It's Not The Tools...
View allAll Photos Tagged tactless
Regina/Evil Queen quotes from Once upon a time
"Oh please, I was torturing people back when you were still playing with puppies."
"Those two might be tactless morons but they couldn't magic their way out of a paper bag."
"Let me be clear, ladies. If you bring up my former sins around my son again, you'll find yourselves across that town line faster than you can say costume jewelry."
"Always a villain, even when I'm not."
It's a path I walk everyday
but sometimes it feels awkward
Familiar, yet I feel like a stranger
it's like that for me day by day
My friend who says
he's weary and tired these days
briefly smiles after a sigh
Somehow I grasp the loneliness he feels
so I just gaze at the vast sky for nothing
We are all full of mistakes
We're yet nameless wondering stars
Nothing, is your fault
At least I want to tell you this
You don't need to become amazing
Just love yourself as you are
Don't try to be harsh in making great efforts
Because however you are, I understand
Your journey continues day after day
I admire your courage
if you fall, lie down for a while
dream of your sea
My friend who says people are unfathomable
walking with the friend
Somehow I grasp the vagueness he feels
So I save words of consolation
Sometimes time tactlessly goes by in an unexpected way
I know it's not because of a lack of your ability
it can happen to anyone.
Must we all become something great?
Will that make us become happier?
I don't think so, but one this is for sure
You should never lose yourself
With one step you take now
I understand your fear and excitement
Lean on me if it gets too tough
For a while, remain as you are.
Don't hide your emotions
don't fear that you will seem weak.
Pains ebb and flow like season
you will grow stronger gradually.
Your bright days will come
adjective
lacking social grace, sensitivity, or acuteness; awkward; crude; tactless.
Synonyms: uncouth, gross, coarse, maladroit, clumsy, inept
Nothing says gauche more than rightwing Christian perverts who are inseminated with capitalistic excess. Perhaps it would be fun to see images that personify gauche. What say ye my friends?
I saw this in the shop window in town a week ago, and again yesterday. I was quite surprised that nobody had complained about it. Women, tied up and ready to be sold (the dress dolls really were for sale), but I found it a little tactless.
Please view in full size for the best effect.
i have been tagged by Talef... thnx hun...lol... ok 16 personal things about me... here goes:
1.Fiercely independent… I fight all my own battles
2.I don’t bite my finger nails but I do bite and pick my toe nails….. bad habit I know.. see pic
3.Stubborn, I never ask for help… actually I never ask for anything from anyone
4.I have been on the planet now for more than f f f four decades
5.Claustrophobic… like in a major way
6.I went to boarding school in England because it was the only place you could get a straight through flight to anywhere else in the world, which my parents needed as I would be traveling unaccompanied to visit with them in the holidays where ever they were.
7.I love fairy lights
8.Accident prone… always covered in bruises and scrapes
9.I love sucking coffee up through a tim-tam biscuit…. Hmm I love coffee… dble espresso!!
10.I live in t shirts….
11.I find it extremely difficult to confide in others, yet I have all the time in the world to listen to someone else, offer a shoulder, sympathy, advice, opinion or just an ear, and people do confide in me often.
12.I can turn my tongue upside down
13.Incredibly protective of my children
14.Frangipani is my favourite scent and flower
15.Oh i am also told I am tactless and open to the point of embarrassment.....but i never offend anyone deliberately, although I do manage to do that often.
16.I am terrified of the day I can no longer hold my pencil and draw
Rhythm tagged me and here i am stuck with putting up 16 things about me. If that's the case, this is possibly the best pic i would use to represent. Here is the list -
1. I love drama in life and over-react for most things
2. Colorful and full of plans (most of which seldom get executed)
3. I love coming home at the end of the day
4. Love framing things around me and hence the need for photography
5. I (still) love watching the nth reruns of Friends and love 'Big Bang Theory' and 'How i met your mother'
6. I love carrot cake and caramel pudding
7. I like sweeping landscapes and when on holiday tirelessly get out of bed in the wee hours to catch the sunrise
8. I am tactless for most part
9. I love food which is dressed up well
10. I am a little too over possessive about my little red dinky toy car
11. I like the way traveling rearranges my priorities in life, every once in a while
12. I love the open road
13. I hate carrying a tripod around, even though its very handy
14. I have no new year resolutions
15. i feel am on the way to becoming a fossil soon!
16. Every time i sit to make these lists, after a point i really begin to start judging myself
Now for the 16 i am tagging, Sneha, Navreet, Nihit Goyal, Gauri Bharat, Amarjeet Singh, Flickrascal (Aneesh), Paavani, Mahesh Gramprohit, Harshuu, Oreofuzzcat (John), Pyngodan, Vinay, Prateek Sharma, Aks (Akshay), Manav Gupta, Shuuro, Kunal. I think its a great way to know you all a wee bit better!
Sometimes life can make you feel like you're being split into a million pieces, but through it all, you are always there for me and keep me grounded. I love you Wyatt....there is just not enough ways for me to tell you....this pic is for you...
