Little Gidding - the tiny church (the inscription above the entrance reads: This is the door to heaven)
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Little Gidding - the church is still lit by candles
From Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot:
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Marketing experience (desirable but not essential)
My assistant, Adrian Taylor, is leaving in November to spend a year travelling around the world. Therefore this week I have begun the process of recruiting a successor. Recruiting the new person means working closely with Human Resources Director Marion Conway. It is no secret that Marion and I do not get on – in fact it is impossible to get on with her, since she is so untrustworthy, and has mood swings of bewildering intensity. She came to my desk this morning to discuss the new position – this was a rare concession, as normally I would be summoned into her office. On the Sales Desk Keith Williams was singing the chorus from a Natasha Bedingfield song: “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” which added an ironic note to the strained atmosphere.
The salary for the Marketing Assistant post is to be increased to £18k per annum, and greater responsibility for designing and maintaining the company’s three websites will be added to the list of duties (I was very firm on this point, as I do not want to get involved in website design myself, and since Zhu Guang left there is no-one I can delegate this sort of work to). We are to specify two years’ marketing experience (desirable but not essential) in the advertisement, as Adrian has been a little too junior for the work he has been asked to do.
Earlier today Adrian Taylor was bemoaning the loss of his Samsung V200 mobile phone which cost over three hundred pounds. He made long internal telephone calls telling people about his loss (“…it looked good, it made me look good”) all the while slumped back in his chair and juggling a Stanley knife, throwing the point into the desk top (I just know there is going to be a complaint from the office Health & Safety committee).
This afternoon he talked of going to the gym last night, of going rugby training tonight, of going for a four-mile run round a lake near where he lives. I told him he might be overdoing things. He is very keen on Anne Marie Beatty in Purchasing, and goes deep red whenever anyone (usually Greg Mitton) refers to this passion. He shows off whenever Anne Marie is in the Marketing department, lifting heavy boxes of sales literature, giving orders to Adam Russell (who is technically his junior) and passing on to Anne Marie some of the many freebies we get through the post (inscribed pens, sample t-shirts, even sweets with corporate logos on the packaging).
On the whole he has been a good assistant.
The salary for the Marketing Assistant post is to be increased to £18k per annum, and greater responsibility for designing and maintaining the company’s three websites will be added to the list of duties (I was very firm on this point, as I do not want to get involved in website design myself, and since Zhu Guang left there is no-one I can delegate this sort of work to). We are to specify two years’ marketing experience (desirable but not essential) in the advertisement, as Adrian has been a little too junior for the work he has been asked to do.
Earlier today Adrian Taylor was bemoaning the loss of his Samsung V200 mobile phone which cost over three hundred pounds. He made long internal telephone calls telling people about his loss (“…it looked good, it made me look good”) all the while slumped back in his chair and juggling a Stanley knife, throwing the point into the desk top (I just know there is going to be a complaint from the office Health & Safety committee).
This afternoon he talked of going to the gym last night, of going rugby training tonight, of going for a four-mile run round a lake near where he lives. I told him he might be overdoing things. He is very keen on Anne Marie Beatty in Purchasing, and goes deep red whenever anyone (usually Greg Mitton) refers to this passion. He shows off whenever Anne Marie is in the Marketing department, lifting heavy boxes of sales literature, giving orders to Adam Russell (who is technically his junior) and passing on to Anne Marie some of the many freebies we get through the post (inscribed pens, sample t-shirts, even sweets with corporate logos on the packaging).
On the whole he has been a good assistant.
Monday, September 06, 2004
After lunch... I went for a drive
The "54" on the numberplate means it was first registered September 2004
At the weekend I collected my new car – an Alfa-Romeo 147.
On Sunday, after lunch (roast lamb, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, cabbage, followed by profiterolls, followed by slices of mandarin cheesecake) I went for a drive. As usual I went deeper into the rural hinterland of the county, the part no-one knows about, even though we are (relatively speaking) close to a big city.
In a little market town I stopped to look at a series of street stalls selling mostly old junk. One of them had displays of old coins – pre-decimal pennies, commemorative “crowns”, foreign coins and suchlike. One little basket caught my interest – it was full of Roman coins, all sizes, dull green-brown in colour, some of them worn so smooth as to be featureless. “They were all dug up locally” said the scruffy man minding the stall. Presumably someone with a metal-detector had gone over Roman sites in the area digging up anything that produced a signal, irrespective of the archaeological context. I bought a coin from the reign of the Emperor Constans (337 – 350 AD) which cost £6. On one side was the head of the Emperor with an inscription. On the other side were two “Victories” holding aloft laurel leaves.
I drove along a straight road to another small town. Hardly anyone knows that hidden away in this town are some medieval weapons, last used in a vicious local cavalry skirmish. They are kept high up on a wall, in a dark corner, so that you would never guess they were there. A couple of them are still on the original poles. Such is the celebrity that used to surround these weapons that they were formerly paraded once a year at the town’s Horse Fair. But there is no Horse Fair any more and now the rusty blades hang in the darkness, waiting for the moment when they might be needed again.
Friday, September 03, 2004
For this brief moment I am comfortable
I am due to collect my new car this weekend. But before I get rid of my old car I needed to repair a chip in the windscreen. I took it at lunchtime to RAC AutoWindscreens on an industrial estate off the motorway. “It will take about an hour” the woman said, sounding very off-hand.
I walked out the little office, intending to wander about for an hour. It was a hot sunny day. The traffic was very busy, and although there were pavements I got the impression that people very seldom walked in that area. Going towards the motorway junction, I walked round in a big arc and came to a retail park dominated by a huge Focus store. In a corner of the Focus car-park was a box-like building with music playing. It was a restaurant called Frankie and Bennie’s New York Italian Restaurant (clearly part of a chain, although I’d never heard of it before).
Going inside, I saw that only two or three tables were occupied, with a few people sitting at the bar. I asked the waitress for a table by the window. There were red banquettes instead of chairs, the windows were shaded by wooden Venetian blinds (purely ornamental), there were balloon displays in the Italian national colours of red, white and green. On a wall were small framed pictures of famous American celebrities, the display dishonestly implying that the celebrities actually dined at that restaurant! Over a sound system played various American singers – Frank Sinatra (various songs), Ella Fitzgerald (It’s only a paper moon), Nat King Cole (Mona Lisa). Curiously the songs seemed to jump at times – possibly it was a faulty CD, or possibly the quest for authenticity had been taken to such extremes that the sound of scratched vinyl records had been reproduced. In a corner, stuck on the wall, was what looked like a series of newspaper cuttings, yellow with age, relating to the baseball career of Joe Di Maggio – looking more closely, the “cuttings” were printed on a sort of pasteboard, curved so that they appeared to be curling off the wall.
A pizza, a glass of Chardonnay, a sickly chocolate pudding, a café latte. The waitress was a young eastern European woman, dressed in a white and black uniform, light brown hair tied back, not wearing any make-up (so that at first impression she seemed much younger). She spoke excellent English, constantly smiling as she spoke. Everything I said she repeated back to me. Her set routine seemed to include actually sitting down at the customer’s table whenever she took an order – she seemed a little uncomfortable doing this.
The wine arrived first, and I drank it on an empty stomach so that it went to my head. This was not unpleasant, and I sat back on the red plastic banquette, my arms resting on the plastic faux wood-grain table top, and I thought: this may all be fake, and the experience shallow, but at least for this brief moment I am comfortable.
I got back to work half an hour late (the second time this week).
In the afternoon we said goodbye to Zhu Guang who is going back to Shanghai after two years with the company. In the morning he brought in sweets and cakes for everyone, and later gave presents to those he considered his friends (I received a “Louis Vuitton” credit card holder, in a “Louis Vuitton” box. His sister had bought it for him in China. “I know you like French things” he said to me).
I walked out the little office, intending to wander about for an hour. It was a hot sunny day. The traffic was very busy, and although there were pavements I got the impression that people very seldom walked in that area. Going towards the motorway junction, I walked round in a big arc and came to a retail park dominated by a huge Focus store. In a corner of the Focus car-park was a box-like building with music playing. It was a restaurant called Frankie and Bennie’s New York Italian Restaurant (clearly part of a chain, although I’d never heard of it before).
Going inside, I saw that only two or three tables were occupied, with a few people sitting at the bar. I asked the waitress for a table by the window. There were red banquettes instead of chairs, the windows were shaded by wooden Venetian blinds (purely ornamental), there were balloon displays in the Italian national colours of red, white and green. On a wall were small framed pictures of famous American celebrities, the display dishonestly implying that the celebrities actually dined at that restaurant! Over a sound system played various American singers – Frank Sinatra (various songs), Ella Fitzgerald (It’s only a paper moon), Nat King Cole (Mona Lisa). Curiously the songs seemed to jump at times – possibly it was a faulty CD, or possibly the quest for authenticity had been taken to such extremes that the sound of scratched vinyl records had been reproduced. In a corner, stuck on the wall, was what looked like a series of newspaper cuttings, yellow with age, relating to the baseball career of Joe Di Maggio – looking more closely, the “cuttings” were printed on a sort of pasteboard, curved so that they appeared to be curling off the wall.
A pizza, a glass of Chardonnay, a sickly chocolate pudding, a café latte. The waitress was a young eastern European woman, dressed in a white and black uniform, light brown hair tied back, not wearing any make-up (so that at first impression she seemed much younger). She spoke excellent English, constantly smiling as she spoke. Everything I said she repeated back to me. Her set routine seemed to include actually sitting down at the customer’s table whenever she took an order – she seemed a little uncomfortable doing this.
