enitharmon: (Default)
I haven't posted on here for ages.

I was beginning to fear, I think, that people were dropping away from Livejournal in favour of the fleshpots of Facebook and the succinctness of Twitter, but I've never really felt comfortable with Facebook, and Twitter too often leaves me unsatisfied (although it's great for reporting from a hospital bed.

So I never did chronicle the explosion in my head last may, and is consequences.

Ah well, for those who are still around (give us a wave, won't you, I hate addressing thin air), I'll be off tomorrow on the 09:22 to Preston for a pre-med assessment before next week's angiogram and, with a bit of luck, a bit of shopping (there's a Lush in Preston, amongst other things).
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I’ve got a lot of little things done today so I should feel quite pleased with myself.

I’ve made a load of pea and ham soup, and I’ve made the kitchen presentable, and I’ve mucked out the wormery (and ensured that there are still worms in there even if they are a bit sluggish), and I’ve watched Les Enfants Terribles.

I should feel contented, and in a way I do, but I have the beginnings of a cold and a rasping throat and I need some TLC.
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Yesterday was the first ever football match between Barrow AFC and Eastbourne Borough, both promoted last season from their respective regional leagues to the Blue Square Premiership. To mark the occasion, the first ever encounter has long been planned for a first face to face encounter between two stalwarts of the Popular forum, myself and Waldo (whose name isn't really Waldo and he isn't Welsh). Waldo drove all the way up from the south coast, bless him!

We met in the bar of the Duke of Edinburgh hotel at Crazy Horse Corner, where we could gaze out upon the statue of Our Emlyn as we drank more beer than is good for me and put the world to rights. Then we walked the length of Holker Street to the football ground, which I haven't set foot in for forty years (the last occasion being, I think, a football league division 3 match against Barnsley.) It was less than a classic match. Barrow took an early lead and after adding a second in the middle of the first half they closed down the game and until the final moments it was just a midfield kickabout. Then, in the five minues of injury time (for what I really don't know), we were finally rewarded with a splendid goal from either side. It says a great deal about the game that the Man of the Match award was given to the Barrow goalkeeper, who had precious little to do. I expect he got it for his devotion to duty in staying awake.

After the match we went for a long walk together. First paying a visit to the statue of local hero Willie Horne in Duke Street opposite the rugby ground, then for an inspection of the fleet in the docks including newcomer super-sub HMS Astute, then for a stroll across Walney and down the beach path to Thorney Nook where I could demostrate that we have a much better beach than Eastbourne and give an unanswerable retort to the question "why the hell did you want to come back to live here") It was dark by the time we reached Thorney Nook and the Blackpool illuminations showed up clearly across the bay. From there it's a modest trek down the lane to the Queen's Arms at Biggar, where more beer was consumed before walkingback to town on a pleasant evening with the rumble of the surf and the cry of the curlew for company.
enitharmon: (roadrunner)
I did 40 minutes round Walney this morning. It was another lovely morning but for some reason it felt like hard work. Possibly because despite what the chap from the Grauniad might say, Walney routes tend to be quite testing as the centre of the island is rather saucer-shaped. It felt good afterwards, though.

In other news: I have done what I have resolved to do every time I have made a trip involving an overnight stay in the last fifteen years - I've bought a bag on wheels. And I have discovered that it is also excellent for conveying one's shopping. Provided that said shopping does not include bottles of beer. Especially not when said bottles are of precious Belgian Duvel beer.

And my daughter regrets that she's unable to lunch with us on Sunday. Actually there's more to it than that, and it's going to take some assimilating. Meanwhile it's possible that I may be fragile over the weekend, but I'll try not to be a pain.

Fed Up

Sep. 20th, 2008 08:30 pm
enitharmon: (Default)
The day had left me shaken up.

I did a lot of sewing to try to relax and that worked until the light started to fail and I couldn't do it any more. Now I just feel like throwing crockery at the walls. Even Tosca has retired beneath the duvet.

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As I walked back from town up Michaelson Road I saw a bit of a commotion in the middle of the road. A baby herring gull was sitting in the middle of the road, oblivious to passing traffic, and two big brave lads were standing there wondering what to do. "Pick it up!" I called. They looked at me and at each other and at the bird, and one of them stooped and flapped at it as if it were a heap of poo. So I went over, picked up the hapless bird and carried it over to the pavement.

Not sure what was the matter with it. It may have been injured and unable to fly, but it really didn't seem at all distressed, or injured. Mind you a herring gull, even a four-month-old one, is pretty heavy. One has to marvel at how they manage to get off the ground!


Sep. 11th, 2008 11:42 am
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I thought yesterday was going to be the only day I'd get my washing dry this week, but fate (and my negligent neighbours across the close who left the washing line off it's pulley on their side and were out for the day) conspired to prevent me.

But today has been lovely so far, despite the dismal forecast. Sunny, pleasantly warm, and with enough wind to make it a good drying day.

It might even be the nicest day of the year to dat!
enitharmon: (Default)
The sun has been shining today. Let's see - what have I got done?