******************************************************************
So many people gonna say that they want you,
To try to get you thinking they really care,
But there's nothing like the warmth of the one
who has put in the time and you know she's gonna be there,
Back your border when he knows someone crossed it,
Don't let nobody put you down, who your with
Take the pain of protecting your name,
from the crutch to the cane to the highwire
I'm in love with a boy who knows me better,
Fell for the man just when I met him,
Took my sweet time when I was bitter,
Someone understands,
And he knows how to treat a lady right,
Give me that feeling every night,
Wants to make love when I wanna fight,
Now someone understand me,
I'm in love with a boy (I'm in love with)
Out the many broken backdoors and windows,
Through the valley of the love of the lost,
Is a hole that is cut through the souls falling down
from the thrones without leaving any windows,
But you drown in a piece for the moment,
The moment was over in time,
Then it's gone the hit and run the
tactless one has a short life
I'm in love with a boy who knows me better,
Fell for the man just when I met him,
Took my sweet time when I was bitter,
Someone understands,
And he knows how to treat a lady right,
Give me that feeling every night,
Wants to make love when I wanna fight,
Now someone understand me,
I'm in love with a boy (I'm in love with)
Gonna tell you what you do to think you
practice what you preach,
Now I know there's nothing we can't preach,
'cause the heart can't erase once it finds a
place to be warm and welcome,
To be held in shelter
I'm in love with a boy who knows me better,
Fell for the man just when I met him,
Took my sweet time when I was bitter,
Someone understands,
And he knows how to treat a lady right,
Give me that feeling every night,
Wants to make love when I wanna fight,
Now someone understand me
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Welcome to Quick Fics where VERY short mysteries are presented in 3 panels.
The first panel introduces the characters.
The second panel tells the story.
The third panel reveals a truth. (So, don't skip ahead if you want to figure it out for yourself.)
Spill the Wine (Two)
Det. Exposition: You all seem familiar with Rich Personage.
(This becomes narration, as the lounge vanishes, and a series of images appear. First, is Rich, displaying him at mansions, elite clubs, functions, televised appearances, and sometimes he is accompanied by a little girl, who grows to a 14 or 15 year old girl.)
Det. Exposition: And his daughter, Scion, who he was left to raise alone after the tragic drowning of his wife when they were vacationing in the Maldives.
Sanguine: (narration) Poor little thing. She was only about 5 or 6, right?
Salty: (narrarion) Poor little rich girl. We get it. What about the eyewitness?
Det. Exposition: (narration) Mr. Personage was having one of his typical star-studded soirées.
(A mansion at night, illuminated by external and internal lights, is surrounded by limos and ridiculously expensive personal automobiles. Inside, a lavish formal party is in full swing, and in a moderately-secluded corner, a lovely woman in an evening gown, wearing a pear-shaped diamond pendant in which a large, saltwater pearl was suspended, was confronting Rich.)
Diva Celeb: You can tell me whatever lie you want, Rich, but Benjamin has no reason to lie to me. He saw you kissing Gwen at Keys.
Rich Personage: That was nothing. We just bumped into each other there.
Diva: And Bird Street.
Rich: Everyone goes to Bird Street.
Diva: And Delilah.
Rich: Jealousy doesn't look good on you, babe.
Diva: I'm not a babe, and I'm not a fool. If you think you can screw around on me like one of your usual barely post-teen bimbos, think again. (She leans close to him, eyes narrowing) I know enough about you to make me the most popular guest on every talk show on both coasts, in between, and overseas.
Scion: (approaching from behind Diva) Daddy, Mr. Banks asked me to find you.
Diva: (turns on Scion) How exquisitely well-timed, dear. I suppose you'll get another scrumptious Hermès Birkin for this save?
Rich: Thank you, honey. Tell him I'll be right there.
(Scion glowers at Diva, who turns her back on the girl with obvious contempt.)
Rich: Diva, let's not fight. Whatever you think is going on, Benjamin is talking out of his gossiping ass. Stay the night, and we'll talk, all right?
Diva: It will take more than an Hermès Birkin to smooth things over, Rich. I'm so mad, I could strangle you.
Det. Exposition: (narration) Keep in mind, more than one person heard her say this, including Scion.
Sassy: (narration) I just LOVE Hermès Birkin! I might be willing to kill for one.
Sanguine: (narration) Don't be silly. Just sleep with somebody like Rich.
Salty: (narration) You see? Sanguine knows how to get an Hermès Birkin.
Steadfast: (clears throat, narration) I thought he was shot, not strangled.
Det. Exposition: (narration) The point was that she was overheard threatening his life. But his killer was seen -- by Scion. She's the key witness.
Salty: (narration) Now, I'm interested. What did she see?
Det. Exposition: (narration) She hadn't eaten much during the soirée, and went down to the kitchen to find something. On her way, she glanced down the hallway leading to her father's wing, and saw Diva.
(It's night inside the mansion, quiet, and Scion, clad in a stylish bathrobe, exits her bedroom, walks toward the sweeping double staircase, and pauses, peripheral vision catching movement down the long hallway to her right, where a figure is walking away from her.)
Scion: (narration) That's when I saw Diva walking toward Daddy's bedroom. She was wearing black loungewear, maybe Olivia von Halle, and that stupid pearl Daddy gave her. I just went down to the kitchen. Just after the door closed, I thought I heard a sort of "pop" sound, but nothing else. (narration sounds teary) If I'd known -- I mean, I didn't think, why would I think -- She killed him, didn't she? She killed my daddy!
Sassy: (narration) Poor girl.
Sanguine: (narration) She must have been scared, later, I mean.
Salty: (narration) I'm sure her daddy's money will help her recover.
Steadfast: (narration) Salty might be tactless, but Scion's been pretty outspoken about her disdain for "Daddy."
Salty: (narration) I don't know if Diva is your perp, dear detective, but I know she's not a witness.
Det. Exposition: (narration, sharply) What?
Sassy: (narration) She's right, darling. Scion's lying.
Sanguine: (narration, cheery) Yup, yup. Pants on fire and all that.
Steadfast: (narration) You need to have her removed as a witness.
(HOW do they know Scion is lying? When you have your theory, go to the next panel, where the answer will be revealed!)