The wine arrived first, and I drank it on an empty stomach so that it went to my head. This was not unpleasant, and I sat back on the red plastic banquette, my arms resting on the plastic faux wood-grain table top, and I thought: this may all be fake, and the experience shallow, but at least for this brief moment I am comfortable.
I got back to work half an hour late (the second time this week).
In the afternoon we said goodbye to Zhu Guang who is going back to Shanghai after two years with the company. In the morning he brought in sweets and cakes for everyone, and later gave presents to those he considered his friends (I received a “Louis Vuitton” credit card holder, in a “Louis Vuitton” box. His sister had bought it for him in China. “I know you like French things” he said to me).
Thursday, September 02, 2004
They all featured writers
I was often on my own over the holiday weekend (my brother has gone away) and so I watched three films:
Tigerland (2000) on BBC2.
A military film, set in the 1970s in an American training camp. There were no female characters in this film apart from two whores. Colin Farrell basically plays himself (ie someone who pretends to be defiant and uncaring, but is really sensitive and thoughtful). Matthew Davis plays a soldier in the same platoon, a writer aspiring to follow Hemingway and gain war experiences to provide good material for a book. The mood of the film was claustrophobic. The lighting was muted and dark. The characters shouted at each other. One thought: Here are the modern Spartans.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) on Channel 4.
I’ve seen this film several times before – whenever it is on television I try to see it. It fascinates me because of the way in which colour has been manipulated so that all the backgrounds are in shades of grey, black or white, and only the character of Holly Golightly (played by Audrey Hepburn) is in full colour. George Peppard plays a struggling writer wearing grey twill jackets, black suits, grey silk paisley-pattern pyjamas. 1950s America looks wonderful – elegant, liberal, very clean.
Heat and Dust (1983) on video (an old video we’ve had for ages).
Greta Scacci plays the wife of an administrator in 1920s India who scandalises both the British and Indian communities by having an affair with a decadent Indian prince. Inter-cut with this story are scenes of Julie Christie playing a writer thirty years later, who comes to India to research the scandal. Everyone in this film delivers fine performances, but it is the women characters that come across most strongly – Greta Scacci, Julie Christie, Susan Fleetwood as the “burra memsahib” (on the surface sensible and cheerful, in reality a remorseless bully), Madhur Jaffrey as the Nawab’s mother (casting contemptuous and disapproving looks at the British community, seeing everything through a network of spies and informers). The novel on which the film was based won the Booker Prize. The film is a reminder that however privileged and cosseted our lives are, we are often only one short step away from disaster. It also reminds us that in all ages and all cultures married women are the agents of social control.
Later, when I thought about the three films, I realised that they all featured writers.
Tigerland (2000) on BBC2.
A military film, set in the 1970s in an American training camp. There were no female characters in this film apart from two whores. Colin Farrell basically plays himself (ie someone who pretends to be defiant and uncaring, but is really sensitive and thoughtful). Matthew Davis plays a soldier in the same platoon, a writer aspiring to follow Hemingway and gain war experiences to provide good material for a book. The mood of the film was claustrophobic. The lighting was muted and dark. The characters shouted at each other. One thought: Here are the modern Spartans.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) on Channel 4.
I’ve seen this film several times before – whenever it is on television I try to see it. It fascinates me because of the way in which colour has been manipulated so that all the backgrounds are in shades of grey, black or white, and only the character of Holly Golightly (played by Audrey Hepburn) is in full colour. George Peppard plays a struggling writer wearing grey twill jackets, black suits, grey silk paisley-pattern pyjamas. 1950s America looks wonderful – elegant, liberal, very clean.
Heat and Dust (1983) on video (an old video we’ve had for ages).
Greta Scacci plays the wife of an administrator in 1920s India who scandalises both the British and Indian communities by having an affair with a decadent Indian prince. Inter-cut with this story are scenes of Julie Christie playing a writer thirty years later, who comes to India to research the scandal. Everyone in this film delivers fine performances, but it is the women characters that come across most strongly – Greta Scacci, Julie Christie, Susan Fleetwood as the “burra memsahib” (on the surface sensible and cheerful, in reality a remorseless bully), Madhur Jaffrey as the Nawab’s mother (casting contemptuous and disapproving looks at the British community, seeing everything through a network of spies and informers). The novel on which the film was based won the Booker Prize. The film is a reminder that however privileged and cosseted our lives are, we are often only one short step away from disaster. It also reminds us that in all ages and all cultures married women are the agents of social control.
Later, when I thought about the three films, I realised that they all featured writers.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
You could spend a lifetime in another country and still not understand anything
Gary and Carol Spencer are in America for a holiday. Yesterday Gary sent me an e-mail account of their experiences so far. He is very opinionated on American politics, but his impressions are not likely to be very accurate, having only spent two weeks in the country. From a distance American politics seems to be chiefly distinguished by its homogeneity – the choice between Democrats and Republicans seems to be a choice between left-wing conservatives and right-wing conservatives. Whoever wins the election no-one is likely to interfere with the means of production, distribution and exchange (and so nothing fundamental can change – that is assuming change is desired). Perhaps it’s a better system than our model (electing a socialist who turns out not to be a socialist).
But who really knows. You could spend a lifetime in another country and still not understand anything.
Gary Spencer’s e-mail:
My regular visits to America give me an insight to life in the World’s biggest economy and the World Super Power. This time we landed in Miami; a city I have passed through on several occasions, but not a city that I know at all well. Miami is one of the largest cities in America with a long History; it has an Hispanic influence but remains undeniably American.
As we drove from the Airport I was quite amazed at the continued buoyancy of the American economy; construction projects abounded, new roads, new housing, and new retail. I know that Florida is one of the fastest growing States in America. I have either totally misjudged the resilience of the American recovery, however, I still maintain that they need a period of consolidation or the fear of a bubble bursting becomes irresistible and they will have implications for us all. Until that day let the Party continue. Why worry about who is going to buy all the new houses, who is going to shop in yet another retail centre?
Bush will win this year’s Presidential election, he may not deserve to, but he will win. John Kerry is a hugely ineffective candidate and will evaporate before polling day.
Has any one realised that we are now only four years away from the first woman President of The United States? Kerry loses in 2004, Bush can’t stand for a third term, and his Vice President Dick Cheney will not stand and, even if he does will not beat…………… Hillary Clinton, Senator for New York and former First Lady.
We spent our first five days staying at Pompano Beach, a few miles North of Fort Lauderdale. After a hectic start to the year the rest was much needed.
Our days at Palm-Aire, Pompano Beach were punctuated by a daily game of mini golf, catching the Olympics ( with an American slant ! ) , sitting in the sun reading and a few excursions out.
We drove to Miami’s Ocean Drive area, famed for the outstanding art deco architecture. We were not disappointed and enjoyed walking first along the street and as dusk fell along the magnificent beach. The first challenge had been finding a parking space; the second had been finding change for the parking meter. This was resolved by either changing dollars in a machine which would give you three quarters for each Dollar deposited! Can you believe 25% to change up money perhaps this is how the American economy stays afloat!!
We took a cruise of the canals of Fort Lauderdale, seeing the homes of the great and the good. Stephen Spielberg’s was under construction at the cost of many millions, and it seems that any thing that has a water frontage will sell for at least a million Dollars.
We had Dinner at Shula's On The Beach. This Claimed the best steak in Fort Lauderdale. I would go as far to say that this was the best steak I had ever had.
I feel rich at the moment. With a Pound Dollar exchange rate of $1.80 America seems so cheap, but how long will it be possible to buy a bottle of French champagne at a lower price here than in France? The same can be said for a Jaguar car, substantially cheaper in America than in the country of its production! Still, let this American economic miracle continue. The party is in full swing.
We left Pompano Beach around noon and drove through heavy traffic up the coast road before heading in land to join Highway 27. This was a couple of hundred mile journey through the Florida never seen by tourists, This was the (Very) Deep South, mile after mile of fertile farm land producing a wide variety of crops, the soil so rich and black, I expect that anything could grow here.
For all its wealth, poverty is never far away, Scratch the surface and America is a very unforgiving society. Trailer parks abound and low paid work is the norm, long hours serving in a store, waiting tables for low pay and minimal benefits. Still, at least the taxes are low.
For lunch we stopped in Clewiston a small town on the banks of Lake Okeechobee (we never did see this large lake that sits 12 feet above sea level, despite our best efforts).
In the car park outside Subway, a badly dressed black woman with very shiny skin approached our car as soon as it came to a halt. She asked for $2 for drugs, she was showing us what appeared to be an empty container. We were unsure what kind of drugs she referred to.
We had a sandwich lunch in Subway. It was staffed and frequented (apart from us) entirely by black people. A young (large) black girl who served us enquired ‘Where are you from?’ I replied ‘England’. I asked her where she was from ‘from the muck’ was her reply.
The intensity of the damage from Hurricane Charley became apparent as we headed North. At times the devastation was intense. As a rule it was the most vulnerable who were affected, those in poorly built homes who had literally seen their lives blow away.
We visited Blizzard Beach, had a great day but experienced a storm of enormous magnitude. Epcot remains my favourite of the Disney parks; we ate very good meals in China and Norway as well as experiencing GM’s Test Track more than once!
