James Henry Greathead

Statue of James Henry Greathead, civil engineer who invented the tunneling shield that made possible the digging of the tube tunnels. London was the first city in the world to have an underground railway system. Greathead’s statue stands at the top of Cornhill, and was put up in 1994.

Greathead was also responsible for the construction of the first stages of the Northern Line (a tube line which has many personal connections for me - almost every station has featured in an episode in my life at one time or another). The stations on the Northern Line's Morden Extension are architecturally distinguished and were designed by Charles Holden. Between Euston and Camden Town is Mornington Crescent characterized by scruffy patches of grass that must never be built on as they mark the sites of plague pits (also there is a game called Mornington Crescent which has acquired a cult following on BBC Radio 4).

For a picture of Greathead’s tunneling shield: http://www.vauxhallsociety.org.uk/NorthernLine.html

More on the game of Mornington Crescent: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mornington_Crescent_(game)

Bad history

There has been a great deal of bad history associated with the current bi-centenary of the abolition of the slave trade. It is depressing that people can be so ignorant. It is even more depressing that some people choose to be ignorant.

Two opposing positions have been arrived at:

1) Slavery existed in all cultures and at all times, but it was the application of large-scale industrial processes by the British that transformed the Atlantic slave trade into a uniquely evil manifestation. Nothing can compensate for this crime. An apology to the descendants of the surviving slaves, together with the payment of reparations, might help them cope with the legacy of slavery (poor self image, poor social status, poor economic prospects).

2) Slavery existed in all cultures and at all times, but it was the British who put a stop to it, first by outlawing the trade in slaves, and then by abolishing slavery in all dependent territories (a quarter of the world). Slave rebellions from Spartacus onwards, campaigns by well-meaning individuals, boycotts of West Indian sugar, all had proved ineffectual. It was the power of the British state that made abolition a reality.

The particular idea of an apology (expressed most recently in a discussion led by Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight last night) seems to be irritating people, most of whom seem to feel no personal responsibility for what happened two hundred years ago. The idea of bad blood (that children should be punished for what their fathers and grandfathers did) is an ancient legal concept, but one that has not been voiced for many years. Campaigners for an apology point to various precedents that suggest an apology would lead to greater communal harmony.

Opponents of an apology say that the black community in Britain is being encouraged to think of themselves as victims by manipulative politicians who aim to keep black people ghettoised, dependent upon state benefits, and malleable as a voting bloc at election time (Ken Livingstone has been identified in this context).



Above: The Thomas Clarkson memorial, erected by public subscription in 1881. Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott has been critical of the amount of attention history has placed on the role of William Wilberforce, but the Clarkson memorial far outclasses Wilberforce’s statue in Westminster Abbey. It’s one of my favourite structures (click on the photo to see it in more detail).

Thomas Clarkson looks down a short avenue past a non-conformist school to a war memorial in the form of a celtic cross, improbably flanked by two palm trees and with municipal gardens behind. From either side of the war memorial sweep two very graceful Georgian crescents, forming a circle (they are built on the site of the bailey walls of a Norman castle, the castle keep in the centre being now occupied by a large Regency villa). The crescents meet again at a small raised square (you go up some steps) with the town museum on one side and council offices on the other, and with a perfectly framed view of the medieval church beyond.

As an example of town planning it is superb.

There was something about the arrangement of the north aisle that seemed puzzlingly familiar

I had gone to a hilltop church to look at some examples of Saxon sculpture. By hilltop I mean right on top of a cone-shaped hill with a terrific wind blowing even on a still cloudless sunny day. The view was spectacular but the wind was so fierce that we (Marie-Astrid and myself) were glad to get inside (although the hill itself is of considerable interest being a mixture of yellow-pink dolomite and grey carboniferous limestone and incorporating thousands of sea-fossils thrust upwards when the hill was formed three hundred million years ago).

It was a big building, built on the grand medieval scale. At one time a great family had dominated the local area and enriched the church (more for their glory you would suspect, rather than as an expression of piety). But the family had died out and now only their monuments remain in the elevated isolated church with the wind whistling round.

I didn’t have much time to look around as Marie-Astrid doesn’t much care for old buildings and had imposed a time limit (she was driving). My original intention was to photograph the Saxon carvings, “discovered” (actually they had been there for centuries unnoticed and unregarded) by the late Sir Alfred Clapham, world authority on Romanesque architecture and sculpture (see his masterful essay: Disputed Examples of Pre-Conquest Sculpture), in a process of analytical deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes. But as usually happens, once we were in the place I got distracted by all the other things there were to see.



Above: Looking across the nave, you can see the black wood pew on the left with the private family chapel on the right.

In particular I was intrigued by the arrangement in the north aisle where a monstrous family pew stood side by side with a railed-off family mausoleum. The pew was a huge wooden kiosk dated 1627, and exhibited all the vanity of the landed gentry in the seventeenth century (ornate balusters, friezes of cherubs, gigantic heraldic achievements). Next door the family chapel, protected by heavy iron grills, contained recumbent effigies carved from Chellaston alabaster.



Above: I know I’ve said this before, but at the risk of broing you, an “achievement” is when your parents, grandparents, great-grandparents and all sixteen great-great-grandparents were entitled to a coat of arms – all the various arms are then displayed on an escutcheon known as an achievement. This example has many more than sixteen arms, so it’s a sort of super achievement. There are no “supporters” so the family was not noble, and probably just stayed in its own locality making very careful marriages generation after generation.



Above: Standing in the family mausoleum and looking towards the family pew, you can walk out of one door and into the other.

There was something about the arrangement of the north aisle that seemed puzzlingly familiar. It was the idea of the living sitting side-by-side with the dead. And then into my mind “pinged” the line from Henry Scott-Holland: “Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room”.

Unfortunately the famous poem of Canon Henry Scott-Holland has become so over-familiar that it has lost a lot of its impact, but you can read the full text here:

http://www.poeticexpressions.co.uk/POEMS/Death%20is%20nothing%20at%20all%20-%20Canon%20Henry%20Scott-Holland.htm

Hirsh has an incredible shop window

Hirsh in Hatton Garden, in the centre of London’s diamond district. Over four hundred jewellery manufacturers are based in the area. Hirsh has an incredible shop window to look into – every surface sparkles with diamonds.

Hatton Garden was always a centre for gemstones and watches, but the discovery of diamonds in South Africa in the 1860s made the area take off (the new diamond distribution trade was funded by bankers based in Hatton Garden).

Not impressed by yesterday's budget

Above: the government has pirated and pillaged its way through incredible amounts of tax revenues.

I was not impressed by yesterday's budget. Chancellor Gordon Brown sensationally cut 2p-in-the-pound off income tax, while concealing the fact that he was PUTTING UP income tax by the same amount. For about twenty four hours I had warm feelings towards the government only to find out this morning (on the Today Programme) that it was all a sham.

What a let down!

Over the last ten years the government has pirated and pillaged its way through incredible amounts of tax revenues, and yet because of the character of Gordon Brown they have managed to preserve public confidence in their handling of economic and financial matters. Gordon Brown's image has been sober, safe, very dull (an old-fashioned bank manager writ large). Only two times has he slipped up - the first time when photographed laughing himself silly over Tony Blair's resignation predicament (last year), and the second time (in my opinion) over yesterday's phoney tax cut.

I used to quite like him, but now I am not so sure.

Subdued this year

Saturday was St Patrick’s Day. It seemed subdued this year. As if Irishness was no longer in fashion.

I have been reading Our Like Will Not Be There Again. It’s a fascinating collection of anecdotes, stories and folklore collected from the far west of Ireland by American writer Lawrence Millman. Millman’s ponderous personal comments occasionally intrude, but when he allows the ordinary voices to speak (recorded in a sort of verbatim style) it is a vivid evocation of a self-sufficient rural society in the tradition of Le Roy Ladurie’s Montaillou.

Millman wrote his book in 1970, and the Ireland he described has now almost entirely perished under pressure of urbanisation, escalating property prices and the relentless generic Oirishness promoted by the tourist industry.

Total eclipse of the...