Thank you to the cast:
Diva: Bailey
Rich: Dean
Scion:BSM
Salty: (vo) Bailey
Sassy: (vo) Seth
Steadfast: (vo) Erebus
Sanguine: (vo) TB
Det. Exposition: (vo) BSM
Costume and Hair Design: Bailey
Sorry for a crappy face shot. I was really busy today and by the time I was 1/3 done with my work it was nightime...
I'm pretty much started to hate what I'm doing, I'm irritable, I'm getting catty, I'm getting overly defensive. I sleep everywhere I go (I swear, even when I'm eating I can fall asleep)
I feel that ever since I entered this school I've changed for the worse. It makes you a more fucked up person. You got through so much shit, stress and drama that sometimes you change into the person you hate without really realizing it. ,
I used to love getting critique, my teachers used to say that they never met a student more willing to listen to criticism. But after I entered design school it started to irritate me. Well, depending on how the critique was phrased.
Sometimes critique sounds very rude and tactless. I've gone through harsh and at times, unreasonable critiques from lecturers.
Sometimes what they're saying is just "That's ugly, please re-do it." but they have to put you through at least 5 minutes of how ugly they think it is, and in front of the whole class. They don't even tell you how you can work on it to improve.
I'm so sick of this place, we work nearly 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, it changes you, it warps you into someone you don't want to be, now I finally understand why so many of my schoolmates quit.
1. You change (for the worse). 2. You get constantly backstabbed and bitched about. 3. You face unreasonable lecturers. 4. Your skin turns bad, you develop eye bags, you feel tired all the time 5. You don't get enough time to sleep, rest etc.
And yet all your hardwork doesn't ensure that you'll get a good grade because after all that hard work you can be just put down in front of the class.
3 more days of torture. Then freedom for a short while.
I can't wait.
I had thought about describing this one using the Weird Al song of the same name. I chose not to because I don't want to suffer the same fate as that of the guy who made such a tactless remark.
‘Somewhere Along The Way’ - [Special Series: 'Trails Of Life'.. ]
Whenever you think that your way would be to end.. Whenever you think you will not get even more.. or, if you're feeling a sense which shows you again that you are alone.. Stay where you are.. You sit quietly on.. wait a bit.. Take time just true..
Many people will pull you forward.. many even.. they hiss in cars and motorcycles to you by.. You will see many bored glances backward vernier heads in the front seats.. Explore some of you run and Dir. "Because you always run out there where others are, which are also just as well run only where all other".. they come into your presence, but you never positive close.. they cut across your environment in an uncomfortable distance.. are respectful and tactless as if they were alone in the world ..
Others you will see not only how remote stumble around, they will seize you and you feel the invisible contact, until then only venture very carefully.. Which looks genuine openness to the world for nature and your fellow man signal and you realize how they are in harmony with yourself ..
As you're moving close to other people? Do you now still, you have nothing to do and that your path is already too late? - ..‘Somewhere Along The Way’.. ;-)
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What makes one weak?
Why I ask this question so tactlessly? Simply because the perception of ones weaknesses can help a person to perform his goals and realize a cherished dream. The analogy is rather simple. If you know your strengths, you can easily figure out the areas of knowledge, where you feel yourself confident. You start having a chance to develop yourself. We often make our life choices paying attention to our strengths, for instance, when we choose career, take part in competitions, enter into argument with somebody etc. Your strength allow you to feel yourself a happy and successful person. It gives you a sense of full life. But, strength is always like that - forceful and convincing, but what about weak sides of character?
Weaknesses are also important. When you finally know your strength, take your time and analyze your weaknesses. It is the key for understanding and excepting yourself. Don't try to avoid the weaknesses of your character. Don't try to create a picture of omnipotent. Sooner or later they come into surface, usually in the most awkward situations, leading to a complete frustration. Don't try to limit your activity to only your strengths, let your weakness display. Analyze, make a plan on weaknesses liquidation.
As any human being I also have strong and weak sides of character. Among the weak one I would definitely name excessive sensitivity, mistrustfulness and a set of fears (oh, how one can go without them?). But having weakness doesn't mean being a weak man. The only thing that it means is the need of self-work.
Be honest with yourself. You can listen to the opinions of people, but you have to remember, no one knows you better that you yourself. The answer to the question 'what makes one weak' is pretty obvious. It is we ourselves, our idleness, reluctance to work and lack of self-faith.
| blog
Aiden bit his lip while staring anxiously at the distant clocktower from his perch upon Leon's Claw's deck. The clock determined that he still had about fifteen minutes before he should leave. He was to meet Vincent at three o'clock, but he'd found himself ready quickly and with extra time to kill. His mind was on Vincent, eager to see him again.
It had been a few days since he'd received a short letter from Vincent. In the letter, Vincent had explained that he was doing quite well and was feeling ready to have visitors again. He had invited Aiden over, today in fact, which was why Aiden was staring at the clock. He'd sent a note back to him agreeing to the time and date and now here he was. After five days of not seeing Vincent with his own eyes, it was like he was unable to fully relax anymore, as if a touch more on edge. He couldn't really explain the feeling other than needing to be near him, to know he was safe and well with his own eyes.
Aiden licked his lips and shifted slightly as he reached into his pocket for the letter Vincent had sent him. He opened and smoothed it out, the paper showing evidence of having been handled a lot over the past few days. He looked at the familiar writing of Vincent's invitation and wished time would get here faster! Feeling silly, Aiden tucked the paper back into his pocket and looked back at the clock. He might as well just go now and just walk along at a slower pace than usual. At least he wouldn't be sitting here staring at the clock! And so as soon as he made sure once again that he had everything he needed, he did just that!
