And so we have reached the end of another year. Highlights
from the past twelve months are being compiled everywhere you look and there is
a sense of expectation for what we hope will occur in the next twelve months.
It is now almost three years since I made my first faltering
remarks on this blog and after nearly one-hundred-and-fifty Sundays I’m
starting to wonder if this might be the beginning of the end. Perhaps I ought instead
to consider this a sabbatical of sorts. Daft as it sounds I cannot quite imagine
not writing on here, it has become such a regular fixture of my week.
This blog has been a personal success and admittedly also a
selfish experience. Crafting these bits and pieces of stories has given me a
great deal of pleasure, but has probably been less of a delight for the
unfortunate souls who may have stumbled accidentally upon my haphazard
creations.
Over the past three years I have written more consistently
than I had in any of the years previously. Now, however, I feel like attempting the next challenge – writing that novella. I did not consider when I set myself
this goal back in November that ending my blog might be a consequence.
After some thought, however, I came to realise that the
quality of any writing I would produce in the next twelve months would probably
deteriorate. I don’t know if I have any readers, or if I’m only talking to
myself, but still I don’t want to waste anyone’s time by posting rubbish week
on week.
For the next twelve months, therefore, I shall be working at
that novella. Hopefully this year’s resolution will be as much fun to complete
as the one I made here three years ago. If you have, at any point, taken the
trouble to read my meagre scribbles then you deserve a hearty thank you. If I did
bribe you with cake to read this blog, then I shall probably be providing
similar edible incentives to read draft chapters in the coming year.
But, for now at least, I shall bid you adieu.
Sunday 29 December 2013
Sunday 22 December 2013
Christmas In Camelot
|
| British Library, Cotton MS Nero A.x, article 3, ff. 94v95. |
Christmas time. The king is home at Camelot
Among his many lords, all splendid men –
All the trusted brothers of the Round Table.
Ready for court revels and carefree pleasures.
Knights in great numbers at the tournament sports
Jousted with much joy, as gentle knights
Will do, then rode to the court for the carol-dances.
The festival lasted fifteen long days
Of great mirth with all the meat that they could manage.
Such clamour and merriment were amazing to hear:
By day a joyful noise, dancing at night –
A happiness that rang through rooms and halls
With lords and ladies pleasing themselves as they pleased.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Lines
37-49.
Sunday 15 December 2013
Empty Chairs And Empty Tables...
Yet again finding inspiration
on my regular walks – a house that was once crammed full of personal items is
now sadly deserted, with only the for sale board planted like a conquering flag
in the front garden.
As I walked into the house of my long-ago childhood it felt for a moment as if the fabric of the building had been shifted. It seemed to me that the rooms had moved, the corridors changed, as if the house was a giant Rubik’s Cube that someone had been playing with, before puzzled and defeated they had set it back down completely altered. Even as I searched through the memories of this place, coloured sepia by the photographs that captured them, I could not quite fix in my head how the rooms ought to have been.
I went through the first door I came to on my left. There was no reason to choose that door. There was no moment of sudden insight and clarity. It, like all the others, was a blank canvas to me. The peeling, yellowed-paint was merely a sad testament to the passage of time. The catch had not been fully clicked into place and the door opened almost eagerly with only the slightest touch.
The room was long though not especially wide and at the far end there was a pair of large glass doors. They looked like a trick of the eye, an illusion to make the room appear longer. The neat rectangle of grass outside became the natural extension of the neat rectangular room. The room was entirely empty perhaps explaining why my first impression was purely of rectangular proportion. There was no furniture to claim the empty walls and floors as their own. There were none of the trinkets, pictures or ornaments that I know had once covered every available surface. Their remembered presence, and their absence now, only emphasised the complete emptiness of the room.
Did I play on this floor at the feet of grown-ups? I cannot remember this room specifically, but the house had always seemed to me like a museum; a grand collection of memories and tokens. Time, like a thief, had stolen those memories and the items these rooms used to contain. Perhaps I am the only one left who can feel that loss and emptiness. An empty chair is only an empty chair if you have the expectation that someone should be sitting there and discover that they are not.
A stray beam of sunlight filtered through the smeared windows of the room. For that moment the room was brilliant gold, the air filled with shimmering glitter and something of the past seemed to return. The light mellowed and faded, however, as the clouds continued to pass in the outside world. The house returned to its faded glory, the dust hanging heavy and the rooms remaining empty.
As I walked into the house of my long-ago childhood it felt for a moment as if the fabric of the building had been shifted. It seemed to me that the rooms had moved, the corridors changed, as if the house was a giant Rubik’s Cube that someone had been playing with, before puzzled and defeated they had set it back down completely altered. Even as I searched through the memories of this place, coloured sepia by the photographs that captured them, I could not quite fix in my head how the rooms ought to have been.
