ganching

Mistakes Made By Traybake#358

Traybake, Soda Farl and myself went out last night to an event at the LRB bookshop.

Earlier in the week we had been talking about school.  We are all the products of the Northern Irish Grammar school system but unlike theirs my school was not exactly churning out the great and the good.  I don't think a single person from the convent has ever done anything truly notable whereas SF and TB's schools were hiving with people who went on to have fabulous careers; famous statesmen, great writers, Nobel prizewinners. My school did teach you how to sit properly and what to do if you had to walk in front of the television (nod in an apologetic way to those viewing it) but it wasn't so hot on ancient Greek or the enlightenment.  I think our school was a voluntary grammar school because, despite passing the 11+, we had to pay supplementary fees, buy our school uniform in the most expensive shop in the town and pay for our school issued stationary as well as buying our own books.  This was a source of much anxiety in our house where there was no roughness of money.  We did get a grant from the education and library board but it didn't cover the full costs of everything  so we tried to buy our books second hand.  This entailed an annual trip to  Smithfield market in Belfast where you could buy second hand books, army surplus gear and budgies.

At TB's school they were issued with books which had already been used by older boys in the school.  TB got a copy of a TS Eliot anthology which had been through two or three people's hands before he got hold of it.  He carefully erased their names although some scribbled notes are still inside the book.

The person we went to hear reading was Paul Muldoon.  According to the Guardian probably the best post-war poet writing in English today  (Heaney was born during the war.) He was a good reader and interspersed reading his fairly difficult poems with reciting song lyrics which he also writes.  He had the audience roaring with laughter.

The mistake TB made was to obliterate Paul Muldoon's name from his school book so well that he now he can't read it all and can never be 100 % sure that it was in fact Paul Muldoon's book.  If it was though he certainly has some interesting ideas about Sweeney Erectus if the notes in the book are anything to go by.

 

Observations

After almost four years in this flat I have finally got myself a blind for my living room.  Buying the blind involved four trips to John Lewis with different people to help me choose what to buy. Patterned or plain, roller or Roman, which side to have the chain on required a great deal of discussion before any decision could be made.  I decided on plain and roller and ended up ordering  patterned and Roman.  Having got the blind I then decided that I needed to buy a drill, rather than do what I normally do and borrow one.  Actually I persuaded TB and SF that we should buy a drill together.  So now the only problem is that none of us can actually use a drill with any confidence. Saturday morning is when we are going to attempt to put it up.  I am already expecting it to be a disaster.

I will be glad to finally have some privacy.  I am not particularly overlooked but some new people have moved in to the flat in the house opposite and they often keep their blinds open and I have realised just how much I can see what's going on in their flat.  If I can see them then obviously they can see me.  I don't pay that much attention to them but when TB comes up to annoy me he is either staring at the television or staring at the neighbours.  The people who live in the flat are middle-aged and, I think, academics. (We live near a university and they wear glasses so it's almost definite that that's what they are.)  Every Friday night they have a younger man round to visit and from about 11 or 11.30 they all start dancing.  They keep this up for at least an hour or so.  It is very strange but then they probably wonder what exactly is going on in this house.

Come Saturday this will have all changed and they will no  longer be able to see what we're up to that is if SF hasn't fallen out the window/drilled a hole in his hand/electrocuted himself.

 

November

 My period of being a woman of leisure is rapidly coming to an end and I am very sorry about this indeed.  I haven't enjoyed all of it.  Not surprising as it coincided with a period of mourning coupled with being made redundant.  However since I've known I have a job to go to I've felt differently about it.  

Now that my time is running out I have remembered all the things that I promised I would do if I had more time.  Have a major clear out, decorate my bedroom, write a novel, learn how to make jam.  None of these things have been achieved.

I did though today tidy my hot press and last week I threw out three pairs of shoes. Small steps.  I have ten days left and a to do list as long as my arm.  I will see how much I manage to tick off.

I always think of this poem on this day of the year.