Walking around, and talking to people it became apparent just how much the average American ‘does not get it’, by that I mean their place in the World, their place in World History, on the whole they are very polite, very patriotic and God fearing (many more Americans regularly attend a place of worship than those in Britain), yet they just don’t get it.
They will re-elect George W who will run riot for another four years. It is all made more ridiculous that if I had a vote, I would vote for George W, simply because the alternative would leave America treading water while they wait for salvation from President Hillary, by then the American people will be prepared to make some brave decisions about the leader and the kind of society that they want.
A week today we fly home, time flies when you’re having fun!
But who really knows. You could spend a lifetime in another country and still not understand anything.
Gary Spencer’s e-mail:
My regular visits to America give me an insight to life in the World’s biggest economy and the World Super Power. This time we landed in Miami; a city I have passed through on several occasions, but not a city that I know at all well. Miami is one of the largest cities in America with a long History; it has an Hispanic influence but remains undeniably American.
As we drove from the Airport I was quite amazed at the continued buoyancy of the American economy; construction projects abounded, new roads, new housing, and new retail. I know that Florida is one of the fastest growing States in America. I have either totally misjudged the resilience of the American recovery, however, I still maintain that they need a period of consolidation or the fear of a bubble bursting becomes irresistible and they will have implications for us all. Until that day let the Party continue. Why worry about who is going to buy all the new houses, who is going to shop in yet another retail centre?
Bush will win this year’s Presidential election, he may not deserve to, but he will win. John Kerry is a hugely ineffective candidate and will evaporate before polling day.
Has any one realised that we are now only four years away from the first woman President of The United States? Kerry loses in 2004, Bush can’t stand for a third term, and his Vice President Dick Cheney will not stand and, even if he does will not beat…………… Hillary Clinton, Senator for New York and former First Lady.
We spent our first five days staying at Pompano Beach, a few miles North of Fort Lauderdale. After a hectic start to the year the rest was much needed.
Our days at Palm-Aire, Pompano Beach were punctuated by a daily game of mini golf, catching the Olympics ( with an American slant ! ) , sitting in the sun reading and a few excursions out.
We drove to Miami’s Ocean Drive area, famed for the outstanding art deco architecture. We were not disappointed and enjoyed walking first along the street and as dusk fell along the magnificent beach. The first challenge had been finding a parking space; the second had been finding change for the parking meter. This was resolved by either changing dollars in a machine which would give you three quarters for each Dollar deposited! Can you believe 25% to change up money perhaps this is how the American economy stays afloat!!
We took a cruise of the canals of Fort Lauderdale, seeing the homes of the great and the good. Stephen Spielberg’s was under construction at the cost of many millions, and it seems that any thing that has a water frontage will sell for at least a million Dollars.
We had Dinner at Shula's On The Beach. This Claimed the best steak in Fort Lauderdale. I would go as far to say that this was the best steak I had ever had.
I feel rich at the moment. With a Pound Dollar exchange rate of $1.80 America seems so cheap, but how long will it be possible to buy a bottle of French champagne at a lower price here than in France? The same can be said for a Jaguar car, substantially cheaper in America than in the country of its production! Still, let this American economic miracle continue. The party is in full swing.
We left Pompano Beach around noon and drove through heavy traffic up the coast road before heading in land to join Highway 27. This was a couple of hundred mile journey through the Florida never seen by tourists, This was the (Very) Deep South, mile after mile of fertile farm land producing a wide variety of crops, the soil so rich and black, I expect that anything could grow here.
For all its wealth, poverty is never far away, Scratch the surface and America is a very unforgiving society. Trailer parks abound and low paid work is the norm, long hours serving in a store, waiting tables for low pay and minimal benefits. Still, at least the taxes are low.
For lunch we stopped in Clewiston a small town on the banks of Lake Okeechobee (we never did see this large lake that sits 12 feet above sea level, despite our best efforts).
In the car park outside Subway, a badly dressed black woman with very shiny skin approached our car as soon as it came to a halt. She asked for $2 for drugs, she was showing us what appeared to be an empty container. We were unsure what kind of drugs she referred to.
We had a sandwich lunch in Subway. It was staffed and frequented (apart from us) entirely by black people. A young (large) black girl who served us enquired ‘Where are you from?’ I replied ‘England’. I asked her where she was from ‘from the muck’ was her reply.
The intensity of the damage from Hurricane Charley became apparent as we headed North. At times the devastation was intense. As a rule it was the most vulnerable who were affected, those in poorly built homes who had literally seen their lives blow away.
We visited Blizzard Beach, had a great day but experienced a storm of enormous magnitude. Epcot remains my favourite of the Disney parks; we ate very good meals in China and Norway as well as experiencing GM’s Test Track more than once!
Walking around, and talking to people it became apparent just how much the average American ‘does not get it’, by that I mean their place in the World, their place in World History, on the whole they are very polite, very patriotic and God fearing (many more Americans regularly attend a place of worship than those in Britain), yet they just don’t get it.
They will re-elect George W who will run riot for another four years. It is all made more ridiculous that if I had a vote, I would vote for George W, simply because the alternative would leave America treading water while they wait for salvation from President Hillary, by then the American people will be prepared to make some brave decisions about the leader and the kind of society that they want.
A week today we fly home, time flies when you’re having fun!
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Early evening, the light beginning to fade
Bank holiday weekend, the end of summer. Early evening, the light beginning to fade. I was driving home from the other side of the county. An unbelievably heavy shower of rain fell from the sky, then just as abruptly stopped. The road I was driving along became more and more narrow. I was lost (I knew generally where I was, but specifically I was lost).
A sudden moment of recognition. The lane dipped down sharply to a crossroads, and opposite, to one side, were a pair of gate posts, the entrance to a great house usually kept strictly private (reputedly where a Russian prince and his family live). There was a hand-made sign saying “Open Today in support of St John’s Ambulance”. The prospect of getting into the park seemed so intriguing that I went through the gates and proceeded along a winding tree-lined drive.
It was nearly six, and although the place may have been open earlier, it was clearly closed now. But feigning innocence, I went on (I reasoned that the worst that could happen to me was that I’d be asked to leave). In a little valley I saw a few cars parked to one side, so I stopped my car next to them, got out, and looked around. To one side was a lake, with swans on it. I crossed a shallow river over a cattle grid. Walking upwards, a bend in the drive revealed a big mansion, built of honey coloured stone. Two Rolls Royce cars were parked ostentatiously outside the main entrance. Various stout people, dressed in the uniform of St John’s Ambulance Brigade, were moving about, carrying chairs and tables, obviously clearing up after the open day. No-one took any notice of me.
All the windows of the house were shuttered, making it appear mysterious. In an upstairs window towards the back, obviously a child’s room, teddy bears had been placed in the gap between the wooden shutter and the outer glazing. These toys looked as if they had been trapped and were signalling for help.
I walked round the side of the house onto a terrace bordered by flower beds. The edge of the terrace fell away in lawns, leading down to the broad lake, with woods rising up the valley on the opposite shore. At the water’s edge was a small spiky gothic building, possibly a folly. As I stood on the edge of the terrace the sun came out, quite low in the sky, casting long shadows. The rain had made everything wet, and the sun caught the raindrops so that the whole landscape glistened. It was very beautiful.
Two elderly ladies, obviously volunteer helpers, were sat together on a bench. Snippets of their conversation floated across to me:
“It’s turned very cold now.”
“Yes, it is cold. The rain’s made it cold.”
“I wish I’d put on something warmer.”
“Yes, I wish I’d put on something warmer.”
Mumble, mumble, then (I think they were discussing tapestry):
“It was in a frame. It was ever so old. I wish now I hadn’t let it go. But I took it out of the frame and then I didn’t know what to do with it. I wish now I hadn’t let it go.”
Mumble, mumble, then (said with reverence, so possibly they were discussing the Russian princess):
“She’s very nice.”
“Yes, she is nice.”
“She came and sat at our table when we were having tea. She asked how we all were.”
“She sings in the choir. She’s got a very good singing voice.”
“Yes, she’s very nice.”
A sudden moment of recognition. The lane dipped down sharply to a crossroads, and opposite, to one side, were a pair of gate posts, the entrance to a great house usually kept strictly private (reputedly where a Russian prince and his family live). There was a hand-made sign saying “Open Today in support of St John’s Ambulance”. The prospect of getting into the park seemed so intriguing that I went through the gates and proceeded along a winding tree-lined drive.
It was nearly six, and although the place may have been open earlier, it was clearly closed now. But feigning innocence, I went on (I reasoned that the worst that could happen to me was that I’d be asked to leave). In a little valley I saw a few cars parked to one side, so I stopped my car next to them, got out, and looked around. To one side was a lake, with swans on it. I crossed a shallow river over a cattle grid. Walking upwards, a bend in the drive revealed a big mansion, built of honey coloured stone. Two Rolls Royce cars were parked ostentatiously outside the main entrance. Various stout people, dressed in the uniform of St John’s Ambulance Brigade, were moving about, carrying chairs and tables, obviously clearing up after the open day. No-one took any notice of me.
All the windows of the house were shuttered, making it appear mysterious. In an upstairs window towards the back, obviously a child’s room, teddy bears had been placed in the gap between the wooden shutter and the outer glazing. These toys looked as if they had been trapped and were signalling for help.