I treated myself to breakfast at the Last Resort. My excuse was that I wanted to check the shelf of Barrow's OBCZ, but it seems to be replenishing itself nicely. Not to self - get some pre-printed labels.

I bought a new counted cross-stitch kit. It's substantially bigger than the last one. I'm not going to tell you what it is - you'll have to guess as I post progress! It will take me a good deal longer than three weeks, nethinks.

I did loads of shopping on the market, in the wholefood shop, and in Morrisons. The two heavy bags I carried home cound as exercise for the day.

I made a blackberry crumble. Ahnd I haven't eaten any yet.

I have done some work on the Great Database Project

I have done some sewing

Tonight I will be out playing bridge.

What a busy day!
enitharmon: (Default)

I despair, I really do!

I spotted this on Sunday at the Walney Bridge festivities in Vickerstown Park. When I was little a lucky dip was just that - a lucky dip. Now, after fifty years of feminism, we have segregated lucky dips! That's on top of colour-coded books, strongly gender-coded toys, clothes, hair and life styles. Little boys with their heads shaved and little girls in pink frocks and faux tiaras.

Society is going backwards I think. Next stop, feudalism!

(Going to Wordpress for the everyday journal isn't working, is it? I think I'll keep it for the Film Diary, essays and other writing, and come back here with full contrition for the general stuff.)
enitharmon: (Default)
In one of his lighter moments, the poet Coleridge once wrote

Swans sing before they die; 'twere no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing

At least it wasn't me he had in mind, but I have no doubt others have thought it of me. Ok, ok, my line has long been that I sing like a bird, the bird in question being a crow with laryngintis.

But is this fair? Had you been around this morning while I was having my shower you might have heard me singing a selection so show tunes and bits of blues. Not reticently either, but then as far as I knew there was nobody around and I don't think my home is bugged. You never know, of course, but I'm sure anybody listening in is going to give up pretty quickly and find something much more interesting to eavesdrop on.

Anyway, the point is that I like to sing, and the truth is that I really don't think that I'm as bad at it as some would have had me believe over the years. There was a time when I was encouraged to believe that I was too clumsy to dance, and it wasn't until I had turned forty that I gave the lie to that by learning to Leroc. (Actually, after my first lesson I ran outside in tears, feeling that I'd never get my feet to behave myself even in the slow-paced environment of the beginners class, all of whose members were far more accomplished than I was. But within weeks I was twirling around the rock-and-roll nights like a seasoned veteran.) Alas - my dancing career was to be short-lived because arthrisis in the knees cut in. But I can still sing and nobody's going to stop me, at least, not when they can't hear me.

And there's the rub. When I was young - about nine or ten I guess - I wanted to be in the junior school choir. My best friends were, and you got both kudos and Monday morings out of class if you were in the choir. They were in the church choir too, but my family didn't go to that church. Anyway, I wanted to be in the choir, but I wasn't allowed to be. The process of selection was this: Mr Pritchard, who wasn't my class teacher but was Welsh and Chapel, ran the choir and his selection was absolute. His selection method was to line everybody up along the wall, then he'd move along from child to child, sing a note, listen to the child singing the note back, and apportion to the choir on that basis. His decision was absolute. If like me you were shy and nervous and the note didn't come out properly, you'd had it. There was no second chance. Nor was there any opportunity to learn how to do it properly. There are two kinds of teacher, in my experience, who are licenced to pick out who they want to teach and who can bog off: music teachers and PE teachers. No music teacher and no PE teacher ever taught me anything except that I wasn't welcome on their patch and I wasn't going to get any kudos or even credit however willing I was.

So, as with so many things, if I want to sing I have to do it on my own. But that's not what I want; I want to do the things I enjoy in the company of other people who enjoy the same things, and I want to share the experience and the joy and, yes, the kudos. And not be pushed out of the way where I won't be an embarrassment. But the doors stay relentlessly locked...
enitharmon: (Default)
I went into NW Consumables this morning to ask about a replacement keyboard for my 'pooter. I wanted a clicky one, not a silent one (because I like my tools to feel responsive) and one on which the keys will fall under my fingers and not be jammed in a rectangular fashion in to the smallest space. I cited the example of the IBM PS2 keyboard of the 1980s. I was met with rolled eyes and a look that said "Grandma wants to buy a Gramophone."