A couple of weeks back there was a lunar eclipse at the weekend. As I live in an area where there is almost no light pollution I got a good view and took this photo. It happened about ten o’clock at night. The radio stations had been playing Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart all day. I went out onto the cool evening every ten minutes or so to watch the eclipse. My brother (drinking beer and watching Sky Sports) was totally uninterested and, on the one occasion I got him to go out and look, asked me what all the fuss was over.

Robert Graves, in his book The White Goddess, claimed to have discovered an ancient European-wide religion that worshipped the moon. He did this on the basis of textural interpretations of poetry myths (I mean myths that have been preserved in a poetic form, like The Illiad, not myths about poetry). No physical evidence of this religion has ever been found, and his ideas are largely discredited.



This shot shows the moon eclipsed. It is supposed to turn red at this point as the only light that gets to it is infra-red light refracted through the Earth’s atmosphere. As you can see, there is no sign of any red in my photo.

At a Lunar Eclipse
by Thomas Hardy

Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
Of imperturbable serenity.

How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry
With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
That profile, placid as a brow divine,
With continents of moil and misery?

And can immense Mortality but throw
So small a shade, and Heaven's high human scheme
Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies?
Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show,

Nation at war with nation, brains that teem,
Heroes, and women fairer than the skies?

Looking like an idol from a south Pacific cargo cult

Sunday afternoon Helen B asked people over to see various cult movies. We watched The Bitter Tea of General Yen, Surf Nazis Must Die, The Last Days of Disco. After three films I felt I had had enough and went home.

Completely on my own in the evening listened to Crossing the Bar, Radio 3’s programme about the poetry of Tennyson. I listened to it in the big sitting room via the television (you can get most of the radio stations via Sky). It’s more comfortable than the dining room where the radio is located.



Tennyson’s poetry is deeply unfashionable, so it was a surprise to find this programme. It also included one of his mono-dramas that I was not familiar with. For some reason I felt guilty listening to the programme, like Winston Smith in Orwell’s 1984 taking refuge in the fragments of old lyrical culture (and rejecting the prescribed establishment canon).



Once you know about Tennyson’s poetry you start to see references everywhere. Crossing the Bar is a short poem about dying. Tennyson portrays it as a gentle slipping away from moorings under the Evening Star.

I studied Tennyson for A-level English Literature. This was one of the books that changed my life. I saw the world completely differently after I had read Tennyson.

My favourites include: Ulysses (has to be read in conjunction with The Lotus Eaters and Choric Song), Break Break Break, Tithonus (After many a summer dies the swan…), Now sleeps the crimson petal, Lady of Shalott, Morte d’Arthur. In Memorium A H H is Tennyson’s masterpiece. Maud is alternatively a paean to unrequited love and a keening evocation of regret.

The effect of learning huge chunks of Tennyson by heart is that it entered my subconscious where it has had a profound effect upon my process of thought. Lines come unbidden into my mind. The distilled Tennysonian feelings and emotions have become my feelings and emotions.

The poem Maud initiates strong feelings, and not just in English Literature students. The character Maud was based on a real person, Rosa Baring, who became the object of Tennyson’s youthful obsession. True to the poem, Rosa Baring lived in a red brick Hall with a “high hall garden” (actually a raised terrace – I’ve been there).

I once visited a village show and went into the church where there was an exhibition. I saw a floral representation of Maud (see above) looking like an idol from a south Pacific cargo cult. In the silence of the church, the dappled sunlight streaming in through the gothic windows seemed to make the image come alive.

Tescos will be destroyed by imperial over-reach

Start The Week yesterday on Radio 4 included an item on the ubiquitous growth of Tescos and the effect it is having on the country (destroying local family-owned shops through its predatory pricing policies, destroying small family-owned farms through rapacious purchasing policies, homogenising everything it touches).

I used to like Tescos (four or five years ago) but now I hate the company. I know “hate” is a very strong emotion, but I chose the word with care. I disliked Tescos until last Saturday at about 11 am when my dislike turned very definitely to hatred.

Last Saturday at 11 o’clock in the morning I went to the Customer Service desk at my local Tescos to return six items (total value about £15). I explained to the woman behind the counter that they were part of a range, and that Tescos no longer did the entire range. Therefore the six products were of no use to me. All the products were Tescos own-label, in Tescos packaging. They were still in date (and Tescos still had them on the shelves even though they are no use without the other two items in the range). I asked for my money back.

The woman told me I couldn’t have my money back without a receipt. She pointed to sign above her which said the same thing. She said I could choose alternative goods from the same section to the same value.

Normally this wouldn’t bother me. I would have got soap to the value of £15. Or multivitamins. Or cough mixture. But that woman was so rude in her manner it annoyed me. She ENJOYED being unhelpful.

I am not really the sort of person who makes a fuss in shops, but I asked to see the manager. The woman told me that the manager would only tell me what she had just told me (she ENJOYED telling me this). I insisted on seeing the manager.

The woman made a telephone call and a few minutes later the “Duty Manager” arrived. He was aged in his early twenties and was obviously not a real manager (he was wearing the ordinary Tescos uniform, and when I asked him what sort of manager he was, he admitted to being the head of the meat section). He told me (politely) I couldn’t have a refund.

I told him the policy was ridiculous. I had bought the items at the store and they were clearly Tescos products. Not giving refunds for own-label products was incredible.

I asked to see a manager who was capable of making decisions. The woman (by this time looking very smug) told me the store manager was away. I asked to see the most senior person in the store. She made a phone call and a few minutes later a young woman arrived who listened politely to my story and then told me I couldn’t have a refund. She pointed up to the sign that said you couldn’t have refunds. The Customer Service desk woman looked triumphant.

At that point I gave up and went away. I will probably throw the unwanted products away. Instead of doing my shopping at Tescos (I spend £120 every week) I went to Asda.

Tescos is at the point where it has grown so large that it is losing touch with ordinary people (assuming I am ordinary). They also have a problem with the quality of staff they are recruiting since the Customer Service desk woman had a massive attitude problem. Tescos will be destroyed by imperial over-reach (but how much damage will they do before that time comes?).

The National’s version of The Man Of Mode

Wednesday 28th February.

Waking in my tenth-floor hotel room, I drew back the curtains to see Croydon wet and grey in the early morning light. The view from my window was extensive, and I sat on the edge of the bed and watched misty low rain clouds move towards me across a shallow urban valley to spatter on the side of the building and then pass over. I went down to the dining room for a big breakfast – all around me were other business people sitting isolated but with an air of confidence (when they moved they seemed to have a smooth gliding motion, as if they were machines rather than people).

During the morning I worked on editing a book the company wants to produce. The draft has been done by a freelance, but she has obviously just downloaded several articles from the internet and stitched them together with very minimal changes. I will have to rewrite all of it, every single word, to ensure it is presentable and doesn’t violate copyrights (actually I quite like doing this kind of project, even though I am never credited as the author).

From one o’clock until six I was in one of the training sessions. We looked at various kinds of communication. There were two coffee breaks when we sprawled on sofas in the central area, asking each other questions.

The afternoon’s training ran over six o’clock, and as soon as I could I left the business suite and went to the station (ten minutes walk). Buying a ticket at one of the machines, I rushed down onto a train going to London Bridge (and beyond to Bedford). This train was excruciatingly slow, and stopped for ages on a viaduct just by Southwark cathedral (“It always does this” a woman said to me, obviously noticing my impatience).

Arriving at London Bridge at five past seven, I caught another train to Waterloo (marginally quicker than walking) and then ran to the South Bank. I got to the National Theatre five minutes after the play (The Man Of Mode) had started. I had arranged to see the play with Robert Leiper (in London for a couple of days from his current residence in Paris) and was concerned he would be kept waiting, but he had already claimed his ticket from the Olivier Desk and gone into the auditorium.

I waited outside for fifteen minutes until the end of the first act when one of the ushers took me into the dark interior and guided me to my seat next to Robert Leiper.