I went through the first door I came to on my left. There was no reason to choose that door. There was no moment of sudden insight and clarity. It, like all the others, was a blank canvas to me. The peeling, yellowed-paint was merely a sad testament to the passage of time. The catch had not been fully clicked into place and the door opened almost eagerly with only the slightest touch.
The room was long though not especially wide and at the far end there was a pair of large glass doors. They looked like a trick of the eye, an illusion to make the room appear longer. The neat rectangle of grass outside became the natural extension of the neat rectangular room. The room was entirely empty perhaps explaining why my first impression was purely of rectangular proportion. There was no furniture to claim the empty walls and floors as their own. There were none of the trinkets, pictures or ornaments that I know had once covered every available surface. Their remembered presence, and their absence now, only emphasised the complete emptiness of the room.
Did I play on this floor at the feet of grown-ups? I cannot remember this room specifically, but the house had always seemed to me like a museum; a grand collection of memories and tokens. Time, like a thief, had stolen those memories and the items these rooms used to contain. Perhaps I am the only one left who can feel that loss and emptiness. An empty chair is only an empty chair if you have the expectation that someone should be sitting there and discover that they are not.
A stray beam of sunlight filtered through the smeared windows of the room. For that moment the room was brilliant gold, the air filled with shimmering glitter and something of the past seemed to return. The light mellowed and faded, however, as the clouds continued to pass in the outside world. The house returned to its faded glory, the dust hanging heavy and the rooms remaining empty.
Sunday 8 December 2013
I-Patch
The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed in recent months
the ‘patch count’ that has been slowly increasing in the side bar. Back in
April, with the prospect of several long train journeys to endure, I decided to
start making a patchwork blanket. (Wool, I reasoned, was much lighter to carry
than books).
Having reached the goal of fifty knitted rectangles I then stitched them together and attached a psychedelic array of tassels to create a warm and colourful blanket. The question of course now remains: what will I do on all those long train journeys in the future?
Having reached the goal of fifty knitted rectangles I then stitched them together and attached a psychedelic array of tassels to create a warm and colourful blanket. The question of course now remains: what will I do on all those long train journeys in the future?
Sunday 1 December 2013
Time For A Snack?
A bit of bloodthirsty cannibalism and a tree-eating horse...
 |
| Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, Annal for 1243. Cambridge, Corpus Christi College, Ms 16, (f. 166r). |
Sunday 24 November 2013
Mistaken Identity...
This set up for a
historical romantic-comedy was written some time ago on a whim before realising
that I can write neither romance nor comedy. It was promptly abandoned and
languished in a dark cupboard until I had the urge to tidy said cupboard. In an
attempt at ‘make do and mend’ I patched it up and hopefully the end result is
not too tatty...
With every step it was like the point of a dagger was being dragged across the soles of her feet. With every other step it felt like that dagger was pricking into the vulnerable sides of her toes. Rosalind Clare allowed herself only a brief, gleeful moment to imagine flinging the wretched shoes far, far away before focusing once again on putting one foot in front of the other. In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to take a solitary morning walk with the fresh spring sunlight gently gleaming against the delicate new shoots of bud and leaf. These, however, were not those circumstances.
It was as she took another step forward that she felt the right shoe begin to slip. It should have been impossible; they were crushingly tight and inflexible after all. Nevertheless the shoe was about to fall off and she desperately flexed her abused toes as she tried to cling onto the soft inner lining. It was all to no avail. The slipper slipped right off and landed rather predictably in a muddy puddle.
She was going to be in so much trouble.
“Oh you vile thing!” She stomped her foot before remembering too late that it was no longer shod. Her throbbing foot was now also cold and wet. “Argh!”
“It’s only a shoe.” The voice was impatiently sarcastic as was the expression of the man it belonged to. Rosalind scowled at the stranger, too upset to be appropriately embarrassed by her predicament.
“It not just a shoe!” She exclaimed heatedly. “It’s an incredibly expensive and fashionable shoe. In fact it’s one of a kind.” She was fairly certain he muttered something unpleasant under his breath about females and fashion but she was too agitated to care. “Now what am I going to do?” He was deliberately obtuse when he answered her rhetorical question.
“You could always wash it. Your skirts are so long I doubt anyone will be able to see them anyway.”
“I can’t wash it!” She practically screeched at him. “It’s just... It can’t be done.” She trailed off miserably. Rosalind was by now fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and she could feel the flush of delayed embarrassment heat her face.
“Oh for goodness sake.” The man bit off as he strode forward and plucked the shoe from the puddle.
“No!” She cried. “Don’t touch it - your hands!” As the man thrust the shoe toward her she realised that his hands were not encrusted with dirt and grime as she had expected. They were in fact perfectly nice hands. Elegantly tapered, with clean nails and few calluses, they were clearly not the hands of a common labourer.