I've been listening with half an ear to Radio 4's series on the "Jam Generation"; the young folks of limited experience (but in the cases of the thrusting young politicians under analysis, rich mummies and daddies to buy them influence) who now think they know all the answers. And as they lay into the inadequacies of the 'Baby Boomer' generation (that's my generation, folks, the generation that grew up in the shadow of war) I start to feel like an old buffer. And that just doesn't seem fair. Of course, the "Jam Generation" refers to Paul Weller's punk (or perhaps post-punk) band, which was in any case derivative of the popular music of the 1960s. But punk is something I've never been able to get my head round, and I'm forever hoping that somebody will set me straight and point out why my take on punk is wrong. But punk got off to a bad start by setting out to rubbish all the music I liked - Genesis, Pink Floyd, Soft Machine, Steely Dan, Frank Zappa, real performers who knew how to play real instruments and write lyrics that weren't full of bitterness about how the world owed the singer a living. A celebration of the dross, the thick and useless, at the expense of all that is good and worthwhile about life. The result of the Jam Generation is a world in which matters of the intellect are despised, where 'elitism' is a dirty word and populism is revered, where bone-headed oiks get paid obscene amounts of money for kicking a football about while professors of philosophy are treated with contempt, and anybody over fifty is past it. Ask Ming Campbell!

This reflection is also partly induced by a feeling I get in some places that writing grammatical sentences that start with a capital letter and use punctuation properly is somehow repressive (it's not, it's enabling). There are a number of people I otherwise respect who think that they are above the rules of grammar - I wonder if they might like to enlighten me too.
enitharmon: (Default)
It's not a cold. I had another fitful and feverish night last night. What I have is some kind of nasty chest infection and I've checked myself in with the Doc in about an hour. (Not Ruth, she's away. It's Dr Roberts, whom I've never met before I think, but I bet he's sick of that song!)

It all puts a bit of a damper on the fact that it's four years ago today that I went into Sainsbury's in Broad Street, Reading, with the intention of buying a pouch of Old Holborn, and walked out empty-handed. Didn't I do well! And it's a long time since I craved, too. In fact, when I think about it now I feel disgusted.
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I don't normally hold with mothers day because it's a creation of the marketing people and a ripoff (I prefer to keep my mother's flowers and chocolates for her birthday, not so far off).

But I rang my mum again this morning, although we had our regular Saturday chat, because it was that day, and because today is also the 31st anniversary of my father's death and I knew she'd be brooding about it. She's not one to admit it easily, but I'm sure she appreciated it.
enitharmon: (Default)
Feeling grotty still. I didn't sleep too well, or at least I had a turbulent night that felt more feverish than coldy. It didn't help that it was blowing up a real storm outside, wild and woolly even by Windy Walney standards. And I needed to drink an awful lot of water and of course that just went straight through me. (This was nothing to do with the large hot toddies I had before bed, I'm sure. And I'm sticking by that!)

Still had to go out to do some shopping. This necessarily included some chicken soup, albeit Vietnamese soup with noodles from the Polski Sklep on Rawlinson Street. I'm rather partial to that and I'm enjoying a bowl as I write.


Feb. 29th, 2008 05:48 pm
enitharmon: (Default)
Meh! That cold that was incubating yesterday came out with full malice in the night - sore throat, tight chest, muzzy head.

At least it hasn't gone to my sinuses this time. Not yet anyway. So it's the first old-school cold I've had in many years, and I'm not convinced it isn't worse.

I'm feeling miserable. TLC, please!
enitharmon: (Default)

The sun's shining and I decided that, come what may, I was going to cheer myself up with a long overdue hairdo. Mind you, in this town crawling with hairdressers it's a bum job finding one who can do you at short notice. Especially one not one fronted by a gum-chewing Gothette who looks you up and down as though you've just crawled out of the Ark. Anyway, I found one, and she's good, and she's very reasonably priced. I'm very loyal to a good hairdresser, I am.

I'm rotten at taking my own picture, though, and I could have done with a bit of polyfilla on my face and a good go at my bush eyebrows, but never mind.

Oh, and I've also taken steps to revive the business that seems to have lapsed into despondancy.
enitharmon: (Default)
demented wibblings )
enitharmon: (Default)
Right now I'm feeling under siege.

I'm being patronised from every direction: I'm islamophobic because I've questioned the view of Rowan Williams; I'm intellectually inferior because my degrees are from Liverpool/the Open University and not Oxford/Cambridge; I'm elitist because I don't think Harry Potter is the greatest literature ever; I'm illiberal because I support a woman for the White House.

Is it paranoia? Or has the world gone crackers? Or, indeed, is the world really against me?

Reassurance please - I'm feeling fragile.
enitharmon: (Default)
I decided to cheer myself up with a trawl through Debenham's sale, and treated myself to a couple of things. I was desperately in need of some new clothes as I start to look more and more like a bag lady.

One thing I wanted was a new hat, as my battered but much-loved black baker-boy that came from Zürich went walkabout over a year ago. Not just any old hat though; I know exactly what I want and can I get it? Look, I want what I want, not what the marketariat dictate that I ought to want, and I'm not one of those brainless ones who follows what the marketariat says. None of the marketariat ever asked my opinion!


Jan. 16th, 2008 09:34 pm
enitharmon: (Default)
In this year's quest to keep myself out of mischief, I've responded to an appeal by the Cumbria Wildlife Trust for volunteers. I really fancy being a conservation worker on Walney beach!

And I've made enquiries of the U3A. This is a tacit admission that I'm getting old, I guess, though I don't feel it.


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