We had the best seats in the house. There were two reasons I wanted to see The Man Of Mode - it had had extremely good reviews in the national press, and I had seen Etherege’s Love In A Tub some years ago so I knew his work was very clever and interesting. Love In A Tub had been put on by the drama department of my college (apparently the first time it had been put on for two hundred years).

The National’s version of The Man Of Mode was a modern production and was actually two plays in one. There was Etherege’s Restoration drama (themes of corruption, falsehood, the unsatisfying quality of decadent living) combined with a visual satire of modern London. It was incredibly well done, with so much happening that I felt I would have to see it twice to take it all in.

The drawback of seventeenth-century plays is that they can sometimes appear irrelevant to the present day (obviously this doesn’t apply to Shakespeare). But the modern interpretation of this production was so accurate that I immediately recognised the London it portrayed. The authenticity was very convincing, and the play was colourful, lively, full of visual jokes (chav fashions, parkour leaping, the Matthew Bourne version of Swan Lake etc). The cast were mostly young and unknown, which was an advantage as there were no colossal thespians trundling around the stage. The hero (anti-hero?) Dorimant was played by Tom Hardy, seducing his way through the cast with such a high level of charisma that there were gasps of recognition and indignation from the young woman next to me (“I’ve been there!” and “you liar!”). He also had considerable stamina, considering the number of scene changes over three hours.

In the interval we went to the bar and I ordered a half-bottle of champagne which we shared between us (I wasn’t trying to show off, champagne was just the easiest thing to buy). Robert Leiper was full of his plans for setting up a small business based in Paris (would he be allowed to do this without French citizenship?). He insisted on going down to the cloakroom and retrieving some of the stock he had already bought, wrapped up in big bulky packages. We took these packages back to the crush bar and despite the lack of space (we were literally in a crush) he crouched down on the carpet and opened them up. In the process he knocked over the bottle of champagne, which had been placed on the floor, and it gushed over the patent leather shoes of a man in his late-fifties (dark suit, gold-rimmed glasses, crinkly grey hair) soaking his foot. Robert Leiper’s apologies were so inadequate that I felt indignation on the man’s behalf.

The second half was just as good the first with an incredible performance by Nancy Carroll. Despite this being a three hour play there was no point when I felt the time was dragging. Later when I tried to analyse why I had enjoyed the production so much, it occurred to me that I had experienced Csikszentmihalyi’s flow state.

It was late when we emerged from the theatre. Needing something to eat, we crossed over Waterloo Bridge (the bridge obliquely features in the song Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks, and was also where Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markow was assassinated by being stabbed with the tip of a poisoned umbrella in 1978). We went into Smollenskys on The Strand, which was still serving meals. I ordered a fishcake with vegetables of the day – the fishcake arrived brick shaped, covered with an orange sauce and so ornately garnished that it looked like an elaborate blancmange.

Robert Leiper hardly touched his food, talking excitedly about his plans to set up his business. He talked at me for about twenty minutes describing all the people who would want to buy his product / pay for his service, but without any evidence that these customer segments actually exist. When I asked if he had a business plan this was dismissed as if of no account.

None of this surprised me. When you work in marketing you get used to meetings where ideas are floated that are supposedly so unique that the normal rules of marketing don’t apply (in reality, the rules of marketing always apply, but unfortunately not everyone can understand them). I tentatively suggested some market research to validate the assumptions he was making, but was told (at some repetitive length) that market research doesn’t work.

The only point at which I managed to stop his gush of supply-side enthusiasm was when I asked about the sales process – how would he find his customers, how would he pitch to them, how would he get them to part with their money. This received a grudging acknowledgment that sales was an unpleasant necessity (in reality sales is the only thing that matters, everything else being a variation of admin work). I told him that even the most favourable sales ratios are based on one sale for every twenty expressions of interest, which is a gruelling pace of qualifying, pitching and closing for someone untrained in sales techniques.

“I feel like throwing a bucket of cold water over you” I told him.

We finished our meal and paid the bill. Between us we only had a tiny amount of change (less than £1) to leave as a tip. Robert Leiper described how he had left a tiny tip at a restaurant in New York and the waitress had been so outraged she had followed him out onto the street and thrown it at him.

It was raining outside but I managed to get a taxi quite easily.

More on Csikszentmihalyi’s flow state: http://www.austega.com/education/articles/flow.htm

Abstraction seemed to be the theme

Most of last week I spent at a training course in Croydon. The course was held in two business suites on the first floor of a big hotel. I stayed at the hotel on the tenth floor.

The hotel was very much an establishment for business people – crowded at breakfast and in the evening, deserted during the day (the same was true of the streets outside). After a couple of days a weird sense of disorientation came over me. It was as if I had been taken out of my normal life and dropped down in a parallel universe where nothing was really real.

Two nights I had dinner in the hotel restaurant, all the tables occupied by individuals dining on their own. The food (a downgraded version of nouvelle cuisine) was placed before me on the abstract marquetry of the table top. Abstraction seemed to be the theme of the hotel – abstract swirls on the carpet, abstract art on the walls, even my presence was in a way abstract, since it had no permanence beyond the four days.

All the time I was in the hotel I was conscious of a faint humming from the air conditioning. There was also the subdued noise of the traffic beyond the tinted plate glass windows, moving in continuous streams backwards and forwards. The only other noises were the whispered conversations of the guests talking to the staff, and the occasionally rustling of their gratis copies of The Times and Daily Telegraph.

The effect of twenty-four hour air conditioning was to leave me feeling dried out and exhausted.

By the third day I felt I was going mad.

Training course in Croydon

I will be on a training course in Croydon for the next few days. About thirty people from the company are going on the course. I am feeling a bit apprehensive as no-one else from my location is going. I hope the others will be friendly (they won’t be unfriendly, but they could keep in their own groups and be cliquey and difficult to talk to). The course is being held at a big hotel (where I will be staying – I’ll have a fried breakfast every morning!). It’s good the company is investing in its employees in this way.

Some photographs I took when I was last in Croydon (about eighteen months ago):

Above: Most of central Croydon looks like this. Big companies, big hotels, emphasis upon commerce (it’s not really somewhere you would go if you were a tourist). In the distance you can see the sprawl of suburbia.

Above: Croydon has a very innovative business culture and a positive “can do” approach to things. The population of the borough is very mobile, and in any one year a huge percentage of them are on the move (either moving into the town or moving out). The new tram system is an example of Croydon’s forward thinking and liking for all things new.

Above: The shops tend not to be very inspiring – just the usual chain stores, although every kind of chain store seems to be represented. At the top of this pedestrianised street were two magnificent police horses. It was amazing to see horses in such an urban area.

Troy on Channel 4

During the week I watched the 2004 feature film Troy on Channel 4. Actually I just watched the first half of the film since I had to go to work the next day. I was very impressed with the film, although the dialogue was poor – eventually I just turned the sound off since I am very familiar with the Illiad (allowing for the obvious departures from Homer). The architecture of Illium was a bit too Minoan to be credible, but otherwise this was a magnificent interpretation. The subtext of the film was the apotheosis of mortal men into immortal heroes. For the record, I took the side of the Trojans (a futile gesture since the outcome is already known).

Heroes are important in Western culture because they allow ordinary citizens of a state to identify in a personal way with the national “story” (just as readers of a novel will identify with a book’s hero or heroine). If heroes do not personalise the national “myth” then national identity becomes remote and the population does not feel involved (humans are unable to view the world from any perspective except a personal one). In the last two decades heroes have been replaced by celebrities (who make no claims to be virtuous or self-sacrificing).

Above: Welsh rugby international Gavin Henson fulfills all the mythological criteria for a hero – setting out on a quest (restoring the reputation of Welsh rugby), passing a crucial test (maintaining a top level of fitness) and marrying a princess (his relationship with celebrity singer Charlotte Church). In these image conscious times he also looks the part of a hero (although The Guardian sneers at his Wave & Groom hair gel, fake tan and alternating silver and gold rugby boots). And in a twist worthy of all the usual hero monomyths he has been abandoned by the gods (the little tin gods that comprise the Welsh selectors) and dropped from the Welsh national side in the Six Nations tournament because of serious flaws (poor form, tabloid scandals and upsetting his team-mates with an indiscreet autobiography) that ironically elevate him to the status of tragic-hero (and thus will invite even more attention from the tabloid press since tragic-heroes sell).