I walked round the side of the house onto a terrace bordered by flower beds. The edge of the terrace fell away in lawns, leading down to the broad lake, with woods rising up the valley on the opposite shore. At the water’s edge was a small spiky gothic building, possibly a folly. As I stood on the edge of the terrace the sun came out, quite low in the sky, casting long shadows. The rain had made everything wet, and the sun caught the raindrops so that the whole landscape glistened. It was very beautiful.
Two elderly ladies, obviously volunteer helpers, were sat together on a bench. Snippets of their conversation floated across to me:
“It’s turned very cold now.”
“Yes, it is cold. The rain’s made it cold.”
“I wish I’d put on something warmer.”
“Yes, I wish I’d put on something warmer.”
Mumble, mumble, then (I think they were discussing tapestry):
“It was in a frame. It was ever so old. I wish now I hadn’t let it go. But I took it out of the frame and then I didn’t know what to do with it. I wish now I hadn’t let it go.”
Mumble, mumble, then (said with reverence, so possibly they were discussing the Russian princess):
“She’s very nice.”
“Yes, she is nice.”
“She came and sat at our table when we were having tea. She asked how we all were.”
“She sings in the choir. She’s got a very good singing voice.”
“Yes, she’s very nice.”
Thursday, August 26, 2004
“It will happen because I want it to happen”
The meeting today was so important that I interrupted my holiday and came into the office especially, even though the notice had been unreasonably short and I would have been justified staying away.
The meeting was held in the Training Centre as the Boardroom was being refurbished. All the senior managers were there, plus some other, more junior, people who were included because their contribution would be “valuable” (in other words they would support the right side, since it was clear that this meeting, like all other meetings, had been carefully set-up beforehand). The meeting had been called in response to a mini-rebellion among the sales teams about the transfer of half the sales desk to the Glasgow office.
Most people had taken their seats by the time I entered the room. I sat next to Scott Ryan (top salesman) and regretted it the rest of the morning since his loud contributions and juvenile jokes were rather overpowering. Trevor Bush, Managing Director and owner, chaired the meeting. Trevor Bush is short, rotund, with curly grey hair and a rough East End voice. He is very intolerant of anyone who procrastinates or makes excuses. At one point in the meeting he slammed his hand down on the tabletop and said: “It will happen because I want it to happen.”
Sitting directly opposite me were my three worst enemies: External Sales Manager Kevin Slattery (in his fifties, fat stomach, short grey hair, round puffy red face, bad flaky skin, small round glasses, irritable apoplectic manner, arms folded throughout the meeting). Next to him was Southern Regional Sales Manager Craig Wymer (in his mid-twenties, slim build, short black curly hair, deep green eyes, very expensive suit, heavy black watch with a luminous dial. His shirt was white, with a faint narrow stripe to it, matching the stripes in his silk tie. He took his jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves – the cuffs were lined with mauve. He is very good at telling jokes and making people laugh, but he is deadly serious about his work and will take any criticism intensely personally). Next to Craig was Marion Conway, Human Resources Director (aged sixty, tall and slim in build, grey shoulder-length hair that occasionally is dyed blonde, always dressed in black, always wearing trousers. She has a very loud voice and will literally shout down anyone who disagrees with her. Her laugh is harsh and unpleasant, and used to great effect whenever she wants to indicate disapproval).
The meeting got underway with a presentation, delivered by Neil Hancock (Sales Director). The company has recently purchased a Sanyo state-of-the-art projector system, and there was some confusion about how to switch it on. When it was eventually working Trevor Bush did what he always does when there is a presentation – he got up and stood in front of the projection light, making shadows with his hands (birds, a motor car, the head of an old man with a pipe).
We had coffee at eleven. At lunchtime sandwiches and crisps arrived. It soon became clear why I had been included in the meeting. Kevin Slattery, Craig Wymer and Marion Conway were the ringleaders of the revolt, and were being publicly isolated and outmanoeuvred. My role, along with the others especially brought in to pack the meeting, was to support Trevor Bush and vote in favour of the Glasgow option.
We finished about three o’clock. I shall now resume my vacation, and return to the office after the bank holiday.
The meeting was held in the Training Centre as the Boardroom was being refurbished. All the senior managers were there, plus some other, more junior, people who were included because their contribution would be “valuable” (in other words they would support the right side, since it was clear that this meeting, like all other meetings, had been carefully set-up beforehand). The meeting had been called in response to a mini-rebellion among the sales teams about the transfer of half the sales desk to the Glasgow office.
Most people had taken their seats by the time I entered the room. I sat next to Scott Ryan (top salesman) and regretted it the rest of the morning since his loud contributions and juvenile jokes were rather overpowering. Trevor Bush, Managing Director and owner, chaired the meeting. Trevor Bush is short, rotund, with curly grey hair and a rough East End voice. He is very intolerant of anyone who procrastinates or makes excuses. At one point in the meeting he slammed his hand down on the tabletop and said: “It will happen because I want it to happen.”
Sitting directly opposite me were my three worst enemies: External Sales Manager Kevin Slattery (in his fifties, fat stomach, short grey hair, round puffy red face, bad flaky skin, small round glasses, irritable apoplectic manner, arms folded throughout the meeting). Next to him was Southern Regional Sales Manager Craig Wymer (in his mid-twenties, slim build, short black curly hair, deep green eyes, very expensive suit, heavy black watch with a luminous dial. His shirt was white, with a faint narrow stripe to it, matching the stripes in his silk tie. He took his jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves – the cuffs were lined with mauve. He is very good at telling jokes and making people laugh, but he is deadly serious about his work and will take any criticism intensely personally). Next to Craig was Marion Conway, Human Resources Director (aged sixty, tall and slim in build, grey shoulder-length hair that occasionally is dyed blonde, always dressed in black, always wearing trousers. She has a very loud voice and will literally shout down anyone who disagrees with her. Her laugh is harsh and unpleasant, and used to great effect whenever she wants to indicate disapproval).
The meeting got underway with a presentation, delivered by Neil Hancock (Sales Director). The company has recently purchased a Sanyo state-of-the-art projector system, and there was some confusion about how to switch it on. When it was eventually working Trevor Bush did what he always does when there is a presentation – he got up and stood in front of the projection light, making shadows with his hands (birds, a motor car, the head of an old man with a pipe).
We had coffee at eleven. At lunchtime sandwiches and crisps arrived. It soon became clear why I had been included in the meeting. Kevin Slattery, Craig Wymer and Marion Conway were the ringleaders of the revolt, and were being publicly isolated and outmanoeuvred. My role, along with the others especially brought in to pack the meeting, was to support Trevor Bush and vote in favour of the Glasgow option.
We finished about three o’clock. I shall now resume my vacation, and return to the office after the bank holiday.
Monday, August 23, 2004
A poor, run-down sort of place
There is a shopping centre near where I work. I often go there at lunchtime. It is a poor, run-down sort of place. When it was built (in the late 1970s I would guess) it would have been a showpiece of modern architecture, with shops surrounding a central square, inventive 1970s sculpture formations, flats above the shops, each with a balcony supporting a miniature garden. One can imagine the architects saying they had been inspired to build a concrete Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
In the three years I have been going to the centre it has declined dramatically. About half the shops have closed and are boarded up. The sculptures have been removed recently in case children climbed on them, fell and hurt themselves. The local council has reportedly moved “problem” families into the flats where they can be anti-social to each other instead of bothering decent people.
My colleagues at work are surprised that I go to the local centre instead of driving five miles to Tescos. They warn me especially never to go into the pub. I like the place because the people there seem “real” (difficult to explain, but they have a lack of pretence, as if all aspiration has been crushed out of them, and only the vulnerable kernel of humanity remains). On a practical level I also find the centre convenient, with a post office, bank, building society and chemist.
Only once did I feel threatened. I had been walking across the square, and coming towards me was a couple in their ‘twenties, very poorly dressed, the man unshaven. They were arguing loudly, and making bitter recriminations to each other. As we drew level and passed, the man swore at the woman so crudely and violently that I couldn’t help looking in his direction. The man took objection to this, turned towards me and shouted “You alright mate?” I walked on, and in a few seconds the incident had passed. But it made me think how on edge some people are.
Another time I went there and in the middle of the car park was a huge lorry which looked as if it had been ransacked. Standing around were about twenty police. The local newspaper said later that the lorry had been stolen in the middle of the night, driven to the car park, and the contents looted and taken into the flats.
This lunchtime I went to the small greengrocers. This is very much a “no frills” operation, with fruit in various stages of ripeness and decay just heaped up in bins. You take the fruit you want, put it into brown paper bags, and pay on the way out. I had selected some apples, and was waiting at the checkout desk. In front of me was a young mother with a toddler in a pushchair. Another young woman with a pushchair came into the little shop, took some fruit, came over to the checkout queue and greeted the woman in front of me, pushing into the line and manoeuvring her pushchair so that I was obliged to step backwards. She was aged in her early twenties, long hair (slightly greasy looking), short tight skirt, a white halter-top that showed a slight roll of fat round her midriff. She talked non-stop to her friend, but as she did so she frequently looked out of the corner of her eye at me, looks so frank and obvious that I felt self-conscious.
The first woman paid for her purchases and moved on. The middle-aged woman at the checkout (who had a homely face, with a very pronounced nose) ignored the second woman with the pushchair and moved down the counter to where I was waiting, took the apples from my hands, weighed them and asked me for the money. The woman in the white halter-top stood open-mouthed, a look of disgust on her face. I left the shop feeling uneasy. I felt as if I had insulted her in some way.