Try as he may, Aiden ended up making it to Vincent's much earlier than anticipated even though he thought he was taking his time. When he passed by a clock-maker a few minutes earlier he’d seen that he was nearly twenty minutes early. He didn't want to be rude and knock too soon! So he stared up at the building and sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Aiden! You're early!"
Vincent's mildly surprised voice called out to him from behind not even a half minute later! Aiden turned to see Vincent and (unsurprisingly, he thought) Damien approaching from the opposite direction he'd come. His stomach fluttered to life with butterflies as he saw Vincent's eyes light up! He even had a small smile on his lips! So he was happy to see him too! Beside Vincent, Damien nodded amiably, hoisting up the two boxes in his arms better. Vincent had a small, light bag of fresh bread and a few other groceries in his hand. Aiden grinned at his crewmates and waved as the duo approached.
"I know. Sorry. I can wait out here a bit longer if you need more time."
"No, no! Come on up! I have something I wanted to show you! Damien, come on!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming. How are you, Aiden?"
"Fine, thanks. Yourself?"
"I've got nothing to complain about. After you."
"Thank you."
Vincent had already pushed the door open as the other two greeted each other and began his trek up the three flights of stairs to his flat. He could hear Aiden and Damien making small talk behind him; something about the weather so he tuned them out. Instead, he focused on pushing himself up the stairs. Thankfully, the pain wasn't so bad today.
Once at the top, Vincent withdrew his key and let them all into his flat. He held the door open for the two, nodding at their echoed "Thanks!" before closing the door behind them.
"Would you put those on the desk, Damien, please? Thank you. Aiden, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea or fresh water? I have mead if you'd prefer. Damien? Want anything?"
"I'll take some water, thank you," Aiden replied to which Damien added, "Same. Thanks!"
While Vincent got busy setting his groceries down and getting his friends some water, Aiden turned to glance around the small flat. His gaze met Damien's who smiled slightly at him as he set down the boxes. Aiden smiled back then slid his hands into his pockets.
"Did you guys go to the market?" Aiden asked after a moment longer of silence. Damien nodded and replied, "Yes. And we had several errands to run together this morning after our breakfast." Damien made his way across the room to join Vincent in the kitchen and added, "We got a lot accomplished."
"That's good," Aiden replied. He felt unsure what else to say and it seemed Damien decided their conversation was ending anyway. He'd noticed lately that Damien's interactions with him had changed. But at the same time, maybe it was all in his head.
Up until a few weeks ago, Damien had been one to sometimes make him feel coddled; even a touch belittled. However, he'd always seemed to genuinely want to help and Aiden didn't really think he meant to irritate him. Damien was a more worldly man and experienced crewmate so Aiden had always taken into consideration what he had to say. While Damien still did those things that make him feel that way, something had shifted and Aiden couldn't quite put his finger on it. It didn't seem like it was THAT that was getting to him.
But as he watched Damien stride up alongside Vincent and begin helping him with the groceries, Aiden felt a spike of irritation. Of course, Vincent was capable of putting away his own groceries, but if he had offered his own assistance it would have been him, not Damien, spending the extra minute with Vincent, smiling and standing close together.
Now that he was thinking about it, during Vincent's recovery the last few weeks, it seemed every time Aiden had the chance to spend time with him, Damien was somehow a part of it, even if for a short time. And he certainly hadn't forgotten the few times Damien had made tactless comments in Aiden's presence. It never failed to make Aiden feel a little unwanted.
Aiden had to mentally slap himself. Physically, he ran his hands over his face as he quickly tried to reason this out with himself. Why WAS Damien working him up so much?! He lowered his hands and gazed over at the pair and reminded himself that Damien and Vincent were close friends and had been for years. Aiden had only known Vincent a few short months. Damien was the overprotective sort; especially when it came to Vincent. And Vincent did want Damien around after all. He'd never shown any indication that Damien's presence was unwelcome. He would have said so if he felt otherwise. That was just the kind of man Vincent was.
But as much as Aiden tried to reason it out, he still felt that brush of jealousy that he couldn't shake. He didn't want to feel this way but he couldn't help it! In light of Aiden's romantic inclination towards Vincent, he figured that these feelings towards Damien were a part of it. Maybe he was just overreacting and looking more into it because of that...
"Hey, are you okay?"
Aiden blinked and looked down at Vincent who was standing there with a cup of water offered out to him. Vincent was looking a little concerned as he gazed up at him with that furrowed brow. Aiden felt himself smile softly. He brushed his fingers against Vincent's as he reached for the cup; this time intentionally. That familiar warmth moving through his fingers at their touch felt really nice. It was almost electric! He found he really liked that feeling. His heart thumped harder in his chest and butterflies filled his stomach again.
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
Vincent didn't look quite convinced, worry written in his features. Still their fingers touched, both holding the cup. Aiden smiled a little more genuinely before assuring him, "Mhm. I was just thinking about something I need to sort out later. Thanks for the water."
Vincent gazed at him a moment longer before he released the cup to Aiden and lowered his hand with a quiet, "You're welcome." He wet his lips and continued to gaze up at him as Aiden held the cup in his hands though he didn't drink. No, Aiden was still gazing into his eyes and time seemed to stand still.
Vincent, too, had felt a warmth spreading through his fingers at their touch. For an insane, fleeting moment he had wanted to keep his hand there to keep feeling it, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Yet he felt himself transfixed on Aiden's gorgeous eyes and time seemed to stand still.
"Vincent, didn't you want to show Aiden something?"
Damien's voice interrupted their moment and Vincent found himself blinking. Then he suddenly remembered that he was right! He waved his hand for Aiden to follow him and exclaimed, "Yes! Aiden, come here!"