The book Death Of A Hero relates to a Greek sculpture in the Getty Museum in Malibu. The ancient Greeks identified the political importance of hero cults, predominantly in defining what was virtuous in their society and providing a role model, particularly to young people. Heroes were especially important at times of social unrest or threats to the integrity of the nation.

Carnegie’s view: http://www.carnegiehero.org/heroFund.php
Carlyle’s view: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/1091

Various legends have accumulated

Jurassic sandstone boulder on a village green in the heart of the county. It was moved here more than 300,000 years ago during the ice age (and worn smooth by the waters beneath the ice). Various legends have accumulated to the stone over the centuries.

“What sort of legends?” you ask.

The stone moves around on its own at night, there is a hidden treasure buried under it, it marks the site of a long-forgotten battle…

Just the usual run-of-the-mill legends.

I felt like I was seeing an old friend again

Abstract sculpture called “Piscator” by Eduardo Paolozzi. It stands at the front of Euston Station. At one time in my life I used to pass it every day (and hated the sight of it). Then my job changed and I forgot about it. Coming across it the other night, I felt like I was seeing an old friend again. Still don’t know what it’s meant to represent.

The Euston Road has become a minor sculpture park. As well as Piscator there is the Newton statue by Paolozzi in the forecourt of the British Library. Also at the British Library are two Anthony Gormley sculptures of “planets”. There is a towering Thomas Heatherwick sculpture (Bliegiessen) at the Wellcome Institute. Plus the Greek Revival caryatids on New St Pancras church. And if you look carefully there is a statue of Britannia high up on the east side of St Pancras station (on top of a gable).

More on Piscator: http://ftvdb.bfi.org.uk/sift/title/124948

I was curious to see the Shadow Chancellor

Above: Apologies for this picture of George Osbourne (standing), which is very blurred. I didn’t take my camera to the meeting so was unable to get my own images. This picture was taken by a very elderly gentleman with shaking hands (he later e-mailed it to me).

The front page of The Guardian today featured the results of a poll showing that David Cameron’s personal approval rating stood at 42% as opposed to Gordon Brown’s 29% and Menzies Campbell’s 17%.

Whatever you think of politics (and I am always very sceptical) this turnaround in the fortunes of the Conservative Party is remarkable. I hated John Major’s government and thought they were rotten and corrupt. Now it is the Labour Party that appears dishonest, corrupt, war-mongering, bullying, wasteful with public money, contemptuous of ordinary people. The Conservative Party image is fresh, interesting and full of ideas. There was a time, say five years ago, when no-one I knew admitted to supporting the Conservatives. Now everyone seems to be a Conservative.

An example is Jason Kramer, a Finance Manager with a multi-national company in the Midlands. He recently renewed his membership of the Conservative Party after a lapse of several years. Last November he drove down from Bromsgrove to a town near where I live to see Shadow Chancellor George Osbourne talk to a meeting of local Conservatives. At first we were going to meet afterwards for a meal, but I was curious to see the Shadow Chancellor and so he got me a ticket. I was surprised at how easy this was. There were no security checks or police on the door or anything (and no "minders" to suppress dissenters).

Anyway, I wrote this up last November, but for a variety of reasons I didn’t post it (mainly because I didn’t want this site to become too “political”).

The meeting was held at a girls’ grammar school, a 1950s building of brown brick, vaguely Scandinavian in style (as if modelled on Norwich City Hall). The night was freezing cold, a bright moon in the sky. I met Jason Kramer in the little car park and we went in through the front doors, across a vestibule, and into the school hall.

About a hundred and fifty people were at the meeting, most of them quite elderly. The audience sat at individual tables around the room. Three big tables in the centre of the hall were covered in white tablecloths and piled with food. Three big Union Jack flags had been put up, inbetween the long black and white photographs (rather faded) of school form groups from the 1950s and 1960s. A stage filled the end of the room, and a table had been set up on the stage, presumably for the speaker. The doors to the hall were wide open at first, which made the start of the meeting very cold.

We sat at a table where six people (three couples) had already taken their places. We all chatted for a while (nothing particularly political – just chat), and then everyone got up to get food from the buffet tables in the centre or drinks from the temporary bar which had been set up at one end. The food was very impressive – it was all homemade, and there was plenty of it (sandwiches, pastries, pies). There were several MPs from neighbouring constituencies in the room and they went around the tables introducing themselves. The meeting was supposed to have started at seven, but seven-thirty arrived and then eight, with still no sign of George Osbourne. Someone said he had been held up at a previous meeting.

Eventually the Shadow Chancellor arrived, accompanied by the local Member of Parliament. They made a circuit of the room, shaking hands with everyone and asking how they were. Presumably because Jason Kramer and myself were interlopers the local party managers didn’t let George Osbourne linger at our table.

George Osbourne didn’t go up onto the stage but stood in front of it and began talking to the meeting. He mainly focussed on pensions, describing how pension funds had been taxed so that the United Kingdom has gone from having the best pensions provision in Europe to being no better off than spendthrift countries such as France or Germany. He talked about general government spending and how much of the money had been frittered away with no real results.

His talk was punctuated by interruptions from six or seven middle-aged men sitting together. They all looked alike, being short and round (very fat) with striped shirts, dark suits, bow ties (hair longish and grey, most of them had spectacles). I thought at first that they were hecklers who had somehow got into the meeting, but although their interventions were hostile, loud and arrogant, they were fairly courteous in listening to George Osbourne’s answers. After a few of their questions it became apparent that the men were doctors and consultants from the local hospital who had heard about the meeting and come along (there was no controlled entry). They jumped up from their chairs like little fat jack-in-a-box characters. They complained that the National Health Service needed a lot more money whichever party was in power (it was hard to understand what they really wanted other than "more money").

After his talk George Osbourne took questions from the floor. One question about repealing the Human Rights Act received applause from all over the hall. Jason Kramer asked him a very obscure question about money flows (mainly so he could tell people later that he had taken up the issue with the Shadow Chancellor).

There was a vote of thanks, and then the meeting came to an end.

"We need twelve..."

Above: HMS Prince of Wales in 1941 (a battleship not a carrier - later sunk in combat due to lack of air cover). The two new aircraft carriers are to be called HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Prince of Wales. Will two new carriers be enough?

Last week the Head of the Royal Navy (Chief of the Naval Staff Admiral Sir Jonathon Band ) threatened to resign over the lack of funding for capital ships.

On Sunday I had a conversation with a friend I knew at university who went into the Royal Navy (the Navy sponsored his course at university where he was known as “Captain Pugwash”). What he said about renewal of Trident was interesting. Need to stress that he is not by any means a unilateral nuclear disarmer – he was arguing from a strategic standpoint.

“We need twelve aircraft carriers if this country is going to fully protect all its interests around the world. Two are not going to be enough. If we have twelve we will be impregnable – no-one will be able to touch us.”

“That would be an incredible cost.”

“Not really. And anyway, what is the cost of not being adequately prepared? I would rather we had twelve carriers than renewed Trident.”

“But that would mean giving up our nuclear deterrent.”

“No it wouldn’t, it would just mean not buying an over-hyped weapons system from the Americans. We would still have land based nuclear weapons. And in any case nuclear weapons are not a deterrent.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we would never use them first. We have told the world: no first use. Against that backdrop the idea of defensive nuclear weapons is meaningless.”

“But what if we were attacked? By China say. Or Russia became dangerous again.”

“If there was a nuclear attack on this country and three or four major cities were destroyed the first priority of the government would be to ensure survival of the British nation by avoiding any further damage. There would be no retaliation because that would invite annihilation. When you really think about it, the concept of nuclear deterrent is meaningless. But if we had twelve aircraft carriers we would not only be an invincible regional power. We would be able to protect our interests in every part of the world. No-one could touch us.”



Above: another of my brother's books (he buys them second hand). “Little Ships” refers to Royal Navy Coastal and Light Forces. The sort of ships that carried out the St. Nazaire attack.