In the three years I have been going to the centre it has declined dramatically. About half the shops have closed and are boarded up. The sculptures have been removed recently in case children climbed on them, fell and hurt themselves. The local council has reportedly moved “problem” families into the flats where they can be anti-social to each other instead of bothering decent people.
My colleagues at work are surprised that I go to the local centre instead of driving five miles to Tescos. They warn me especially never to go into the pub. I like the place because the people there seem “real” (difficult to explain, but they have a lack of pretence, as if all aspiration has been crushed out of them, and only the vulnerable kernel of humanity remains). On a practical level I also find the centre convenient, with a post office, bank, building society and chemist.
Only once did I feel threatened. I had been walking across the square, and coming towards me was a couple in their ‘twenties, very poorly dressed, the man unshaven. They were arguing loudly, and making bitter recriminations to each other. As we drew level and passed, the man swore at the woman so crudely and violently that I couldn’t help looking in his direction. The man took objection to this, turned towards me and shouted “You alright mate?” I walked on, and in a few seconds the incident had passed. But it made me think how on edge some people are.
Another time I went there and in the middle of the car park was a huge lorry which looked as if it had been ransacked. Standing around were about twenty police. The local newspaper said later that the lorry had been stolen in the middle of the night, driven to the car park, and the contents looted and taken into the flats.
This lunchtime I went to the small greengrocers. This is very much a “no frills” operation, with fruit in various stages of ripeness and decay just heaped up in bins. You take the fruit you want, put it into brown paper bags, and pay on the way out. I had selected some apples, and was waiting at the checkout desk. In front of me was a young mother with a toddler in a pushchair. Another young woman with a pushchair came into the little shop, took some fruit, came over to the checkout queue and greeted the woman in front of me, pushing into the line and manoeuvring her pushchair so that I was obliged to step backwards. She was aged in her early twenties, long hair (slightly greasy looking), short tight skirt, a white halter-top that showed a slight roll of fat round her midriff. She talked non-stop to her friend, but as she did so she frequently looked out of the corner of her eye at me, looks so frank and obvious that I felt self-conscious.
The first woman paid for her purchases and moved on. The middle-aged woman at the checkout (who had a homely face, with a very pronounced nose) ignored the second woman with the pushchair and moved down the counter to where I was waiting, took the apples from my hands, weighed them and asked me for the money. The woman in the white halter-top stood open-mouthed, a look of disgust on her face. I left the shop feeling uneasy. I felt as if I had insulted her in some way.
Friday, August 20, 2004
This “snap appraisal” was a bluff
I arrived in the office and looked at the tasks for the day (not particularly onerous ones). Keith Williams on the Sales Desk was singing a song that consisted of the words Dry Your Eyes Mate endlessly repeated until Greg Mitton loomed over his desk and told him to shut up.
My assistant, Adrian Taylor, was still spending an excessive amount of time talking to his friends on the Sales Desk, despite my previous warnings (I get blamed by the other managers because he doesn’t appear to be occupied. The Sales Director is hinting that the Marketing Assistant post could be cut out in the next budget round). I determined to put a stop to this.
I called Adrian Taylor into the Board Room and told him I was holding a formal appraisal of his work. We went through his job description, and I highlighted his various short-comings, complained about his poor attitude, and told him to buck his ideas up. He sat slumped in a chair on the opposite side of the table, his arms folded and a petulant expression on his face. At one point he muttered to himself “I can’t win” shaking his head in silent disbelief at the tyrannical way in which he was being treated (actually he has one of the best junior jobs in the company, for which he is paid £14k per annum – not bad for someone who has no marketing qualifications. We are usually very leisurely in the Marketing Department, and very seldom is he expected to work hard. Possibly he is bored, but he doesn’t take an interest in any of the website responsibilities I’ve offered him).
Actually this “snap appraisal” was a bluff (although Adrian didn’t know that). I couldn’t hold a real appraisal without involving Personnel, and the poisonous old harpy who is our Human Resources Director encourages junior staff to inform against their managers, so the whole thing could have backfired.
I find managing other staff difficult and I get no support from the directors. Originally there wasn’t a marketing department at the company. Then the Managing Director decided he wanted one, and advertised for a Marketing Executive. When I had been in the job a couple of months I started calling myself Marketing Manager, and unilaterally changed the title on my business card. Everyone seemed to accept this, including the MD. A year later I was allocated an Assistant, and Adrian Taylor was recruited. A few months later Caron Maryatt was placed under my responsibility (previously she had reported to the Internal Sales Manager). In no time at all a fully operational Marketing department had appeared, and began running campaigns (much to the disgust of some of the sales managers – “You’ve got the cushiest job in the company” Mark Miller once said to me).
Another unique aspect of my job is that I seem to have an unlimited budget to spend. Every time I raise a purchase order or sign off an invoice, no matter how extravagant I’ve been, nothing is ever said. Even when I think “This time there’s definitely going to be trouble” the thing goes through. All this is in contrast to others who get shouted at for ordering too much stationery or putting client drinks onto their expense accounts.
The company is doing extremely well. Money is pouring in. The in-fighting between rival managers is getting nastier. Marketing is aloof from all this. We seem to exist in a bubble that sooner or later (I just know) is going to burst.
My assistant, Adrian Taylor, was still spending an excessive amount of time talking to his friends on the Sales Desk, despite my previous warnings (I get blamed by the other managers because he doesn’t appear to be occupied. The Sales Director is hinting that the Marketing Assistant post could be cut out in the next budget round). I determined to put a stop to this.
I called Adrian Taylor into the Board Room and told him I was holding a formal appraisal of his work. We went through his job description, and I highlighted his various short-comings, complained about his poor attitude, and told him to buck his ideas up. He sat slumped in a chair on the opposite side of the table, his arms folded and a petulant expression on his face. At one point he muttered to himself “I can’t win” shaking his head in silent disbelief at the tyrannical way in which he was being treated (actually he has one of the best junior jobs in the company, for which he is paid £14k per annum – not bad for someone who has no marketing qualifications. We are usually very leisurely in the Marketing Department, and very seldom is he expected to work hard. Possibly he is bored, but he doesn’t take an interest in any of the website responsibilities I’ve offered him).
Actually this “snap appraisal” was a bluff (although Adrian didn’t know that). I couldn’t hold a real appraisal without involving Personnel, and the poisonous old harpy who is our Human Resources Director encourages junior staff to inform against their managers, so the whole thing could have backfired.
I find managing other staff difficult and I get no support from the directors. Originally there wasn’t a marketing department at the company. Then the Managing Director decided he wanted one, and advertised for a Marketing Executive. When I had been in the job a couple of months I started calling myself Marketing Manager, and unilaterally changed the title on my business card. Everyone seemed to accept this, including the MD. A year later I was allocated an Assistant, and Adrian Taylor was recruited. A few months later Caron Maryatt was placed under my responsibility (previously she had reported to the Internal Sales Manager). In no time at all a fully operational Marketing department had appeared, and began running campaigns (much to the disgust of some of the sales managers – “You’ve got the cushiest job in the company” Mark Miller once said to me).
Another unique aspect of my job is that I seem to have an unlimited budget to spend. Every time I raise a purchase order or sign off an invoice, no matter how extravagant I’ve been, nothing is ever said. Even when I think “This time there’s definitely going to be trouble” the thing goes through. All this is in contrast to others who get shouted at for ordering too much stationery or putting client drinks onto their expense accounts.
The company is doing extremely well. Money is pouring in. The in-fighting between rival managers is getting nastier. Marketing is aloof from all this. We seem to exist in a bubble that sooner or later (I just know) is going to burst.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
The sight in the mirror mesmerised me
As I drove to work this morning, on the duel carriageway, a car exactly the same as mine (one year older) came up behind and stayed there for about ten minutes, driving rather too close to the back of my vehicle. Looking in the rear-view mirror I could see a young woman of about eighteen or nineteen, wearing dark glasses. She had long strawberry-blonde hair. She was driving her car with just her left hand on the steering wheel (we were going about 60mph). In her right hand she had a hair brush, and was rhythmically brushing her hair, pulling the brush downwards and outwards, and giving a sensuous little flick to her head as each brush stroke finished. The sight in the mirror mesmerised me, so that I didn’t pay proper attention to the road ahead.
Into the office. Trevor Bush, Managing Director, had sent an e-mail to all the sales teams (copied to all department heads, including myself) complaining about the way in which one of the main product ranges is being sold. During the morning replies came in from the various sales managers, and the debate became quite convoluted. Some wild things were said about our branding policies and marketing campaigns (we’re an easy target). I felt drawn into the discussion, and using very moderate and reasonable language, I wrote a reply telling two of the sales managers that they didn’t know what they were talking about. I know they will retaliate in some way.
I have been mystified recently by hints from Neil Hancock, the Sales Director, to “punch ups” involving my assistant Adrian Taylor. Today the mystery was made clear – a few weeks ago Adrian Taylor was involved (along with fourteen other members of his old college’s rugby club) of fighting in a nightclub. After being ejected from the club, the rugby players continued fighting in the street, confronting the nightclub’s security staff. The police were called, and large numbers of people were arrested, including Adrian Taylor. He has been charged with “affray” and goes to court on 22nd November – as no leave is allowed during our busy season, he had to explain the circumstances requiring him to be absent, and thus I found out about his violent and disreputable adventure. He is very chastened about the experience, and confesses to being nervous about going to court.