“Well. Don’t you want your shoe back? Or don’t you want to get your precious hands dirty?” He was baiting her intentionally.
“Oh just give it here.” She said snatching the shoe away from him ungratefully and examining the damage. “She’s definitely going to make me pay for this.” Rosalind moaned plaintively to herself.
“Who?” The man asked rudely with unapologetic nosiness.
“Lady Judith. It’s her shoe.”
“Why on earth are you wearing her shoes?”
“Well it certainly wasn’t for fun.” Rosalind retorted crossly to the incredulous look he gave her aching feet. “They’re too tight for her to wear. As I have bigger feet she told me I had to stretch them.”
“You’re one of her servants?”
“I was, but after this she’ll either dismiss me outright or force me to pay her back.” Sudden understanding forced a delighted laugh past her lips. “Did you think I was a Lady?” Amusement smoothed away the previous ire she had felt for him.
“We’ll tell her it’s my fault.”
“That’s hardly going to help.”
“I’m not worried about paying for them.” He shrugged carelessly and she frowned at him, wondering if he realised exactly how expensive Lady Judith’s taste for shoes were.
“No I cannot accept that. This is my responsibility.”
“Nonsense. As I’m going to marry the woman it’s hardly of any consequence whether or not I’ve ruined a pair of her shoes. I can buy her another fifty pairs after all.” Rosalind nearly dropped the shoe back into the puddle. The man standing before her in plain homespun garments looked nothing like a powerful baron.
“You’re Fulk fitzGerald?” Forget hurling the shoes far, far away she suddenly wished that she could find herself even further away than that.
“Exactly, so why don’t we just keep this incident between ourselves.”
With every step it was like the point of a dagger was being dragged across the soles of her feet. With every other step it felt like that dagger was pricking into the vulnerable sides of her toes. Rosalind Clare allowed herself only a brief, gleeful moment to imagine flinging the wretched shoes far, far away before focusing once again on putting one foot in front of the other. In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to take a solitary morning walk with the fresh spring sunlight gently gleaming against the delicate new shoots of bud and leaf. These, however, were not those circumstances.
It was as she took another step forward that she felt the right shoe begin to slip. It should have been impossible; they were crushingly tight and inflexible after all. Nevertheless the shoe was about to fall off and she desperately flexed her abused toes as she tried to cling onto the soft inner lining. It was all to no avail. The slipper slipped right off and landed rather predictably in a muddy puddle.
She was going to be in so much trouble.
“Oh you vile thing!” She stomped her foot before remembering too late that it was no longer shod. Her throbbing foot was now also cold and wet. “Argh!”
“It’s only a shoe.” The voice was impatiently sarcastic as was the expression of the man it belonged to. Rosalind scowled at the stranger, too upset to be appropriately embarrassed by her predicament.
“It not just a shoe!” She exclaimed heatedly. “It’s an incredibly expensive and fashionable shoe. In fact it’s one of a kind.” She was fairly certain he muttered something unpleasant under his breath about females and fashion but she was too agitated to care. “Now what am I going to do?” He was deliberately obtuse when he answered her rhetorical question.
“You could always wash it. Your skirts are so long I doubt anyone will be able to see them anyway.”
“I can’t wash it!” She practically screeched at him. “It’s just... It can’t be done.” She trailed off miserably. Rosalind was by now fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and she could feel the flush of delayed embarrassment heat her face.
“Oh for goodness sake.” The man bit off as he strode forward and plucked the shoe from the puddle.
“No!” She cried. “Don’t touch it - your hands!” As the man thrust the shoe toward her she realised that his hands were not encrusted with dirt and grime as she had expected. They were in fact perfectly nice hands. Elegantly tapered, with clean nails and few calluses, they were clearly not the hands of a common labourer.
“Well. Don’t you want your shoe back? Or don’t you want to get your precious hands dirty?” He was baiting her intentionally.
“Oh just give it here.” She said snatching the shoe away from him ungratefully and examining the damage. “She’s definitely going to make me pay for this.” Rosalind moaned plaintively to herself.
“Who?” The man asked rudely with unapologetic nosiness.
“Lady Judith. It’s her shoe.”
“Why on earth are you wearing her shoes?”
“Well it certainly wasn’t for fun.” Rosalind retorted crossly to the incredulous look he gave her aching feet. “They’re too tight for her to wear. As I have bigger feet she told me I had to stretch them.”
“You’re one of her servants?”
“I was, but after this she’ll either dismiss me outright or force me to pay her back.” Sudden understanding forced a delighted laugh past her lips. “Did you think I was a Lady?” Amusement smoothed away the previous ire she had felt for him.
“We’ll tell her it’s my fault.”
“That’s hardly going to help.”