The Cecil Rhodes soufflé was a specialty of the house

Above: one of the entrances to the Trocadero.

Designed by W.J. Ansell, the Trocadero opened in 1896 as a luxurious restaurant with incredibly opulent interiors (which still exist under the later re-modellings). The owner was J Lyons & Co. The menu included many Kosher dishes. A typical meal would consist of twelve courses with seven wines. The Cecil Rhodes soufflé was a specialty of the house. High tea included eight types of sandwich, a course of cakes, French pastries and biscuits, and a course of macaroons.

The Trocadero today is a strange mixture of upmarket and downmarket elements (looking at it from a marketing point of view they seem to have lost their way in terms of brand personality). I often go to the cinema there, and Bar M is a nice place to have a coffee, but the restaurants are a bit trashy. The CC Club is an amazing nightclub (using the LA definition of the word amazing, ie “really cool”).

The Trocadero will be undergoing a refurbishment soon, so perhaps it will all change again.

More on the Trocadero: http://www.ascl89.dsl.pipex.com/troc3.htm
More on the CC Club: http://www.cc-club.co.uk/clubnights/friday.htm

In Our Time talking about Joseph Conrad

As I drove to work this morning I listened to Melvyn Bragg on In Our Time talking about Joseph Conrad’s novel Heart Of Darkness. It was an extremely interesting programme, although I missed the end of it. All the rest of the day I was thinking about the things that were said.

For the last seventeen years of his life Joseph Conrad lived on the outskirts of Luton at Someries Farm. It’s private property but you can see the house from a distance. And you can look around the ruins of Someries Castle nearby (which you will have completely to yourself, since very few people know the ruins are there).

Luton itself is a surprisingly nice town, with an art deco town hall.

Someries castle: http://www.webspinners.org.uk/someriescastle/
Luton Town Hall: http://www.picturesofengland.com/pictures/250/Luton_1119049169.jpg
My favourite Conrad book: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Secret-Agent-Simple-Penguin-Classics/dp/0141182628/sr=1-5/qid=1171559643/ref=sr_1_5/026-6750358-5422058?ie=UTF8&s=books

Book now to avoid disappointment

Today is St Valentine’s Day.

“The planet of love is on high” as Tennyson would say (the planet of love really is on high at the moment as Venus is very visible in the night sky).

I saw this poster in a shop window.

I like the idea that by booking in advance you can avoid the let-down that St Valentine’s Day inevitably brings.

A sort of postscript

Note: this post relates to Thursday 25th Janauary 2007.

The night was dark and bitterly cold. In the clear sky the stars were bright in their constellations. I drove through the shabby town and up into the woods, mile after mile of unrelieved blackness (the woods are part of a ducal estate, and so undeveloped by houses).

Eventually I arrived at the estate village. I parked the car on a little slope, wondering whether it would be secure (there was ice underfoot). About three miles away the ducal castle was floodlit with white light. Because the castle is on top of a hill and surrounded by woodland it had the appearance of floating in the air. Looking at it, I thought it resembled a giant gothic-revival UFO hovvering in the sky. I turned my back and went into The Chequers gastro-pub, last visited with Robert Leiper three weeks before (then it had been mid-afternoon).

I felt having dinner here tonight would be a sort of postscript to the Robert Leiper visit.



Above: this is an old picture I took of the floodlit castle, but imagine it smaller (further away) and whiter.



Above: The Chequers pub.

Through the front door, you go into a big square bar - a perfect Old English pub. Roaring log fire which almost filled one wall. Above the fire a stuffed boar’s head, and various old agricultural implements (impossible to say what they were for). On another wall a huge silver shield, recording the triumphs of the village cricket team. All around the walls were comfortable antique settle sofas, with cushions so flat they must have been sat on by thousands of people. In the middle of the room were two long tables – the pub has a common board where you sit down at the first seat available and take pot luck about who your fellow diners are (I suppose it’s one way of meeting new people).

The actual bar was new looking, blonde wood, lots of champagne bottles in evidence (not normal in a pub, but par for the course in a place with a Michelin mention).

Everything about the pub was reassuring and comfortable except the absence of any people, indicating the prices were too expensive for ordinary pub-goers to afford (even when people started to arrive, they were upper middle class people who had one drink at the bar and then had dinner).



Above: boar's head above the fireplace.

I ordered a Scotch and soda (no ice) and went to sit on one of the settles near the fire. The heat was almost overpowering. I sat there with my drink until Gary Spencer arrived.

Instead of joining the common board we were shown into a small dining room off to the side – the walls were rough bricks (hand-made bricks from the 18th century) with a cheerful fire in a brick fireplace. Rabbit and ham terrine, sirloin steak with haricot beans, steamed orange pudding with orange sauce (this meal was one of the nicest I have ever had). One glass of house wine during the meal and two cups of coffee afterwards.

We discussed Robert Leiper at some length.

We discussed the crime rate: “I’ve told my children that if they are attacked they should be prepared to defend themselves and not expect any help from the police. There are lots of criminals who have no qualms about using force to take what they want. If someone attacks you, you need to fight them off yourself rather than hope the police are going to turn up.”

We discussed property in Dubai: “We’re going there this Easter and staying at the Royal Mirage. I’m buying four apartments in that new block I told you about. You need to get in quick if you want one…” (as if I would want to buy a flat in one of the most volatile and dangerous parts of the world).

Gary Spencer outlined his theory about the reshaping of populations: “Countries like Dubai are competing for the world’s wealthy people. Mobility is becoming so accepted that millions and millions of ordinary people will have two or three homes around the world and move between them every three months not paying any taxes. In ten or twenty years no country will be able to levy high rates of tax as people will just move away from them – it’s a big consideration for countries with social welfare programmes funded by taxation.”

“All we have to do is find the lights” – Saturday 30th December 2006 (with brief entry for Sunday 31st December)

Note the actual date of this post is Tuesday 13th February 2007

We had tea in a nearby teashop, cramped at a table in the low twee interior while homely waitresses fussed around us. I was trying hard to think of places to take Robert Leiper, but in Christmas week everywhere was closed. Eventually I told him we would look at some of the rural landscapes for which the county is famous.

We drove up into the hills, the afternoon already advanced so that the light was beginning to fade. We were going to villages known more for their picturesque qualities rather than any great historical or architectural interest. Our first objective was a tiny hamlet that looked fairly easy to get to on the map, although in reality we were driving around for ages trying to find the right road. Down narrow lanes, and even narrower lanes, and metalled tracks that were hardly even lanes. The hills are very undulating at that point and we were constantly going up and plunging down again. Eventually we arrived at a farmyard cut into a hillside, the lane stopping at the farmhouse with wooden barns further down the slope.

Parking the car, to our left was a ridge, and on the crest of this ridge was one of the most minuscule Victorian churches I have ever seen, in dull brown brick and stone facings. No tower, just a little bell on the west gable. No porch, the unlocked south door leading directly into the church. Inside everything was neat and tidy, with fresh flowers on the altar. Hanging on the north wall were two large framed nineteenth century embroideries of the Creed and the Commandments. The only monuments were a couple of brass tablets gleaming in the half-light.

Outside we stood in the little churchyard and looked down into a secret valley. The reason I call it “secret” is that there did not appear to be any roads or pathways into it, and so the place must be comparatively unknown. It is a feature of the hills that they encompass exceptionally beautiful landscapes but on a miniature scale. Looking down into this valley, I felt it was one of the most lovely places I had ever seen (thinking about it later, it very much resembled the John Nash painting Cornfield). Woodland guarded the tops of the hills, with little fields swelling and falling down into a narrow cleft. In one of the fields corn had been left unharvested, the neglect adding to the sense that the valley had been forgotten. The dying light affected the colours of the place so that under a Prussian Blue sky the landscape was dissolving in twilight shades of grey-green, grey-brown, grey-purple, the greys gradually coalescing and deepening so that the peaceful rural darkness was slowly rising upwards from the valley to the crest of the ridge where we were standing. The air was cold against my face. I could have stood there for hours watching the night fall but I could tell Robert Leiper was impatient to get away.