Into the office. Trevor Bush, Managing Director, had sent an e-mail to all the sales teams (copied to all department heads, including myself) complaining about the way in which one of the main product ranges is being sold. During the morning replies came in from the various sales managers, and the debate became quite convoluted. Some wild things were said about our branding policies and marketing campaigns (we’re an easy target). I felt drawn into the discussion, and using very moderate and reasonable language, I wrote a reply telling two of the sales managers that they didn’t know what they were talking about. I know they will retaliate in some way.
I have been mystified recently by hints from Neil Hancock, the Sales Director, to “punch ups” involving my assistant Adrian Taylor. Today the mystery was made clear – a few weeks ago Adrian Taylor was involved (along with fourteen other members of his old college’s rugby club) of fighting in a nightclub. After being ejected from the club, the rugby players continued fighting in the street, confronting the nightclub’s security staff. The police were called, and large numbers of people were arrested, including Adrian Taylor. He has been charged with “affray” and goes to court on 22nd November – as no leave is allowed during our busy season, he had to explain the circumstances requiring him to be absent, and thus I found out about his violent and disreputable adventure. He is very chastened about the experience, and confesses to being nervous about going to court.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The scene of devastation
I share my birthday with Madonna. We were both born on the sixteenth of August. Over the years I have come to think of Madonna as a sort of secular guardian angel, her songs marking the high point of summer. It was the same this year. As Sunday became Monday, there was the culmination of “Madonna Weekend” on the Magic music channel, with Madonna cavorting in an endless series of vivid music videos – posing against Venetian backdrops, rolling around in shallow waves, standing in a high wind. Madonna in jeans, Madonna in a pink ballgown, Madonna in nothing very much at all. Madonna songs as social commentary, Madonna songs as fervent religious expression, Madonna songs as dense, multi-layered works of art. Madonna now lives in Wiltshire, in a house that once belonged to the photographer Cecil Beaton.
A huge birthday cake. An old recipe. Made with ten eggs, crushed brown sugar on the top, soggy in the middle (it wasn’t meant to be soggy, but I don’t think it was cooked long enough). I had one slice.
I drove across to Ashwell to meet Gary Spencer at his house. We then drove in his Jaguar up to London to meet Alan Nixon. Our objective was the Atlantic Bar & Grill in Glasshouse Street. This had not been our first choice of restaurant, but as we had left the booking so very late all the familiar places were full. We had been on the point of giving up, but Gary Spencer announced he had just got an AmEx Black Card: “I can get you into any restaurant in London” he told me. We left the choice of restaurant to the Black Card, and the Black Card people got us a table at the Atlantic Bar & Grill.
All the way up to London Gary Spencer played a Dido CD, enthusing about the singer.
Arriving at the restaurant, there was a rope cordoning the entrance off from the street, and a small crowd of people waiting expectantly. We pushed through these people and were stopped by the door staff who carefully checked that our names were on a list they were holding. The Atlantic Bar & Grill has a ruthless door policy that makes the place difficult to get into unless you “look right” (so how did we get in? - presumably the AmEx Black Card made us beautiful in the eyes of the establishment).
We descended a very elegant curving staircase, to a cavernous lobby area dominated by a huge chandelier. Many people were milling about in this area. As we reached the midway point on the staircase I became conscious that the people below were looking up at us, presumably to check whether we were glamorous celebrities (then looking quickly away when they realised we were not). The Atlantic Bar & Grill is a haven for the famous, the “in crowd”, and the “hanging on crowd” – plus nonentities such as ourselves who enter the place by accident.
The interiors were remarkable, displaying an opulence that verged on the decadent. I was reminded of the Alma-Tadema painting The Baths of Caracalla, but actually the style was early Art Deco Egyptian Revival. The great rooms were almost entirely lined in coloured marble, the half-columns around the walls finished by palm-tree capitols. Usually I like the art deco style, but this version was overpowering in a heavy, expensive and almost sinister way. Overlaying all this marble the designer David Connor (a friend of Janet Street-Porter and Vivienne Westwood) has installed post-modern furnishings, including enormous mirrors and 1930s revival lighting. We passed a room called Dick’s Bar (more “door staff” protecting this inner sanctum – looking through the entrance one could see a dusky-pink interior, with sofas in red leather – “Baby Spice” Emma Bunton recently held a birthday party there).
Then into a vast area that was the Atlantic Bar itself. There must have been several hundred people in this spacious area, drinking, talking, or standing seven or eight deep at the bar. The appearance of the people seemed to be vaguely unsettling until I realised that all of them were young and attractive, as if we had wandered onto a film set populated entirely by models. On the walls were examples of modern art (pieces by Douglas Gordon, Tatsuo Miyajima and Mariko Mori - the “installation” artist Mat Collishaw once put up a large reproduction of Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus punctuated by bullet holes). The music was deafeningly loud, and some of the people were making attempts at dancing.
The Atlantic Bar had originally been the ballroom of the old Regent Palace Hotel – this former ballroom, of huge dimensions, has been split in two, one half forming the “bar”, the other half (protected by yet another checkpoint of “style police”) being the restaurant. The two halves were divided by the long bar counter. I followed Gary Spencer into the restaurant, where we met Alan Nixon and sat down at our table. From where we were seated we had a good view, and Gary Spencer pointed out David Blaine (a “performance artist”, celebrated for being suspended in a glass box above the Thames for about a month).
The music was so loud that ordinary conversation was impossible. The food was disappointing (a sort of fusion of popular American and European dishes – snails ravioli an example of the quirky menu). The service was very slow and our five courses took a total of three hours to arrive. However, it was clear that one doesn’t go to the Atlantic Bar & Grill to eat or to talk, one goes there to be seen.
I started with smoked salmon, then had monkfish for a main course. Bollinger to drink, which was a nice touch paid for by Gary Spencer. When we were able to talk we discussed Alan’s difficult situation and the options that might be available to him. I strenuously opposed any suggestion of bankruptcy, feeling that this would be an irrevocable step. Gary Spencer suggested he should go to eastern Europe for a number of years (Anastasia is Romanian) until all the fuss has subsided. Gary Spencer also launched into a belligerent analysis of the world economy, attacking American levels of debt and saying that the American economy was close to collapse. “I’ve put all my investments into gold” he said smugly. American national debt will erode the attractiveness of the American dollar as a world currency. This in turn will erode American military power (there is an almost exact correlation, which I didn’t understand, between the profit made from the strength of the dollar, and the American military budget – which means that American military power is basically funded by foreign nations who hold dollars as a currency reserve).
At about 11.30 pm we left the restaurant. Gary Spencer drove me back to Ashwell where I got into my own car and continued across to Buckinghamshire. By this time it was very late – about 2 am. The road from Ashwell is very long, rather narrow, hemmed in by woods, and frequently undulates up and down in a series of deep dips and hollows. Because the road is relatively straight, and there are few turnings off, I was inclined to drive a little faster than usual, especially as there seemed to be no other traffic so late at night.
About half-way along the road I saw flashing lights, with a van and a big lorry stopped in the road. I slowly began to pass the lorry, and someone came out of the darkness to stand in front of my car, motioning to me to stop. We were at the crest of one of the little valleys, and I could look down into the dip to see, by the light of our combined headlights, a terrible accident. A saloon car was sprawled across the road, with debris scattered around it. It had been consumed by fire, so that there was no glass in the windows, and even the colour of the vehicle was unrecognisable, so ferocious had been the fire. The accident had clearly only just happened, as smoke was still rising from the wreckage.
The man who stopped me opened the passenger door of my car and almost collapsed onto the seat. He seemed very shaken, and was talking into a mobile ‘phone to the emergency services, at one point turning to me to ask where we were. From his appearance I guessed that he was the lorry driver. Perhaps he had just witnessed the accident – or perhaps he had even caused it. “I can’t see any sign of the driver” he said into the 'phone, and then got out of the car and with a dazed sort of stagger went a little closer to the scene of devastation.
I leaned across and closed the passenger door, and reversed my car back past the lorry and past the van and stopped with the engine still running. I am not normally a nervous person, but the loneliness of the night, the dark overhanging trees of the wood, and the dreadful crash only a few yards away made me feel very troubled. I felt that Death was very close (the image of Death in the painting by Thomas Cooper Gotch – a beautiful smiling woman, waving a greeting to those she has come to claim).
I considered the situation – there were at least two other people at the scene, and the emergency services were on their way. I had not witnessed the accident. There seemed to be nothing useful that I could do. Therefore I turned my car around and drove back along the road I had just come down. After a little way the peace of the night reasserted itself – rabbits scampered on the grass verges, the trees hemmed in close and secretive, the stars shone down with their ancient immutable light.
Shortly afterwards I saw an ambulance coming towards me, lights flashing, eerily silent on the empty road. Slowly and carefully I drove home.
A huge birthday cake. An old recipe. Made with ten eggs, crushed brown sugar on the top, soggy in the middle (it wasn’t meant to be soggy, but I don’t think it was cooked long enough). I had one slice.
I drove across to Ashwell to meet Gary Spencer at his house. We then drove in his Jaguar up to London to meet Alan Nixon. Our objective was the Atlantic Bar & Grill in Glasshouse Street. This had not been our first choice of restaurant, but as we had left the booking so very late all the familiar places were full. We had been on the point of giving up, but Gary Spencer announced he had just got an AmEx Black Card: “I can get you into any restaurant in London” he told me. We left the choice of restaurant to the Black Card, and the Black Card people got us a table at the Atlantic Bar & Grill.