Aiden fought back a sigh and instead smiled for his friend and began to follow him towards his bedroom without even a glance towards Damien. Damien waited a moment before following behind the two of them to come see what was going on.
Vincent led the way and went left towards his wardrobe where there were a few boxes and crates which Aiden didn't recognize. They weren't there a few days ago. What were they? It seemed he was about to find out! Was it him or was he hearing a faint, muffled buzzing sound coming from the boxes? Though, as he glanced over everything he couldn't see anything that might have been giving off the sound. But something familiar caught his eye!
"Is that my wrench?!"
Aiden looked genuinely surprised as he stared at the red, rusted large wrench sitting there right on top of one of the crates. It had to be his! It had the same rust marks and dents right there along the handle! He blinked and looked at Vincent who gave him a little smirk and a small shrug.
"What can I say? It saved my life twice. I've become attached to it."
Vincent reached out and took the wrench and held it out to Aiden to take with that little smirk still upon his lips. Aiden blinked then found himself laughing softly despite himself. He took the wrench and held it in both of his hands and gripped it firmly.
"Thank you. I've become quite fond of it, too."
"You're welcome."
"But...how? When?"
"Hm. I told you I would take care of unfinished business, yes? So I did. And now you have your wrench back."
Their eyes met and in that moment Aiden understood that there were just some things Vincent was just not going to speak of. He recalled how the last time he'd seen Vincent, he'd instructed Aiden to let him handle any loose ends regarding his capture and to not worry about it anymore. And now Aiden understood this was part of whatever that all meant. He supposed Vincent expected him to accept it similarly to how Bernadette had done regarding her cousin's activities. Despite how he felt about it, he found himself smiling at his friend anyway.
"Is this what you wanted to show me?"
"No, it's not."
"It's not?"
Vincent chuckled and Aiden thought he looked quite pleased with himself. "While taking care of business, I happened across something that I thought you might find interesting." He placed his hands on top of a small crate about chest height before grinning cheekily at Aiden and demanding, "Close your eyes!"
Aiden blinked before he chuckled and shrugged and did as he requested. "They're closed," he promised him as if Vincent couldn't see for himself. It seemed Vincent was satisfied ‘cause he gave a small chuckle in response. Aiden heard a crate lid being lifted and suddenly the somewhat shadowy room was lit up! The soft buzzing was immediately more clear and pronounced.
"Whoa," Damien uttered behind him which made Aiden fidget as he became even more eager to see whatever this was! Vincent gave a small grunt and set something slightly heavy down on top of a crate. Then his voice told him, "Okay! Open your eyes!"
When Aiden did, he slowly opened them and blinked a few times as he pushed past the blinding, pale blue light. When his vision returned to him, he saw that Vincent was showing him a lantern which was clearly the source of the light.
Vincent's gaze was locked on Aiden's expression. While he kept a calm exterior, inside he was eager to see Aiden's reaction to such a rare specimen! Was he going to be as excited as he hoped?
Aiden gave out a loud gasp and his jaw dropped in surprise as it immediately registered what he was seeing! This was the largest piece of Fulgora's Eye he'd ever seen! Was this for real?! Was he dreaming?!
"I can't believe it! I've never seen one so big!"
He moved forward then leaned down to inspect with wide eyes. His fingers gently brushed against the lantern before he looked up at Vincent, eyes still wide. He needed details! God, he hoped Vincent would divulge something! Anything!
"How?!"
Vincent couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him at Aiden's insistence. He grinned a bit and ran his hands over his hips and gave a small shrug with an air of bashfulness.
"I came across it while taking care of business the other evening and it was left unattended so-"
"You're joking!"
"I assure you I'm not."
Aiden was astounded! He assumed Vincent had returned to the tower since he'd collected his wrench for him. Was that possibly where he'd found the Fulgora's Eye and the rest of whatever were in these crates? Before Aiden could decide on what to say next, Damien spoke up behind him and asked, "So...what is it?"
Aiden glanced over his shoulder and grinned at him.
"Fulgora's Eye!"
"Fulgora's-? Wait. Isn't that what your lantern is powered by?"
"Uh huh! But this one is MUCH bigger! And the quality is incredible! Pete's powered by a teeny, tiny piece of lowest grade! I mean, something like this is like- I mean just LOOK at it! It's exquisite!"
And so Damien did. He approached and leaned down so he was side by side with Aiden. He blinked at it and stared for a long moment before glancing over at Aiden with a touch of uncertainty.
"What am I looking for exactly?"
Aiden huffed at him exasperatedly which drew a snort from Vincent (who was feeling amused at this point). Aiden looked back at the lantern and pointed out along the outside as he explained to Damien, "See how you can see the colors so clearly around the edges? All those vibrant blues and purples and greens? Remember I showed you Pete's a couple weeks back? His is a low grade piece so it doesn't have all these colors and the base color is more subdued. The more colors and light, the better quality it is."
As Aiden explained all this and then more to Damien, Vincent watched the younger man and how he seemed to just thrive and enjoy talking about Fulgora's Eye and seemed on the verge of launching into a full blown lecture. Aiden loved what he did and he could see more than the financial value in such an important piece like this. It made Vincent admire Aiden even more. And as he listened, Vincent found himself smiling softly. It made him feel happy to see Aiden so lit up and excited over something like this; more like his normal self. It was a beautiful thing.
"...and you could even break it apart into smaller pieces and use it for different things! It's what I'd do!"
"Something like this could change your entire life," Vincent thought aloud to Aiden. "You could live lavishly ‘til the end of your days. Not only you, but future generations of yours to come as well. You wouldn't be tempted to just sell it?" He quirked his brow at Aiden which gave the younger man the impression he was being assessed.