To the next village at the bottom of a small valley, the houses sprawled around with no real sense of organisation. We drove backwards and forwards looking for the centre, having to turn the car and retrace our path about nine or ten times. Eventually we gave up and decided to go on, but as we were driving out of the settlement the church appeared on the side of the road (surely we had been down that way several times without seeing it?). It was another small Victorian building without a tower. Going inside, Robert Leiper switched on the lights. “There is nothing in here” he said, a contemptuous note to his voice.

While it is true that there was nothing inside the building that would interest a tourist, the place appealed to me because it was so modest. Just reading the notices on a board at the back revealed a whole world that would repay a lifetime’s study (”see the world in a grain of sand” as Jane Austen, quoting William Blake, advised). Slightly musty smell to the interior, the air grown milder, the sound of sheep baaing in the field next door.

Night had fallen although it was only five o’clock. We drove on to the next village, which took us about half an hour. The night was so black that the picturesque elements of the landscape were entirely lost to us. Arriving in the village we were unable to find the church (highly commended by Pevsner). I could tell that Robert Leiper was becoming irritable. We stopped at the main crossroads by a pub which had every window lit up. Robert Leiper got out to find someone who could give us directions. He was gone about twenty minutes and came back saying everywhere was deserted. As a last resort we decided to try each of the roads leading off from the crossroads, checking all the byroads along each one. The last byroad on the last crossroad had a small turning marked “Church Road”. We went along this track (grass growing up the middle) and it petered out in a tumbledown stable yard, with the big church away to the right. As soon as I switched off the car lights we were plunged into darkness.

Getting out the car, the darkness was relieved a little by the light that came from a house the other side of the track. We went up the path to the church, and Robert Leiper began to walk anti-clockwise round the building until I called sharply to him that if he intended to walk “widdershins” round a church in the dead of night I was going back to the car and driving off. Something in my voice must have told him I wasn’t joking, as he meekly stopped and came back.

The crunch of the gravel path underfoot guided us up to the south porch. A little stumbling and we were at the door of the church. Against all my expectations the handle turned and the door opened… and we stepped into a darkness more intense than any I had anticipated.

“All we have to do is find the lights” Robert Leiper said. “All we have to do is follow this wire and it will lead us to the light switch” (fumble, fumble, slithering noise as his hands rubbed against the walls). “They must be here somewhere, all we have to do is check everything logically” (crash as something was knocked from a table, thud as his leg bashed against a piece of furniture, flutter and rustle as his hands messed up some papers). I half-heartedly joined in the search for the light switch. Ten minutes passed and still no luck. I began to feel an urgent need to rush from the dark church back to my car.

Then my eyes became used to the dark and suddenly I could see. I can’t really explain how this occurred – it was as if everything came into focus, and although I couldn’t see in any great detail I was able to make out the shape of furniture, the span of the gothic arches and the aisles leading up through the church. Walking automatically (I felt as if I was gliding) I went into the centre of the church, up the long nave, up the three chancel steps, and switched on the lights at the chancel arch (don’t ask me how I knew they were there – I just knew).

When the lights came on, like Howard Carter opening the tomb of Tutankhamen, we saw “wonderful things”. To the north side of the chancel was a big chapel screened off by iron railings. Inside the chapel were the multi-coloured marble monuments of a great family, dating from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. Dimly we could make out coloured heraldic achievements, recumbent effigies, Latin inscriptions, Purbeck marble tomb chests, brass engravings, draped urns, weeping alabaster children, angels in clouds, a relief with skulls, bones and an hour glass. Robert Leiper strained his arm though the railings trying to force the catch on the iron gate. Into my mind came the words of Thomas Gray: The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. All that wealth, all that beauty ever gave. Await alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

From the village we drove to a nearby town. Robert Leiper was in a buoyant mood, exhilarated by what we had just seen. Parking in the town square, we went into a small fish and chip shop (long queue of people waiting to buy chips) and down steep stairs to a tiny restaurant area in the basement. This room held six tables and was furnished more or less like a room in a private house. Against one wall was a black enamelled Victorian kitchen range with a blazing fire. Only one other table was occupied - a family of four, just finishing. We ordered fish and chips. The family of four departed, leaving us in peace. The greasy succulence of the meal was very enjoyable.

New Year’s Eve – Sunday 31st December 2006

During the morning Robert Leiper talked extensively about the publishing company he wishes to found and which he would like me to be involved with. I stressed the need for coherent sales and marketing. My brother (the only other person in the house that day) joined us for lunch which was roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatos, Savoy cabbage, boiled leeks.

Early afternoon I drove Robert Leiper to a town on the main line where he could catch a train to London without travelling on the branch line (which can be slow and cold). I parked in the little car park where you only get twenty minutes, but it’s less distance to the station entrance. After some effort we transported all Robert’s luggage onto the platform where it caused quite an obstruction (especially the big case for his skis).

The train was late and so I went through that that odd sort of limbo where you have said goodbye to someone but they havn’t gone yet. Eventually the train arrived, and we had to pick up all Robert’s luggage and move it down to the guard’s van, delaying the already-late express. Doors slammed, a railway operative blew his whistle, and the train left the station, picking up speed as it did so.

Walking back to my car, I experienced a very weird sensation. It was as if I had gone through some kind of trauma which had unexpectedly come to an end. All that I could think of were the words: thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone…

Later that day

I have never cared about celebrating New Year – it seems to be an empty event dedicated to over-drinking. Most years I normally go to bed early. But this New Year’s Eve I happened to be up at midnight and went out to stand in the lane where I saw, five miles away, fireworks exploding over the local town. The coloured flares and bursting clusters seemed to take on a special significance. I felt euphoric. My mind began to repeat the mantra: thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s GONE!

Exteriors – Friday 29th December 2006 (afternoon)

Note the actual date of this post is Monday 12th February 2007.

“I want to see some secular architecture” Robert Leiper said, “some stately homes of England”. I explained that very few places were likely to be open in the winter, but that we could look at some exteriors. He went into his room to change, and reappeared dressed as a chav, including a Burberry baseball cap (he must have brought this item of ASBO-chic with him as there was nowhere locally he could have bought it). He thought this chav outfit was a huge joke. I told him that if he got into any fights he was on his own. We left the house just after one.

It was a cold day, slightly misty, occasionally raining. We drove across the county and through a small market town (elegant 18th century Town Hall) and stopped in the next village to look at the monuments in the church (I insisted on this, despite Robert Leiper complaining he was “all churched out”). I showed him the ducal pew, some elaborate marble compositions, and a set of shelves supporting marble heads. We then drove around the estate trying to find a gap in the trees where we could see the house. The closest we got was the main gates, from which point we could see the main façade about half a mile away. The “Castle” is one of the grandest houses in England, with a reputation for hauteur, and so it seemed appropriate that we were kept at arm’s length.



Above: I showed him... a set of shelves supporting marble heads.



Above: we could see the main façade about half a mile away.

Next to see a “Manor” Robert had read about in a book on 19th century architecture. As we approached the house through the surrounding parkland we passed lots of notices saying “Strictly No Entry” (Robert Leiper was unperturbed by these prohibitions, encouraging me to drive through them). Parking by the service wing, we walked around the exterior of the house, a monstrous edifice in the Jacobean style, designed by Salvin and currently occupied by the European branch of an American educational institute. It was a little unnerving to walk in the courtyard under all the many windows, but the place seemed to be deserted and no-one challenged us. It began to rain heavily so I stepped under a protruding piece of masonry to shelter while Robert Leiper continued to walk around. I stood there for about twenty minutes until I heard footsteps approaching on the wet gravel. I was screened from view by one of the pillars, and so the two people approaching could not see me. They stopped only inches away from me, also sheltering from the rain. It was obvious from their voices that they were a American couple, and from what they were saying I judged that the girl was a student at the institute being visited by her boyfriend over the Christmas holiday. Their conversation became very intimate, and referred to things a third party should not hear (this was not done in an extrovert way – they were very seriously discussing their carnal relationship). I considered walking away, but to do so I would have to pass them, and the issue of trespassing might be raised. I hoped they would walk away, but they showed no sign of doing so. I hoped Robert Leiper would distract them, but he had entirely disappeared. Eventually, after about ten minutes, the girl took a small step forward and we came face to face. It was an embarrassing moment for both of us.

