. Which also qualifies as the longest url I’ve ever seen nice work Emil Pulsifer.

example:

My solutions? 1) Stop all exurban development; 2) Stop all development outside the real urban footprints of cities and towns — that means no more Pinal or Buckeye sprawl; 3) Shrink the state’s population through taxes, “anti-business” regulations and whatever other creative solution someone can reach (the heat may do this anyway); 4) Price water extremely high outside the SRP footprint and a few other quasi-sustainable areas; 5) Start to return much of metro Phoenix’s fringes to natural desert — yes, tear down the crap; 6) Get a real handle on the state’s water resources, based on science, not the venal appetite of the Growth Machine; 7) Fill in the old SRP footprint with high-quality dense development that includes plenty of shade tree and grass oases but also building based on Spanish and Moorish models rather than American tract houses with large expanses out front; also, with much less pavement Tax the fringe areas to encourage migration either out of state or into the dense SRP footprint or other such areas. 9) Shut down any golf course built after 1970; 10) Have statewide, airtight water regulations. Not the least impediment to realizing these solutions would be building an economy based on more than sprawl. So…no chance.

records  Arizona’s climate prospects  home

The main (largest) stall selling fruit, veg and flowers in Holsworthy Square on market day (Wednesdays).

A stall in Holsworthy Square on market day.

flowers classed as weeds!

Photos of red flowers

I’m hoping that Lord D can name these for me

records  Flowers fruit and veg  home

Penguin paperback, 140 pages. A classic novel based on real events form 1938. A young gregarious challenger faces the aged solitary master.

Typical review:
In 1938, a go match was played over six months in 14 sessions at several different locations in Japan. The opponents were the grand master, Shusai, and Otake, a younger professional challenger. Kawabata, then 39 years old, was the newspaper reporter who covered the match for Tokyo and Osaka newspapers. After the war, he turned his reportage into a novel which still retains much of the feeling of reports. If you don’t know the game of `go’, played with white and black stones on a board, or if you are not at all familiar with Japanese culture, then this book is probably not a good place to begin. However, if that is not the case, then Kawabata’s subtle depiction of many themes in Japanese culture and in human life, may give you pleasure. The sick old man versus the young one. Life versus death, even.

records  The Master of Go – Yasunari Kawabata  home

Precisely how the Nelson Mass became so called, when and by whom shall probably never be known. What is at least clear is that within a month of the Battle of the Nile (1 August 1798) Haydn had completed a Mass in D Minor, and within months of the Battle of Trafalgar (21 October 1805) that same mass had become known as the Nelson Mass.

The “Kyrie” section translates as ‘Lord have mercy’.

Similar Maria Callas sings Puccini.

records  Haydn – Nelson Messe – Kyrie  home

Guitar tab for my arrangement to follow, if desired

records  All The World is Green – Tom Waits  home

There are many churches in this area that appear to be of the same era – Norman, apparently. The church at Poughill has particularly fine religious art inside.

Poughill, North Cornwall – photos

a satellite view of Poughill Church

View Larger Map

records  Photo Poughill Church  home

The lyrics:

Hit her with a hammer
Teeth smashed in
Red tongue twitching
Look inside her skeleton

My fingers sting
Where I feel your fingers have been
Ghostly fingers
Moving my limbs

Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you

Daddy’s in the corner
Rattling his keys
Mommy’s in the doorway
Trying to leave

Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening
Nobody’s listening

Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you
Oh God I miss you

records  PJ Harvey – The Piano  home

An excellent video, with the English translation following the display of the original words.

Glenmed’s notes:
Sister Angelica was put away to a convent after giving birth to an illegitimate child. After 7 years without news of her son, she is visited by a cruel aunt and told that he died in infancy. She wishes she could be together with him in heaven.

Suor Angelica – Puccini

Recorded in 1954 at Watford Town Hall with the Philharmonia Orchestra under Tulio Serafin. This was during the same recording sessions when her “La mamma morta” and “Ebben, Ne andro lontana” were produced.

Maria Callas (December 2, 1923 – September 16, 1977) was born in New York City and raised by an overbearing mother, she received her musical education in Greece and established her career in Italy. Forced to deal with the exigencies of wartime poverty and with myopia  that left her nearly blind on stage, she endured struggles and scandal over the course of her career. She turned herself from a heavy woman into a svelte and glamorous one after a mid-career weight loss, which might have contributed to her vocal decline and the premature end of her career. The press exulted in publicizing Callas’s allegedly temperamental behavior, her supposed rivalry with Renata Tebaldi, and her love affair with Aristotle Onassis. Her dramatic life and personal tragedy have often overshadowed Callas the artist in the popular press. However, her artistic achievements were such that Leonard Bernstein called her “The Bible of opera”, and her influence so enduring that, in 2006, Opera News  wrote of her: “Nearly thirty years after her death, she’s still the definition of the diva as artist—and still one of classical music’s best-selling vocalists.”

records  Maria Callas sings ‘Senza Mamma’ (Puccini)  home

I can’t recall ever being introduced so rapidly into a story. The first pages of this novel really set the scene very efficiently.