Aiden smiled sheepishly and shrugged as their eyes met. "Well, if I'm honest, if I had something like that in my possession of course I would want to keep a small piece for myself: enough to sustain me and my own comfortably for the rest of our lives so we can do what we love and have some put away. I'd be a madman to pass that up, but the rest of it? No, I'd be using it in my craft. If I can make something like Pete come to life with such a tiny piece, just imagine what I can do with something like this!"
"I don't want to imagine. I want you to show me."
"...Show...you..?"
"You're the kind of man who is honest. You know the value of a treasure like this, yet you see more in its worth than something as simple as gold. I know you'd make good use of it. So, if you swear to me that you will do as you said you will, then it's yours."
Damien inhaled sharply and grumbled behind him, but right now Aiden didn't hear nor care.
Aiden felt his heart thump hard in his chest. Was Vincent serious?! Everything about him right now indicated it was so. Vincent seemed to really want to do this for him, to give him this. Was this a dream?! No, he knew it wasn't but he almost couldn't believe it!
Aiden nibbled his lower lip then straightened as well and stared right into Vincent's eyes. His teeth released his lip as he broke into a soft smile and reached out with his hand and extended his pinky towards Vincent.
"The pinky promise is the most sacred of promises, yes?"
Vincent's brow quirked up at Aiden with a touch of surprise before responding with all seriousness, "The most absolute sacred. I don't take pinky promises lightly, good Sir."
"Nor do I," Aiden agreed. He leaned in a touch closer and swore, "I promise and give you my word."
Vincent stared back up at Aiden for a moment longer before reaching out and hooking his finger with his. It was just a simple touch of their fingers, but Aiden's touch felt warm, pleasant, tingly against Vincent's skin. Despite the calluses on his fingers, his touch was soft. It felt...kinda nice after all.
"I look forward to seeing what you do with it."
"Am I dreaming? Is it really mine, Vincent?"
Aiden released Vincent's finger then turned his adoring gaze back upon the Fulgora's Eye as Vincent laughed softly and folded his arms over his chest. "No, you're not dreaming," he assured him and gently patted his shoulder. "It's really yours."
"I can't wait!" Aiden was saying as he lifted the lantern and brought it close for inspection. There was a clearing of a throat beside him and he became aware of Damien's presence once again.
"So, why don't you just go get your tools then come back?"
Aiden grinned at Damien before glancing back at the lantern again. "I would love to, but I know I don't have all the necessary equipment yet. I'll need to go to a mechanic shop and the library. Probably a general store, too. I'll need something to store the smaller pieces in as well. I know! I'll just go tomorrow and then hopefully be able to start playing with it the day after, once I'm sure I have everything! Besides," Aiden finished with a cheeky grin cast in Damien's direction, "Vincent and I had plans. However, you both are welcome to watch when I do take it apart!"
"I want to see!" Vincent agreed a little more eagerly than he'd anticipated. He cleared his throat softly as Aiden grinned more beside him and looked a little pleased with himself. "Damien, you should come watch! I know you're curious, too! Don't deny it!"
"I'm not denying it!" Damien replied with a small chuckle. "Fine, I'll come along. What plans do you have today anyways that has you so busy?"
Aiden glanced over at Vincent curiously. Had Vincent had anything in mind when he'd invited Aiden over? They hadn't discussed plans other than Vincent simply inviting Aiden over for company to presumably show him this. He really hoped there would be more time spent together today. While he was grateful for the time right now, he really wanted to spend some time alone with him.
Vincent's eyes flicked towards Aiden with a slight quirk in the corner of his mouth, a mischievous smile peeking. His gaze returned to his best friend with a nonchalant shrug and responded, "I suppose we shall see how the rest of the afternoon goes."
Thankfully, it seemed, Vincent wasn't ready to get rid of him yet! And even better, Aiden thought, Vincent walked around Aiden and reached out and patted Damien's back and began to guide him to turn towards the door and announced, "And while I enjoy your company, mon ami, I did promise my time to Aiden for the rest of the evening."
Behind them Aiden was grinning hugely. He felt so damn pleased with how this day was turning out after all! Eagerly, he set down the Fulgora's Eye back inside its crate. With a final longing gaze at his new treasure, he set the lid down with much anticipation for what was to come! When he rejoined Vincent and Damien a minute later, the duo were saying their goodbyes.
"I'll be seeing you soon, Damien."
"Walk me down?"
"Hm. Sure. I'll be right back, Aiden."
Aiden nodded to Vincent, then looked at Damien and smiled slightly. "See you soon. Take care."
"You as well," Damien replied with a slight nod before turning and sliding his arm around Vincent's shoulders as they turned to descend the stairs together.
Aiden licked his lips and followed them out, standing by the front of the flat and leaned against the wall. He wanted to be here to make sure Vincent wasn't over-extending himself. Vincent had just been out and about all morning, and now he was walking up and down the steps again. He was worried. Something felt off. Aiden just...had a feeling he would be needed but he didn't know what for. It was only a minute later that Vincent's voice carried up from the stairwell below quite clearly.
"You know, Damien, this means you CAN go to your family reunion after all," Vincent was telling Damien as they made it to the bottom floor and stood in front of the main door.
"I'd rather not. Your company is much more agreeable."
"Heh. And deny your dear Aunt Victoria the pleasure of discovering that you are still yet to be married?"
Vincent grinned darkly up at his friend who scoffed and folded his arms unamusedly.
"Admit it. You need me here."