“Hello” I said to her politely.

“Hello” she said back politely, her boyfriend appearing at her shoulder.

I stepped forward and walked swiftly past them. I could hear them walking swiftly in the opposite direction. I went back to my car and when Robert Leiper finally appeared we drove off.

From the “Manor” we drove across to the edge of the county where we got a fairly good view of a ducal castle from a distance (on top of a hill with woods all around). We were very close to the gastro-pub Marie-Astrid planned to take us to on Wednesday (that disastrous night!), and went in to have a look. It was warm and comfortable inside, but too late for lunch and too early for dinner.

The rain continued to fall, and the light faded. We drove into the next town, a grimy, sprawling centre of manufacturing. At the station we asked about trains for Robert to go back to London (smiling teenage chavs hanging around the station chatted to him, intrigued by his American accent).

We then had “afternoon tea” at the main hotel in the town. This was not my idea, as I knew we would be over-charged for what we could get at a café for a fraction of the price, but Robert Leiper saw it advertised on a board outside the hotel and wanted to try it. The meal (mostly cakes) was excessively sweet and sugary so that I felt nauseated. Cold, wet and very tired, I was glad to get home.

Boiling vegetables into a mush is part of our culture

Note the actual date of this post is Thursday 8th December 2007.

On impulse we decided (actually Robert Leiper decided) to go and see one of the towers that featured in the 18th century engravings Robert gave me as a Christmas gift. He had bought these engravings at Christies in New York, mainly I suspect to impress CW who works there (she is employed there part-time as well as her magazine job). Anyway, to get to the tower entailed a long drive south-east into the next county (as soon as we crossed the county border I felt we were entering a different world).

The weather was wet (although not actually raining), the air was chill, the light was already beginning to fade at two o’clock. Eventually we arrived at a remote village that seemed to be mired in mud. The church tower dominated the surrounding cottages. Getting out the car we looked up at the looming bulk of the masonry, unmistakeably the same structure that was in the engraving. After a little bother (having to go to three different houses) we obtained the key to the church. We had to go in through a side door, jiggling the key around in the lock until it finally clicked.

Through a small ante room (winding stone staircase off to the side, leading nowhere) we entered the main body of the church, a tremendous structure so cavernous and enveloping that I irrationally felt it could come crashing down on me at any moment. Momentarily I was disorientated by the fact that the building was larger on the inside than the outside – this was obviously because the church was sinking into the earth (you had to go down several stone steps from the ante room, so the floor of the building was several feet below ground level). Robert Leiper had left his jacket in the car and was only wearing a black “BBC” (Billionaire Boys Club) t-shirt, and in the cold of the interior he began to shiver.

We walked around the building - dusty side chapels, Norman font, medieval choir stalls. Standing in the nave, far above in the murky light you could see angels carved on the hammerbeam roof. At the back was a reproduction of the 18th century engraving

From the muddy village we drove deeper into the county. Passing through a hamlet we stopped to look around a tiny ruined church built of flints and with a round tower, no bigger than a small house. Robert Leiper was entranced by this ruin, although I did not feel altogether happy there (it had an “atmosphere”).

Next to a well-preserved ruin of a Norman castle keep, surrounded by earthworks. You enter via the gift shop where you have to buy a ticket. The shop manager was very interesting to talk to and described various supernatural occurrences around the site, including a white clammy mist that manifests itself in the top chamber of the castle. He also discussed his archaeological work in the surrounding area including excavating a ruined church connected with one of the missionaries of the Saxon period (“my theory is that there were hermit cells connected to the cult…”). We were there for quite a while listening to his descriptions of local ley-lines. As we walked away from the gift shop Robert Leiper told me forcefully “Don’t you dare ask that docent any more questions.”

I had been to the castle several times before, so did not share Robert Leiper’s enthusiasm for the cold chambers and awkward staircases. We looked down the wells and peered through the arrow-slits. No ghostly white mist appeared when we went up to the top chamber.

On the way back we stopped at a town on the coast for a cup of coffee and to look at various historic buildings in the dark and the rain. Wet cobbled streets, with a surprising number of people about. Then we drove home for dinner of roast lamb, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, broccoli, carrots, and the last of the Brussels sprouts (Robert Leiper complained that the vegetables were over-cooked but I told him that boiling vegetables into a mush is part of our culture).

Clash of Titans - Wednesday 27th December 2006 (evening)

Note the actual date of this post is Tuesday 6th January 2007.

One evening we drove across to have dinner with Marie-Astrid. Robert Leiper took a lot of trouble over his appearance and spent ages in the downstairs bathroom getting ready, eventually appearing in a loud Bright & Bynum jacket and multi-coloured striped shirt by Ralph Lauren Polo. He asked me anxiously how he looked (I did not tell him the truth).

We all planned to go out to a restaurant in a “typically” old English pub (actually a gastro-pub that has a mention in the Michelin guide, but dressed up with open fires and rustic touches to look suitably authentic). However, an hour before we were due to leave I got a phone call from Marie-Astrid. Her babysitter had just cancelled, and so instead of going out she was having some food delivered.

I suggested canceling the evening rather than putting her to a lot of trouble, but she insisted we came over. So we got in the car and drove across to the town where Marie-Astrid lives. The journey took us over an hour.

The house dates from the 1970s and is a bit stark in appearance, although fairly large (when choosing a home Marie-Astrid values space over attractiveness, being unable to afford both). Being a frequent visitor there was no need for me to knock – I just opened the front door and went inside. As soon as I stepped through the door I knew the evening was not going to go well (the voices talking in the room just beyond the hall had an edge to them, as if there had just been an argument).

In the white lounge (everything white – walls, furniture, carpets) we found Marie-Astrid, her friends Emily, Dave (plump and avuncular, with glasses) and Dan, plus two people I had not met before. These were introduced to me as Breda and Tony. Because of the white carpet everyone had taken their shoes off but as no request was made to me I kept mine on.

Breda (pronounced by the others as “Bree-va” although she pronounced it herself as “Bree-ta”) was a work colleague of Marie-Astrid’s. Like most public sector workers she had spent a lifetime in not-for-profit organisations, and also did voluntary work for the European Movement. She was a lot older than her partner Tony (about 40 I would guess). In appearance her figure was very slim, and she had natural ash-blonde hair in permed curls, white face drained of all colour, and glasses that were slightly tinted. Her voice was loud and had a heavy Irish accent.

I introduced Robert Leiper to everyone.

“It’s the Scarlet Pimpernel” mocked Dave good-naturedly, referring to Robert’s jacket.

Dan asked him what he did for a living.

“I don’t do anything” said Robert.

“So you’re unemployed?” said Dave.

“No, I’m a writer” said Robert.

There was an exchange of knowing looks between Dan, Dave and Emily.

“So you’re unemployed!” said Dave again, laughing.

Various questions were put to him about how long he was staying in England, what he had seen so far, what he wanted to see.

“I want to see some chavs” said Robert.

“Why, what’s so special about chavs?” said Dave.

“I read an article about them in the New York Times. It’s a sign of how cultural standards in England are falling. The whole dumbing-down thing.”

“I thought chavs were wearing American national dress” said Emily reasonably. “Baseball cap, jeans, trainers, bling. I thought all that came from America.”

“American culture does a huge amount of damage in the world” said Breda. “But the Americans don’t see it. They think we want Macdonalds and Pepsi Cola everywhere. They are all brainwashed as children. Brainwashed with nationalism. They sing the Star Spangled Banner, they pledge allegiance to their flag, they watch Fox News, they constantly tell themselves their way of life is better than anybody else’s. This nationalism is made ten times worse by the fact that few of them ever go outside their country. And so when Americans come to Europe and experience a thousand-year culture that outclasses anything America has to offer they get aggressive. Not that anyone in England stands up to the Americans, you’d have to go to Ireland or France to find that.”