All the way up to London Gary Spencer played a Dido CD, enthusing about the singer.
Arriving at the restaurant, there was a rope cordoning the entrance off from the street, and a small crowd of people waiting expectantly. We pushed through these people and were stopped by the door staff who carefully checked that our names were on a list they were holding. The Atlantic Bar & Grill has a ruthless door policy that makes the place difficult to get into unless you “look right” (so how did we get in? - presumably the AmEx Black Card made us beautiful in the eyes of the establishment).
We descended a very elegant curving staircase, to a cavernous lobby area dominated by a huge chandelier. Many people were milling about in this area. As we reached the midway point on the staircase I became conscious that the people below were looking up at us, presumably to check whether we were glamorous celebrities (then looking quickly away when they realised we were not). The Atlantic Bar & Grill is a haven for the famous, the “in crowd”, and the “hanging on crowd” – plus nonentities such as ourselves who enter the place by accident.
The interiors were remarkable, displaying an opulence that verged on the decadent. I was reminded of the Alma-Tadema painting The Baths of Caracalla, but actually the style was early Art Deco Egyptian Revival. The great rooms were almost entirely lined in coloured marble, the half-columns around the walls finished by palm-tree capitols. Usually I like the art deco style, but this version was overpowering in a heavy, expensive and almost sinister way. Overlaying all this marble the designer David Connor (a friend of Janet Street-Porter and Vivienne Westwood) has installed post-modern furnishings, including enormous mirrors and 1930s revival lighting. We passed a room called Dick’s Bar (more “door staff” protecting this inner sanctum – looking through the entrance one could see a dusky-pink interior, with sofas in red leather – “Baby Spice” Emma Bunton recently held a birthday party there).
Then into a vast area that was the Atlantic Bar itself. There must have been several hundred people in this spacious area, drinking, talking, or standing seven or eight deep at the bar. The appearance of the people seemed to be vaguely unsettling until I realised that all of them were young and attractive, as if we had wandered onto a film set populated entirely by models. On the walls were examples of modern art (pieces by Douglas Gordon, Tatsuo Miyajima and Mariko Mori - the “installation” artist Mat Collishaw once put up a large reproduction of Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus punctuated by bullet holes). The music was deafeningly loud, and some of the people were making attempts at dancing.
The Atlantic Bar had originally been the ballroom of the old Regent Palace Hotel – this former ballroom, of huge dimensions, has been split in two, one half forming the “bar”, the other half (protected by yet another checkpoint of “style police”) being the restaurant. The two halves were divided by the long bar counter. I followed Gary Spencer into the restaurant, where we met Alan Nixon and sat down at our table. From where we were seated we had a good view, and Gary Spencer pointed out David Blaine (a “performance artist”, celebrated for being suspended in a glass box above the Thames for about a month).
The music was so loud that ordinary conversation was impossible. The food was disappointing (a sort of fusion of popular American and European dishes – snails ravioli an example of the quirky menu). The service was very slow and our five courses took a total of three hours to arrive. However, it was clear that one doesn’t go to the Atlantic Bar & Grill to eat or to talk, one goes there to be seen.
I started with smoked salmon, then had monkfish for a main course. Bollinger to drink, which was a nice touch paid for by Gary Spencer. When we were able to talk we discussed Alan’s difficult situation and the options that might be available to him. I strenuously opposed any suggestion of bankruptcy, feeling that this would be an irrevocable step. Gary Spencer suggested he should go to eastern Europe for a number of years (Anastasia is Romanian) until all the fuss has subsided. Gary Spencer also launched into a belligerent analysis of the world economy, attacking American levels of debt and saying that the American economy was close to collapse. “I’ve put all my investments into gold” he said smugly. American national debt will erode the attractiveness of the American dollar as a world currency. This in turn will erode American military power (there is an almost exact correlation, which I didn’t understand, between the profit made from the strength of the dollar, and the American military budget – which means that American military power is basically funded by foreign nations who hold dollars as a currency reserve).
At about 11.30 pm we left the restaurant. Gary Spencer drove me back to Ashwell where I got into my own car and continued across to Buckinghamshire. By this time it was very late – about 2 am. The road from Ashwell is very long, rather narrow, hemmed in by woods, and frequently undulates up and down in a series of deep dips and hollows. Because the road is relatively straight, and there are few turnings off, I was inclined to drive a little faster than usual, especially as there seemed to be no other traffic so late at night.
About half-way along the road I saw flashing lights, with a van and a big lorry stopped in the road. I slowly began to pass the lorry, and someone came out of the darkness to stand in front of my car, motioning to me to stop. We were at the crest of one of the little valleys, and I could look down into the dip to see, by the light of our combined headlights, a terrible accident. A saloon car was sprawled across the road, with debris scattered around it. It had been consumed by fire, so that there was no glass in the windows, and even the colour of the vehicle was unrecognisable, so ferocious had been the fire. The accident had clearly only just happened, as smoke was still rising from the wreckage.
The man who stopped me opened the passenger door of my car and almost collapsed onto the seat. He seemed very shaken, and was talking into a mobile ‘phone to the emergency services, at one point turning to me to ask where we were. From his appearance I guessed that he was the lorry driver. Perhaps he had just witnessed the accident – or perhaps he had even caused it. “I can’t see any sign of the driver” he said into the 'phone, and then got out of the car and with a dazed sort of stagger went a little closer to the scene of devastation.
I leaned across and closed the passenger door, and reversed my car back past the lorry and past the van and stopped with the engine still running. I am not normally a nervous person, but the loneliness of the night, the dark overhanging trees of the wood, and the dreadful crash only a few yards away made me feel very troubled. I felt that Death was very close (the image of Death in the painting by Thomas Cooper Gotch – a beautiful smiling woman, waving a greeting to those she has come to claim).
I considered the situation – there were at least two other people at the scene, and the emergency services were on their way. I had not witnessed the accident. There seemed to be nothing useful that I could do. Therefore I turned my car around and drove back along the road I had just come down. After a little way the peace of the night reasserted itself – rabbits scampered on the grass verges, the trees hemmed in close and secretive, the stars shone down with their ancient immutable light.
Shortly afterwards I saw an ambulance coming towards me, lights flashing, eerily silent on the empty road. Slowly and carefully I drove home.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
I am hoping there will be a gap in the clouds
I went out into the garden late last night to see the annual Perseid meteor shower, which the BBC had promised would be spectacular. All I could see was a blanket of low cloud. The show is due to climax tonight, so I am hoping there will be a gap in the clouds and I will see the shooting stars.
Shakespeare says in Richard II (one of my favourite plays):
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change
Most of today has consisted of idle tidying up as I prepare to take a few days off work to celebrate my birthday. I have to make sure that my assistant, Adrian Taylor, has enough to keep him occupied otherwise he will slouch around the office looking bored and stopping other people from working.
I have decided to buy myself a new car. I will go to a dealer tomorrow and get it ordered. I am hoping it can be delivered before the end of August so that it has “04” on the registration (in the United Kingdom new cars carry the year of registration in the number plate – so this year it’s “04” before 1st September, “54” afterwards).
Shakespeare says in Richard II (one of my favourite plays):
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change
Most of today has consisted of idle tidying up as I prepare to take a few days off work to celebrate my birthday. I have to make sure that my assistant, Adrian Taylor, has enough to keep him occupied otherwise he will slouch around the office looking bored and stopping other people from working.
I have decided to buy myself a new car. I will go to a dealer tomorrow and get it ordered. I am hoping it can be delivered before the end of August so that it has “04” on the registration (in the United Kingdom new cars carry the year of registration in the number plate – so this year it’s “04” before 1st September, “54” afterwards).
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Today I posted a significant letter
Opening the curtains on the top floor of the house this morning, I saw that the magnolia was in flower. This is magnolia grandiflora, which is evergreen and rarely flowers (and then always in the late summer). Because the tree is so tall, and has thick glossy green leaves, you cannot see the flowers from ground level.
The flowers are white, and each one is about twenty inches across, with a heavy lemon scent. Despite the risk of being late, I went out into the garden to take a closer look at them. There are five of the big blooms. They will fall after three days, and then the tree will remain dormant for another three or four years.
At lunchtime today I posted a significant letter. The sort that might change my life. But then again, nothing might come of it, and I’ll remain where I am.
Five days until my birthday.
The flowers are white, and each one is about twenty inches across, with a heavy lemon scent. Despite the risk of being late, I went out into the garden to take a closer look at them. There are five of the big blooms. They will fall after three days, and then the tree will remain dormant for another three or four years.
At lunchtime today I posted a significant letter. The sort that might change my life. But then again, nothing might come of it, and I’ll remain where I am.
Five days until my birthday.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
A man who is literally two-faced
The marketing department is producing another catalogue. Catalogues are such protracted projects that the experience is quite stressful – there are so many things that can go wrong. This one is at a fairly advanced stage, and we are all sick of it.
Most sales literature we write and design ourselves, using InDesign (I would have preferred Quark Express but was over-ruled by the IT department, a decision that still rankles). However, with this catalogue we are using outside designers and printers. This means frequent trips out of the office to Marcomm Solutions, run by Riccardo Vacca and his partner Paolo Borghetti (Riccardo runs the printing side, Paolo does the design work). I have known them for some time, and when I moved to my present job I replaced the existing printers with Marcomm Solutions.