No sun - no moon! 
No morn - no noon - 
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 
No comfortable feel in any member - 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - 
November! 


Thomas Hood 

Observations On Walking

 I went for a walk on Sunday.  What many people fail to realise is how hard it is to organise going for a walk if you live in London.   You have to find somewhere that is not too far away and then work out whether there are trains running on a Sunday and, if there are, whether engineering works mean you have to take a bus for three-quarters of the journey having paid an arm and two legs for a railway ticket.  You also need to print off the walk directions and then chivvy the people you are going to walk with - making sure they understand what station they have to be at and when.  This Sunday I went with Traybake and Ms Mansfield.  Ms M has never gone for a country walk before with me (I suspect she may never actually have been on a country walk ever).

Rather daringly I decided on a walk I'd not done before.  This was risky due to my propensity for getting lost coupled with my inability to read instructions or tell the difference between right and left. The chances of us getting lost was high.  It was a really beautiful autumn day.  We caught the train without any mishaps and arrived at our starting point without any difficulty at all.  The instructions were perfect and we managed to successfully not get lost on the station platform.  The sun shone all day, the ground was soft underfoot, the leaves were crunchy and very suitable for kicking as you walked through them, the countryside was bucolic and, it was warm enough to sit outside at the lunchtime pub. All in all a great success.  

We had another two miles to go having already walked for ten miles when we came to the bottom of this path.  I was a little ahead of the other two and while waiting for them to catch up checked the next set of directions.  I read to the bottom of the page which said:

"39 At the bottom of this path turn... "

I turned over the page.  The next page started:

"43 Walk over this bridge and ignoring all ways off......"

We were lost.  We were lost due to my stupid fecking printer which is always doing this.  We were lost because I had failed to properly check that I had all the directions.

My instant reaction was to wonder how I could blame TB for the fact that we were lost.

Being Luddites not one of us had a phone that connected to the internet.  We all tried phoning people who might be at home on a Sunday afternoon and wouldn't mind reading aloud to us the missing section, but there was no reception.  We stood there looking miserable and lost until eventually a car stopped and the driver  told us how to get to Tunbridge Wells but reckoned it was a better idea for us to accept a lift from him and his wife to the nearest station.  On my own I would, of course have persevered until I'd worked out the right directions but TB and Ms M were flagging so I reluctantly accepted the lift.

I am not sure if Ms M will ever repeat her visit to the country.

Bilbao

This day last week I was in Bilbao.   

I liked the city very much although when I first arrived there, three weeks ago today and found I had a four hour wait for the bus to Burgos, I was less than enamoured with it.  The bus station is quite seedy and I was feeling slightly intimidated and uncomfortable due to my inability to speak Spanish and therefore to understand anything that was going on.  It didn't help that the temperature was 33C.  I ended up walking to a park and sitting on a bench for several hours reading the Guardian and hoping that I didn't get mugged. By the time I returned two weeks later I was practically fluent in Spanish or more truthfully had become less self-conscious at using  sign language

I arrived at about 9 at night and shared a taxi with two Finnish women from the bus station (I think they were lady lesbians) who spoke some Spanish and were able to work out that the taxi driver had no idea where my hotel was.   He did eventually find it and as always, with Spanish hotels, it was in the nosiest street in the whole city.

I woke up early the next morning and walked down the river to the Guggenheim.  I'd caught a glimpse of it when I arrived on the bus but hadn't seen it in its full glory.  It's beautiful building and I can see why it had people flocking in droves to a fairly obscure Northern Spanish town, after it was built.  (Bilbao Council has been very clever at promoting itself as a city that commissions good design.  Calling its bus service Bilbobus is perhaps less clever.)

There was also some good art in there.  I think I struck it lucky with the exhibitions that were on. I was also lucky with regards to the admission because after queuing  for a ticket I was informed by the woman behind the desk that it was the museum's anniversary and therefore admission was free that day. It meant the museum was packed but I didn't mind being used to London crowds.

The other thing I really liked about the city was its funicular railway.  I love all cities with railways going up the side of very steep hills. It appeals to the child in me.