“I’m not worried about paying for them.” He shrugged carelessly and she frowned at him, wondering if he realised exactly how expensive Lady Judith’s taste for shoes were.
“No I cannot accept that. This is my responsibility.”
“Nonsense. As I’m going to marry the woman it’s hardly of any consequence whether or not I’ve ruined a pair of her shoes. I can buy her another fifty pairs after all.” Rosalind nearly dropped the shoe back into the puddle. The man standing before her in plain homespun garments looked nothing like a powerful baron.
“You’re Fulk fitzGerald?” Forget hurling the shoes far, far away she suddenly wished that she could find herself even further away than that.
“Exactly, so why don’t we just keep this incident between ourselves.”
Sunday 17 November 2013
Twenty-Five And Counting
This time next year I shall have celebrated another birthday
and will have reached the quarter of a century mark. For something that sounds
so significant I know already that I won’t feel any different. Logically, of
course, I know this because really I’ll only be a day older than I was the day
before. We celebrate the passing of a year, but I wonder now if the days in
between those celebrations are of more importance. If I want to wake up the
morning I turn twenty-five and feel different I am better off doing something in
the 364 days before my next birthday, rather than expecting an automatic annual
upgrade.
Seeing a picture of your two day old self certainly puts things into a strange perspective. It has made me reflect upon everything I ever said I would do by the time I was a grown up. A quarter of a century is sounding pretty grown up to me, yet I still find myself wondering sometimes when the life I imagined for myself might begin. This year I have decided to act on that feeling and try to achieve some of the wishes my younger self earnestly made. Obviously this takes an amount of careful thinking as I couldn’t choose the utterly ridiculous and implausible. For example I haven’t decided to travel the world, fall in love and immediately elope. I also didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep; I have learnt by now that I cannot change who I am and the bigger challenge will always be to respect that.
After all this careful thought I came up with three ‘wishes’ that I think I could realistically fulfil in the coming year:
Revisit Scotland and stay in a castle: Admittedly this wish had to be adapted as I originally told everyone that I was going to move to Scotland, live in a castle and keep a flock of sheep. Whilst this may still be on the boundary of improbable I am able to save the money needed to spend a weekend in a Scottish castle.
Write a novella: I started this blog nearly three years ago after realising that I hadn’t written anything substantial in a long time, despite that very week telling someone I was going to write a novel. For as long as I can remember I have said that I wanted to write a book and it seems to me time to finally do something about it.
Go swimming once a week: In the grand scheme of things this wish probably appears quite unremarkable. I can remember, however, always begging for an extra five minutes in the pool and confidently believing that I’d never stop swimming. Well now I’m old enough to get those extra five minutes so it seems silly not to enjoy them.
And so, dear reader, if I haven’t completed these wishes in the coming year then you must call me out on it. I want to be able to approach the next milestone knowing that I have achieved something. Instead of continuing to attach all my aspirations and wishes to an unknown future life, I want to try and start some of that life from today. Perhaps in time I can come to appreciate the everyday of now just as much as the idea of tomorrow.
Seeing a picture of your two day old self certainly puts things into a strange perspective. It has made me reflect upon everything I ever said I would do by the time I was a grown up. A quarter of a century is sounding pretty grown up to me, yet I still find myself wondering sometimes when the life I imagined for myself might begin. This year I have decided to act on that feeling and try to achieve some of the wishes my younger self earnestly made. Obviously this takes an amount of careful thinking as I couldn’t choose the utterly ridiculous and implausible. For example I haven’t decided to travel the world, fall in love and immediately elope. I also didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep; I have learnt by now that I cannot change who I am and the bigger challenge will always be to respect that.
After all this careful thought I came up with three ‘wishes’ that I think I could realistically fulfil in the coming year:
Revisit Scotland and stay in a castle: Admittedly this wish had to be adapted as I originally told everyone that I was going to move to Scotland, live in a castle and keep a flock of sheep. Whilst this may still be on the boundary of improbable I am able to save the money needed to spend a weekend in a Scottish castle.
Write a novella: I started this blog nearly three years ago after realising that I hadn’t written anything substantial in a long time, despite that very week telling someone I was going to write a novel. For as long as I can remember I have said that I wanted to write a book and it seems to me time to finally do something about it.
Go swimming once a week: In the grand scheme of things this wish probably appears quite unremarkable. I can remember, however, always begging for an extra five minutes in the pool and confidently believing that I’d never stop swimming. Well now I’m old enough to get those extra five minutes so it seems silly not to enjoy them.
And so, dear reader, if I haven’t completed these wishes in the coming year then you must call me out on it. I want to be able to approach the next milestone knowing that I have achieved something. Instead of continuing to attach all my aspirations and wishes to an unknown future life, I want to try and start some of that life from today. Perhaps in time I can come to appreciate the everyday of now just as much as the idea of tomorrow.
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