Paolo is a man who is literally two-faced. His right profile is very handsome and aquiline, like a hero from the Elgin marbles. The other side of his face is like an ugly, grimacing little ape. He is a short man, aged about thirty, with a tremendous physique so that when he is sitting down he resembles a broad-shouldered giant. Only when he gets up does his small stature become apparent (he wears boots with high heels, but these just make him look silly, and accentuate his bandy legs so that he waddles when he walks). He is very dark-skinned, and hates to be confused with someone from the middle east. His hair is black and short, but one eyebrow is grey so that I wonder whether the rest of his hair is dyed.
Both Paolo and Riccardo are the children of prisoners-of-war who decided to stay on after 1945 and bring their families over from Naples. They are very proud of their Italian heritage, and both play in a football team made up from the Italian community in London. Paolo is always being injured in football matches, no doubt because of his short stature and his aggressive and abusive shouting.
This morning they were describing a stag-night over the weekend for one of their team members. It took place in a big room over an Italian restaurant in the Newark Road. The main feature of this dinner was a live performance by naked dancers, culminating in an act of copulation between one of the women dancers and the sole male performer. Paolo covered his eyes with his hand when he described this incident, and said he had been disgusted by it all (but he winked and grinned at Fabio, one of the print machine operatives who was in the studio at the time, lounging against a drawing board).
Paolo is also very sensitive, and his eyes fill with tears whenever he talks about his parents or his many brothers. Both Paolo and Riccardo are family-orientated, and seem to have hundreds of relations. Whenever any family members are in the office they are always brought in to be introduced to me. I once ran into Paolo at the entrance to Tescos – I was in a hurry but he insisted on introducing his partner, a fair-haired English girl who looked very practical and down-to-earth. We stood there for ages, chatting about nothing, until I could get away.
Occasionally while I am in the Marcomm studio Paolo takes calls from other clients, talks respectfully and quietly to them, and then when the call is over swears and shouts violently. I suspect I am similarly insulted behind my back whenever I make last-minute alterations and amendments.
Most sales literature we write and design ourselves, using InDesign (I would have preferred Quark Express but was over-ruled by the IT department, a decision that still rankles). However, with this catalogue we are using outside designers and printers. This means frequent trips out of the office to Marcomm Solutions, run by Riccardo Vacca and his partner Paolo Borghetti (Riccardo runs the printing side, Paolo does the design work). I have known them for some time, and when I moved to my present job I replaced the existing printers with Marcomm Solutions.
Paolo is a man who is literally two-faced. His right profile is very handsome and aquiline, like a hero from the Elgin marbles. The other side of his face is like an ugly, grimacing little ape. He is a short man, aged about thirty, with a tremendous physique so that when he is sitting down he resembles a broad-shouldered giant. Only when he gets up does his small stature become apparent (he wears boots with high heels, but these just make him look silly, and accentuate his bandy legs so that he waddles when he walks). He is very dark-skinned, and hates to be confused with someone from the middle east. His hair is black and short, but one eyebrow is grey so that I wonder whether the rest of his hair is dyed.
Both Paolo and Riccardo are the children of prisoners-of-war who decided to stay on after 1945 and bring their families over from Naples. They are very proud of their Italian heritage, and both play in a football team made up from the Italian community in London. Paolo is always being injured in football matches, no doubt because of his short stature and his aggressive and abusive shouting.
This morning they were describing a stag-night over the weekend for one of their team members. It took place in a big room over an Italian restaurant in the Newark Road. The main feature of this dinner was a live performance by naked dancers, culminating in an act of copulation between one of the women dancers and the sole male performer. Paolo covered his eyes with his hand when he described this incident, and said he had been disgusted by it all (but he winked and grinned at Fabio, one of the print machine operatives who was in the studio at the time, lounging against a drawing board).
Paolo is also very sensitive, and his eyes fill with tears whenever he talks about his parents or his many brothers. Both Paolo and Riccardo are family-orientated, and seem to have hundreds of relations. Whenever any family members are in the office they are always brought in to be introduced to me. I once ran into Paolo at the entrance to Tescos – I was in a hurry but he insisted on introducing his partner, a fair-haired English girl who looked very practical and down-to-earth. We stood there for ages, chatting about nothing, until I could get away.
Occasionally while I am in the Marcomm studio Paolo takes calls from other clients, talks respectfully and quietly to them, and then when the call is over swears and shouts violently. I suspect I am similarly insulted behind my back whenever I make last-minute alterations and amendments.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Up the tower...
We were up on the narrow balcony
Sunday morning. My brother had the radio on in the dining room, an inane local radio station. He likes noise rather than silence (admittedly the silence in the house can be profound at times, almost oppressive). Inbetween the music was a great deal of chatter about local events. I was drinking a cup of tea (the first cup of tea of the day, having got up at 9), and trying to read, and listening in an involuntary way to the intrusive jabber of the radio. Among the events announced was a “festival” in a local village. A feature of the “festival” was to be guided tours of the church tower.
I like going up towers, and decided to go.
After lunch (roast beef, Yorkshire pudding burned to an uneatable crisp, roast potatos, cabbage, followed by strawberries, sugar, cream) I drove twelve miles to the village. Although it was fairly close, I had never been there before. There was no problem finding the church, which was a huge building, with an enormous tower and spire. Being a graduate in medieval history (I still think of myself as “really” an historian and my job in marketing as just the way I earn a living) I took an interest in the building, which was mostly 14th century. At the back I paid £1 and a guide (one of the locals) took me up the tower.
The stone steps were worn, and narrow, and unreasonably high, so that the climb upwards quickly became exhausting. Most of the staircase was in darkness (apart from the occasional tiny window), there was nothing to hold onto, and moving upwards in a tight spiral made me feel giddy. Not for the first time I thought: Why do I get myself into these situations!
With relief we stopped at the clock chamber. The clock mechanism was a massive piece of machinery, dating from the 1860s, still worked by a pendulum. “The arrival of the clock changed the village forever” said the guide. “Before the clock the villagers got up when it got light, ate when they felt hungry, and went to bed when it got dark. After the clock their lives began to be much more regulated.” All around the walls was graffiti – the names of local villagers through the ages, carved into the ashlar stone.
More of the spiral staircase, the steps even more worn and dangerous. More relief when we stopped at the bell chamber. This room was entirely filled by a cast-iron frame holding the bells – five bells, each one about seven feet high, bulky and brooding in the semi-darkness of the bell chamber. The guide showed me a date on the oldest bell – 1600. Some of the other bells had religious inscriptions set into them. Above the bell frame rose the interior of the spire, about fifty feet in height, lit by shafts of sunlight from the openings cut into it. Although it was a still day, inside the spire there was the constant sound of rushing wind, eerie in the way it whistled and moaned.
More of the spiral staircase, not so many steps this time, and a feeling of exhilaration as I stepped out onto the balcony that goes around the top of the tower. Several other people were already up on the balcony, plus a little Jack Russell dog. A mother and her small son came up the steps behind us, and out into the hot sunlight (31º centigrade). The mother looked terrified, and held onto her son’s hand so tightly that I could see she was hurting him. The view was easily twenty-five miles in all directions, and the guide pointed out the tower of a cathedral on the horizon.
Looking downwards, one could see the entire village and into the little worlds of the houses and gardens:
Just off to the side of the graveyard was a large garden where two young families were enjoying the sun – the children in an inflatable paddling pool splashing water about, the two young mothers sunbathing in bikinis, the two fathers in just shorts, exercising with dumb-bells.
“You see that house there” said the guide, pointing in a different direction. “During the war the Germans dropped bombs on the village, and Mrs Pell who lived in that cottage was holding her baby when a bomb fell in her garden. The blast wrapped both of them in the carpet they were standing on, and forced them up the chimney. Both of them survived.”
On the other side of the tower were two elderly villagers, obviously once romantically involved, and still regarding each other with affection. “Oh look” said the woman, a note of disappointment in her voice. “The Sibsters have taken up their tennis court. We spent so many afternoons there, playing tennis. They were such happy times when we were young.”
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Preparing for emergencies
The new safety booklet from the government arrived yesterday. Entitled “Preparing for emergencies – what you need to know” it was a flimsy pamphlet containing very basic advice. My brother read through it, but I couldn’t be bothered.
Later I thought of the booklet as I lay in bed, and thought of the house around me, and the chestnut trees around the house, and the village boundaries beyond, and Buckinghamshire beyond that, and England around Buckinghamshire, and the seas around everything. It was a series of concentric protective circles. And for a moment I felt completely safe.
In darker moments I think how insubstantial our lives are. I think of the churchyard at the end of the lane, just up on that little crest, and the row of family graves. And the space I calculate where my grave will be. And it seems to me, in the silence and stillness and darkness, that however much we work to restore the house, it is never likely to come alive again. In many ways my brother and I also died in June 2003.
But those are dark thoughts. Thank goodness they don’t often trouble me.
Later I thought of the booklet as I lay in bed, and thought of the house around me, and the chestnut trees around the house, and the village boundaries beyond, and Buckinghamshire beyond that, and England around Buckinghamshire, and the seas around everything. It was a series of concentric protective circles. And for a moment I felt completely safe.
In darker moments I think how insubstantial our lives are. I think of the churchyard at the end of the lane, just up on that little crest, and the row of family graves. And the space I calculate where my grave will be. And it seems to me, in the silence and stillness and darkness, that however much we work to restore the house, it is never likely to come alive again. In many ways my brother and I also died in June 2003.
But those are dark thoughts. Thank goodness they don’t often trouble me.
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