I also visited El Corte Ingles, which is my favourite department store after John Lewis.  I had lunch there and sat next to a woman with a sturdy baby who she was breastfeeding.  No-one took a blind bit of notice of this.

In the evening I went for a walk and got lost in the old town.  I wandered up and down narrow streets, stopping off now and again to go into churches, and eventually found my way back to my hotel.  For my dinner I had a cream cake.

The next morning it was really foggy.  I walked to the bus stop and waited for a bus to the airport. Once again I was assailed with doubt as the notice board telling us when the bus was due had something incomprehensible written on it which I imagined said something like:  this bus stop is out of commission due to fog on the lines.   I only stopped worrying when lots of Spanish speakers with suitcases turned up and, sure enough the bus itself arrived after a few minutes.

I'd definitely recommend a weekend in Bilbao but try to avoid the British tourists and remember to bring your earplugs if you are staying in the old town as it is noisy with visitors and locals, including lots of small children many of the small girls bearing a striking resemblance to Grayson Perry,  who are out carousing to all hours.

Return Of The Pilgrim

I am home; tired, sunburnt, bitten, scarred and shriven with 2/3 of my journey completed. 

I got back to Titter of Wit Street yesterday at around 2.30 and rang Traybake's door bell. ( I had left my keys with him because I didn't want to carry them around for two weeks adding to the weight of my rucksack.)  TB  answered the door and refused to let me cross the threshold in case I was harbouring bedbugs.  He told me I could come down for tea once I had drenched myself in Dettol.  He seemed slightly disappointed that I was not covered in suppurating sores with bloody rags wrapped round my feet.

I went upstairs and let myself into my own flat and removed everything from my rucksack putting the contents either into the washing machine or the freezer.  I am fairly certain that I haven't brought bedbugs  home with me but it doesn't do any harm to take precautions.

This  morning when I woke up I had no idea where I was.  For the last two weeks I have been going to sleep at around 9.30 which is two hours earlier than the average Spanish three year old.  Last night I stayed up until 11.30!! TB did make me dinner - roast chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.  It was scrumptious.  My diet when I was away consisted of ensalata mixte, salted almonds, cafe con leches and cake.  I may have a slight case of malnutrition or scurvy.

I have become very adept at dressing wounds.  I spent at least 25 Euros in farmicias on Compeed (a complete waste of money and does more harm than good to blisters), gauze and surgical tape.  Each morning as I bandaged my feet I felt as if I was playing hospitals.  One day I walked so far that the soles of my feet bled.  I really did think I had the stigmata. 

It was very hot.  In the morning the temperature would be around 8C but by lunchtime it would have risen to around 28/30C.  I think the heat and the hardness of the ground was partly why I got so many blisters.  I certainly didn't get them the last time I did it.  When I got back yesterday I thought London was freezing.  In reality it was quite a mild day.

As always the best thing about going away is coming home.

The Way of St James

Today is day 5 of my journey.  I have entered into the spirit of being a pilgrim.  I spend a lot of time listening to tales from other pilgrims.  I am generally dirty.  I am dressed badly.  I have sticky up hair every day.  I look like a pilgrim from the Middle Ages except with more items of clothing made out of goretex.  I look like a pilgrim from the Middle Ages with foot and mouth disease.  I have 3 blisters and four cold sores.  Even I think this is excessive.  I am sun burnt down one side of my body.  I am trying to be charitable towards my fellow pilgrims.  I gave someone my last two strepsils and I have listened to some awful rubbish without looking like I was suppressing guffaws of laughter. I have met some interesting people.  All in all I am having  a wonderful time and I´m guaranteed a place in heaven.  Result.

"All Truly Great Thoughts Are Conceived By Walking"

My boots don't look like this any more.  They're  scuffed and the laces are frayed from miles and miles of walking.  I'm a bit frayed myself.  