Not phased by his friend's unamused expression, Vincent reached out and graciously opened the door for Damien. He continued on with a much more pleasant grin, eyes lit in merriment. Only this time, he spoke in a higher pitched voice as if imitating an elderly woman. It seemed he was in quite a mood!
"Why Damien, you're such a strapping young lad!"
"Vincent-"
"You need to find yourself a nice young woman," Vincent continued in his high pitched voice and unceremoniously reached out and pushed Damien towards the open door, "and settle down. In fact-"
"This isn't very nice of you, you know!"
"I never claimed to be nice! You just decided that all on your own!"
With a chuckle, Vincent finished pushing Damien out the door and followed him down the steps towards the street. Ah, that had been funny!
"And why should I go?!" Damien demanded suddenly and loudly as he turned on his heel. He straightened his shoulders as he leveled his gaze at Vincent. "I'd be gone for two long weeks! What if something bad happens to one of us while I'm gone?"
All signs of humor were gone from Vincent's face as if it had slapped it right off of him. Indeed, he felt as if he'd been slapped! His lips curved down into a soft frown and his brow furrowed. Before he could recover and say anything, Damien took a step closer, his voice and expression softening.
"What if I'm needed here? Don't you want me to be here, Vincent? Just in case something happens?"
Vincent's gaze lifted and he met Damien's imploring eyes. And in the corner of his eye, he could see that other folks on the street were starting to notice the commotion. Swallowing hard, Vincent took a slightly shaky breath and replied, "You know I want you here. But it's important to your sister." With a stronger voice, he encouraged Damien, "She's been asking you to come for years, Damien. Now you have the chance to finally do this. You should go."
"Vincent, what if something happens to me?"
"Damien, please-"
"I would be gone for two weeks!" Damien reiterated. "How much bhang have you had today, anyway? You must still be intoxicated. Think about it, Vincent! It would not be wise for you to be alone for so long."
Vincent's eyes lowered slightly and he gave a reluctant sigh. Already, Damien could see Vincent was starting to see reason. He gave a reassuring smile and opened his mouth to speak to Vincent once again but was suddenly cut off by Aiden's intruding voice cutting in as bold as brass:
"He won't be alone. But that's besides the point. Vincent is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He doesn't need to be coddled."
Emerging from behind the door, Aiden's eyes sought out Damien's with a coldness in his expression that Damien hadn't witnessed before. Damien's lips curved into a sneer as he snapped, "Aiden, you have no business in this conversation!"
Choosing to ignore Damien, Aiden stepped down from the small staircase to stand before Vincent who had turned, surprised. Aiden gazed down at his beloved captain and his expression softened and filled with empathy. Vincent was staring up at him with his lips pressed in a thin line and hurt in his eyes. But it wasn't because of Aiden, no. It had been Damien. Damien had sparked and triggered Vincent's traumas and Aiden knew this. He'd heard everything. That had been a manipulative move on Damien's part, he'd felt. Aiden had never seen Vincent publicly come close to breaking his composure; not like this.
"Aiden, leave us and get back upstairs!" Damien growled at the younger man. But it was Vincent who responded instead. And with it came Vincent's quiet, commanding Captain's voice that would permit no room for argument.
"Go home, Damien," Vincent commanded as turned around to face Damien, squaring his shoulders and giving him an even expression. Damien looked completely flabbergasted!
"Why me?! Why don't you send HIM home so you and I can talk?!"
"This has nothing to do with Aiden. I simply do not wish to discuss this with you right now."
Damien stared directly back into Vincent's eyes as if trying to stare him down. Surely, Vincent was not being serious?! After several seconds, he realized that Vincent was, indeed, quite serious. Grinding his teeth, Damien spat out, "Fine! I see how it is! You're choosing him."
"What?!" both Vincent and Aiden exclaimed, but Damien offered no further explanation. Instead, he turned on his heel and left with an angry snarl of "Move!" to a few people in his way. They all quickly jumped out of his way to avoid being bumped angrily into.
Vincent stood there on the curb, staring after Damien. What...had just happened?! Sure, he and Damien had had their disputes before but never had it escalated like this! Once Damien was out of sight, Vincent turned to go back inside to hide and process all this...only to find himself face to face with Aiden who looked as confused and upset as he was.
'Fuck,' Vincent thought silently. Avoiding Aiden's eyes, Vincent stared at his chin instead and tucked his hands behind his back as he spoke in a slightly emotionless voice, "Thank you for wanting to help, but I'm fine. Damien's fine. We're fine. We'll get it sorted and talked out. Forgive me, but I find myself no longer well enough for company."
"Of course. I understand," Aiden replied, disappointed but willing of course. Vincent nodded appreciatively then looked down and began to move past Aiden to head back upstairs and try to forget any of this was happening. He'd figure things out with Damien later, but all the elation of the day was long gone. He was ready to be done with the day already and just hide. It had started off all so wonderfully today...
Aiden had made it down to the street curb already and he could hear the door closing behind him. Suddenly something came to him and he whirled around and called out, "Vincent!"
Vincent had the door nearly halfway closed when Aiden had called to him. He paused and turned to face Aiden once again. Still, he didn't meet his eyes. What could Aiden want from him now?
"Yes?"
"Please promise me."
"Promise you what, Aiden?"
"Look at me."
And Vincent, despite himself, did. He took a deep breath then slowly lifted his gaze to meet Aiden's. He was unsure what he'd see there. But he saw that he really DIDN'T have anything to worry about. There was no judgment in Aiden's face; simply concern.
"Promise me that you will take care of yourself?" Aiden licked his lips nervously as he tried to get the words out. He really didn't want to say the wrong thing but he wanted Vincent to not drown himself in his sorrows the way he had done in the past, with alcohol. "Please be kind to yourself."