Breda said all this at great speed, and very passionately, as if challenging anyone to interrupt her. Although all her words were clear and her movements were precise I began to suspect she had been drinking heavily. The sound of the doorbell, and the arrival of parcels from Mr Pang’s Chinese restaurant brought this phase of the evening to a close.

We all went through to the conservatory that runs the whole length of the back of the house. This room was still decorated for Christmas (tasteful decorations, nothing kitsch). The surroundings, table decorations, clothes people were wearing – everything suggested we were at a very smart dinner party, but nothing could disguise the fact that we were basically eating a takeaway. It became clear that there was a considerable sense of resentment against the way in which the babysitter’s abrupt cancellation had dashed everyone’s hopes for the evening. This resentment needed an outlet, and Robert Leiper was unconsciously providing one. I decided against taking sides.

Dave asked Robert Leiper where he lived in America, and when Robert told him New York asked about the attack on the World Trade Centre in 2003. Robert Leiper had a peripheral experience of the attack as his office was four blocks away from the World Trade Centre, and the staff were evacuated through the panic and debris following the collapse of the two towers. Previously he had refused to talk about this journey on foot through devastated streets filled with toxic fog, but now he launched into a polished account filled with anecdotes (“…we were all choking and couldn’t go on, so we broke into a delicatessen to rest. There was this guy from our office who wanted to stay there. He kept saying: We’ve got everything we need – food, bottled water, shelter. But everyone else wanted to get home…”).

Discussion of the Nine-Eleven attack led to the subject of Iraq. Voices became raised. Breda was scornful of British and American attempts to subdue the country: “You’re up to your old tricks again, trying to take land which isn’t yours. You won’t find this war so easy to walk away from. The Americans are going to be the surrender monkeys this time…”

“Why is the American army so fucking incompetent?” said Dan. “It’s like they’re dragging us down with them. Everything they touch falls to pieces.”

“Wait ‘til Brown becomes PM” said Dave. “We’ll be out of Iraq pronto. Either that or Brown will be tainted with Blair’s legacy and kicked out of Number Ten.”

“Brown will never be elected Prime Minister because they’ll be no more British elections” said Breda. “The UK’s falling apart. And you won’t be able to stitch things up like you did with the six counties.”

“In the event of the break-up of the United Kingdom” said Dave, “I want it clearly understood that Northern Ireland is a Scottish problem. The vast majority of people there are Scottish Presbyterians. It’s a Scottish colony and nothing to do with England.”

“Scotland and the Irish Republic will have to sort it out between them” said Dan.

“And pay any costs” said Dave.

“Scotland will have plenty of money once the English stop fleecing their oil revenues” said Breda.

“We wouldn’t need the oil revenues if they would stop exporting their unemployment to England” said Dave, “and that goes for Ireland as well” (this was obviously a dig at Breda who has a very good job in the British public sector).

There was lots more in the same vein, but I wasn’t able to remember it all, and so it is lost. Curiously Robert Leiper didn’t say anything memorable although he was in the thick of most of the argument, and a target for Breda’s anti-Americanism (“What is America for? It’s just a vast machine dedicated to consumerism. Life, liberty and the pursuit of stuff…”). In a way this was a little unfair as Robert has always opposed the war in Iraq.

Eventually the meal came to an end (thank goodness). Even then the bickering continued. Breda washed the plates up while Dave and Tony did the drying up and everyone else stood around in the long kitchen and talked. Robert Leiper was very critical of the way the dishes were being dried immediately they came out of the soapy water. He insisted that washing-up liquid would transfer onto the food next time the dishes were used. He told us that in America dishes are always rinsed after they are washed. This lecture provoked Breda into another outburst (“For a country that dropped napalm on children in South East Asia you are unusually squeamish about chemical residues…”).

Throughout the evening Marie-Astrid had smiled serenely, as if everything was going smoothly. In the kitchen we ignored the others and talked quietly. At one point she asked me what films I planned to see over the Christmas and New Year holiday.

“They always repeat Clash of Titans on ITV” I said, “but after tonight I think I’ll give it a miss.”

At 11.30 Robert Leiper and I said goodbye to everyone (Breda kissing us both, as if it had all been in good fun) and set off on the drive home.

“That must be the most bad-tempered meal I have ever been to” I said.

Robert Leiper said nothing, but I could tell from the brooding way he sat slumped in the passenger seat that he was not in a good mood. He began to play with the electric window on his side. Up and down the window went, up and down, up and down.

The night was very cold and I was already feeling the onset of a sore throat and sore chest.

“It’s very cold” I said, “so perhaps we could have the window up?”

Robert Leiper lowered the window once more and left it down. I am able to control the passenger electric window from my side and closed his window. Slowly and deliberately Robert Leiper opened it again.

For a brief murderous moment I wanted to stop the car and turn him out (miles from anywhere, the temperature already below freezing). I dearly wanted to do this. But I continued driving, ignoring the provocatively open window (overcoming my anger at that moment is possibly one of the noblest things that I have ever done).

In the shadow of the great man - Wednesday 27th December 2006

Note the actual date of this post is Wednesday 2nd February 2007.

The air was very chill outside the house this morning, with a mist that never completely went away.

Robert Leiper seemed to be in a contradictory mood, saying the opposite of whatever I said (he often does this when he is bored and wants to provoke people). I drove him into the local town where he took some shirts to the dry cleaners, literally gasping at the high cost (a result of the decline of the American currency – one pound sterling is now worth two dollars). A farcical tour around the town’s shops while he tried to buy some shooting socks. I asked why he wanted them and his reply was so evasive I suspected he didn’t really need them but just wanted to buy something unobtainable outside of the United Kingdom. Eventually we found some in a gentleman’s outfitters to the south end of the town. They were so expensive he could only afford one pair (£19 or $38).

After lunch we decided to go out (“Let’s have a blast” Robert said). I warned that hardly anywhere would be open. We took the dog with us.

Driving deep into the hills, we arrived at a tiny village, birthplace of a nineteenth-century Poet Laureate. Crows cawed overhead as we examined the exterior of the Old Rectory where the great man had been born (a Regency villa with gimcrack gothic additions). Much more impressive was The Grange, a very substantial castellated house next door.

Through an iron gate and up the slope of a small mound, we came to the church where the poet’s father (a disinherited eldest son with mental health problems) had been Rector. Inside was a small case of mementos (a clay pipe, a quill pen, scraps of paper with the poet’s handwriting) and a big brass bust of the Poet Laureate in later life (I paused by this sculpture, literally standing in the shadow of the great man). It was all very modest and restrained, considering he was the greatest poet of his age.

Next to the neighbouring village (a even smaller settlement, consisting of Hall Farm and a few cottages). I was very pleased to find the small Perpendicular church open, as I have tried several times to get in. The building is constructed of greenstone, and has a dignified little tower with grimacing gargoyles at each of the corners. Inside the church the air was freezing so that it hurt your lungs as you breathed in. There was a half-hearted attempt at tourist information – the parish contains the “babbling brook” mentioned in one of the poet’s more famous works. Simple one-aisled nave leading to a chancel with elegant 18th century tablet memorials (I wondered about the lives of these refined individuals - possibly they had died of hypothermia).

The dog was sick on the back seat of the car - I covered it up with Robert's copy of The Times.

Always Robert Leiper wanted to move on, so that the afternoon was characterised by a restless quality. We drove on to the next village. The sound of gunshot cracked the air in neighbouring wooded copses, and we saw pheasants walking carefully along the side of the road as if trying to remain incognito. The church was open and contained a recumbent effigy of a knight with very fine chain mail. From the churchyard you could see over an high wall to the Hall, featured in one of Laureate’s most famous poems (a half-true story of obsessive unrequited love, including lines where the name of a girl is repeated in heart-broken monotony, as if crazed repetition could conjure up the object of desire). Robert wanted to see the front of the house so we found a footpath leading through a field (ignoring a warning sign to mind the bull) that gave us a view - a very beautiful façade of mellow red brick.

And that's how we spent our day.