I will be gone for two weeks.  I shall be crossing the Spanish plains so have packed my rain gear.  The temperature, according to the forecast, will be hot (but not as hot as London) for a few days and then cold and grey. I've packed a sun hat and a hat and gloves for frosty mornings. My rucksack is heavier than it was the last time I did this and I know what it feels like to have really bad blisters so I am apprehensive. I need to cover about 150 miles.

I've  a room booked for tonight and I have an arrangement to meet Kerry Sister and Mr Kerry Sister at Vespers at the nun's chapel in Leon on Sunday week.  I also intend to have one night in Bilbao because I want to visit the Guggenheim.  Other than that I will just be walking every day for 12 days.

Wish me luck and buen camino!

And Many Miles To Go....

I have a sore throat and, on the way home from visiting my new boss, I dropped a glass Kilner jar on my toe so preparations for my 150 mile walk are going well.  I think I made a good impression on my new colleagues, I certainly made an impression, as I accidentally pressed the emergency button on the way out and almost caused the entire building to be evacuated.  I will be starting work some time in November.

I am exhausted as the Surly Niece has been staying.  She was only in London for a few days but had a very busy schedule, which involved me in lots of complicated arrangements.  "So I'll be going to M's at four if T doesn't get back to me before that and then I'll be back at your's to get ready for going out and dinner would be good between 8.30 and 8.45 but if J, you know M's cousin J rings, we'll be meeting at 7 so dinner between...."  One of the things I've noticed about the new breed of young Irish people in London is their approach to distances.  SN would think nothing of making three arrangements for one afternoon in totally different parts of London.   I try to avoid this like the plague.

Tonight Traybake and Soda Farl are accompanying me to the best Turkish restaurant in London as we have some celebrating to do vis a vis new jobs and new starts.  Assuming that is that I  am not completely laid low by my sore throat and have to take to my bed instead.

The English!

 I went for a walk yesterday.  I've now done this walk so many times that I actually know the way and didn't get lost once.  I knew where I was going to stop for lunch; a bench on One Tree hill three-quarters of the way into the walk.  I'd made myself a doorstep sandwich and bought some crisps and I was looking forward very much to scoffing my picnic. 

It is very peaceful walking by yourself.  I found myself connecting with the land and nature in a way not possible when walking with my usual companions who are extremely fond of wittering.  Of course I never listen to a word they say:

"The problem with you Ganching is you never listen to my advice........ah look at the little fawny-wawny!"  The Surly Niece

"....so that's why this current stage of capitalism is going to lead to......"  Traybake

"Yeah, she lives next door to me - her husband is a surgeon and their kids are at Dulwich College - and she always parks her Beamer outside my house...."  Dullrich resident

but it is still distracting.  Yesterday, while walking I was able to distinguish different bird songs and listen to rustling in the undergrowth.  At one point about twenty pheasants suddenly appeared on the path in front of me.

 I was fairly tired by the time I reached my bench.  A few seconds before I'd heard an owl which I think is unusual in the afternoon.  I sat down and got my sandwich, crisps and copy of the Observer Review section out of my bag.  It was quite dark under the trees and a little bit spooky.

Suddenly there was a lot of noise, barking and shouting.

"In-deee-ar! IN-DEE-AAR! COME HERE!  Ken-yaaah! KEN-YAAAH! GOOD GIRL!"

Two labradors came bounding up to me.  One was brown and the other one was black.  They both stuck their heads in my lap and one tried to snatch my sandwich.

"In-dee-ARR!  BAD GIRL!!  KEN-YAR!  COME HERE!

I'm so sorry.  It's because you have crisps."

The woman with the dogs was young, blond and well spoken.  She yanked the dogs away.

It took me a moment or two to fully appreciate that the dogs were called Kenya and India.  The brown dog was India and the black dog was Kenya.

The English gentry so charming and eccentric and still clinging on to the remnants of the Empire.  I suppose things have improved a little as the name Nigger has fallen out of fashion for dogs.

I finished my lunch and quickly walked back through Knole Park to Sevenoaks.  I sort of wished TB had been with me as he would have really appreciated this incident.