It’s hard to be enthusiastic, though, because the story is mostly lifelike and dreadful. On reading this I wonder, yet again, if ‘God’ (by whatever name) has chosen the wrong species to attempt consciousness. I cannot think of any other, except maybe ants, that systematically farm others for their whole lifespan; and even ants decline to do so to their own species, preferring the relatively senseless greenfly, and definitely skip abuse of their own family.

Part 1 is set in Accrington, Lancashire, and Molly, the central character endures poverty, a mad mother and sexual abuse from her father and his pals. Both the poverty and the mother’s madness contribute to the onset of abuse.

In part 2 Molly escapes from Accrington to train as a teacher at the Leeds Institute. She feels compelled to relive some of her abuse with the privileged youthful students; begins conversations with her walking stick; and finally ends up in a mental institution.

In part 3 Molly moves to Coventry and finds a job as a teacher. She attracts odd company (again): an illegal immigrant with no grasp of English, a beautiful pupil from her school that she fears she’ll corrupt, and a fellow teacher, Eileen, who is everything Molly isn’t – stable, organised, bored.

Surprisingly, Eileen flips (in the view of the police and local press) and stages a one-woman demonstration outside an arms factory; both her career and Molly’s are soon threatened, and most upsetting for Molly, the immigrant (they’ve named him Om) goes away.

Part 4 is comprised entirely of letters from Molly to Carol (the schoolgirl) as Molly goes to Demerara in search of Om. Molly is cleansed by her experience with Om’s tribe, but do read it for yourself to find out how!

I was disappointed by the author telling us (on the final page) that there’s oodles of love and grief – I’d rather the story had made me feel it.

records  Molly and the Muslim Stick David Dabydeen  home

Panther science fiction paperback. Sunned pages and slightly tatty cover.

This is the seventh book in the Lensman series.

records  Masters of the Vortex – E E Doc Smith  home

paperback book in good condition. 258 pages.

Gribbin sets out to explain how time travel is theoretically possible and looks at the various different ways which might allow it. He pays particular attention to the most likely time-machine: that provided by the concept of the “wormhole”. Like a tunnel through space and time, a wormhole could connect different regions of the Universe which occupy both different spaces and different times.

The book works through the history of theories of time: Newton, gravity, the pioneers of Black Hole theory. Then geometrical theories: from Euclid and Descartes onto ideas of non-flat space-time; Einstein’s ideas on gravity and Schwarzchild’s singularities.

Chapter 3 is about dense stars – how concentrations of mass can warp spacetime – white dwarfs, neutron stars and similar.

Chapter 4 progresses to the logical conclusion of the existence of black holes from which no signal (light or otherwise) can ever escape.

Chapter 5 is about black holes with spin, exploding horizons and centrifugal confusion.

Chapter 6 introduces hyperspace – timeloops, wormholes, etc.

Chapter 7 explores the possibilities of time machines.

Chapter 8 mentions the latest and wildest ideas. Black holes that bounce, oscillating universes etc.

Good for the grant proposals, but shows a distinct lack of social relevance and artistic creativity!

contemporary fiction

records  In Search of the Edge of Time – John Gribbin  home

Their website contains quality mp3s to tempt you into buying their (highly recommended!) CDs. example http://www.stileantico.co.uk/clips/ByrdAve.mp3.

http://www.stileantico.co.uk/order_cd.php has links to all CDs, and the mp3s and descriptions are all available from this page.

Stile Antico – British vocal ensemble – sings Clemens non Papa

also available on the Beeb, Stile Antico’s performance at the London Proms. replay available until 3/9/2010.

The young British vocal ensemble Stile Antico perform The Song of Songs – sensuous polyphonic music from the courts of Renaissance Europe. The programme celebrates some of the greatest composers of the age, with works by Ceballos, Clemens non Papa, Gombert, Guerrero, Lassus, Palestrina, Praetorius, Victoria and Vivanco, interspersed with plainchant.

Broadcast on:
BBC Radio 3, 2:00pm Saturday 28th August 2010

Monteverdi programme by Stile Antico

Kate and Matthew, members of Stile Antico, take time out of rehearsals in Norfolk to discuss the group’s new Monteverdi programme, celebrating 400 years since the publication of the Missa in illo tempore.

I lived near here for a while…

records  Stile Antico vocal ensemble  home

records  Poem – The Ocean  home