Vincent stared at him for a moment before he actually stepped out once more and closed the door behind him. Aiden felt his nerves flare to life as Vincent proceeded to walk down the steps to stand before Aiden and stared up at him without a word. Then after a moment, he said softly but sincerely, "I promise."
Aiden smiled softly and gave a small nod. That was enough for him. He smiled a little more and replied, "Good. Then I will be seeing you soon, Captain. If you change your mind and would like some company or if you're needing a distraction...you know where I'll be."
Vincent watched as Aiden turned to leave. As he watched Aiden's departing backside, Vincent turned to head back inside. He wet his lips and felt an unpleasant ache settling into the pit of his stomach. He began to realize that maybe he didn't want to be alone after all; but not for just anyone's company. But maybe that would be more reason to let him go back to Leon Claw?
"You're not going to make me pinky promise?" Vincent blurted suddenly. Aiden, though surprised, turned and grinned back at Vincent. Why wasn't Vincent just letting him go back to Leon's Claw? Did he not want to say goodbye after all?
"You are a man of your word. I trust you. Besides, I know you can do this."
"Oh. Well...thank you."
Vincent wrapped his arms around his own abdomen as he gazed across the way at Aiden who was waiting almost expectantly for something else. Why wasn't Aiden leaving?! Oh, right...he'd called the man back to talk to him but now that was done with right? Feeling suddenly uncharacteristically nervous, Vincent gave a small nod and bid Aiden farewell once more.
"Well...see you soon."
Aiden chuckled and replied, "Very soon. Be well, Vincent."
And this time Vincent did let Aiden leave. He watched the young man depart before turning to head back upstairs and thought of his young friend. Even in some of the worst times, it seemed, Aiden was still able to find ways to make Vincent smile; to feel lighter and less weighed down.
Once back up in his flat, Vincent went right up to the cabinet where he stored his bottles of alcohol and grabbed all three of them down. Without another thought, he began to empty them down the drain.
Aiden believed in him and he wanted to have that belief in himself, too. While he was doing this for himself, whether he wanted to admit it or not, Aiden's approval was something of significance to him. Oh, what an enigma in his life, Aiden was!
....
NEXT PART:
www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/52793881880
To read the rest of the story, here's the album link:
www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/albums/72157717075565127
***Please note this is a BOY LOVE (BL/yaoi/gay) series. It is a slow burn and rated PG13!***
Special thank you to Vin Aydin Raven-Mysterious for collaborating with me on this series and co-starring as The Captain!
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To mark VE day I thought I'd post some pictures of these 1:35 military models that I completed recently.
It might seem tactless in the extreme to show pictures of Soviet WW2 equipment in view of current events in Ukraine and the barbarity of the Russian attack and behaviour of their forces.
However we would do well to recall that it was in Ukraine that much of the fighting on the Eastern Front took place, and it was in Kharkov, now Kharkiv, that much of the land force hardware for the USSR was designed and constructed. We should also remember that huge numbers of Ukrainians died directly in the battles against Germany, were murdered during the German occupation, or died as forced labourers deported to various parts of the Reich.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Coloured leaves? Sunlight? That's completely unexpected. Never seen that done before."
The first sun wheel was getting a bit too big for it's boots. After getting all that attention a few weeks back it's been swanning around the house making demands and muttering about how "no-one understands me, its tough being a celebrity."
Well I had to bring him down a peg or two so I made him an older sister to slap him around a bit. There has been a marked improvement, you'll be happy to know, he has even brushed his hair and doesn't only converse in grunts and frowns now.
I did some travelling for work earlier this week and put some extra hours in. As Friday and the weekend are set fair I left work early and got home just before lunch. My partner said to me "so what are you going to do this afternoon?"
"Land art of course" I replied with a grin. This was met with a frown. I guess tactless enthusiasm for a fair weather weekend wouldn't go down well with someone who works Friday afternoons and evenings and Saturday mornings! Especially after we went out yesterday evening and collected a bounty of beautiful coloured leaves that she then lovingly arranged on the dining room table. I'll be having them I thought! I guess there is someone else round here who needs slapping around a bit.
This was constructed the same way as before using hazel, leaves from several different shrubs, reed grass to divide the circle and thorns to pin it all together. The leaves themselves dictated the form. I only had a few larger leaves so those went in the middle, the rest were much smaller and so demanded to be put into smaller frames. Also the colours available were more orange, red and brown with only a few yellow leaves collected and the green leaves were fresh and so had to be used sparingly as they quickly wilted in the strong sun.
Other land art lessons learnt today.
1) The sun moves! No, really it does! Banks of cloud kept rolling past and when the sun reappeared I had to keep moving the sunwheel forward so it wasn't in the shade. As I have explained before land art is very "deep and meaningful" and I think I might be onto something with this sun movement thing, I reckon that might explain what happens at night.
2) It is never, ever the right temperature. It is only ever too hot or too cold. Today the sun was very strong and it was far too warm for anyone other than lizards and Californians. I blame meteorologists. Oh and the banks. And politicians.
Have a nice weekend everyone!
The grey butcherbird was first described by the English ornithologist John Latham under the binomial name Lanius torquatus. This is the eastern form, perched on a flowering cherry in the garden.
The term butcherbird was first recorded in Colonial use by George Caley during his sojourn in the Colony of NSW 1800-10, under the patronage of Sir Joseph Banks. Caley was a difficult, vain, tactless character, of whom Banks observed, "had he been a gentleman, he would have been shot long ago in a duel." Nevertheless Caley demonstrated that the term 'butcherbird' did not arise in Australia - it had been used in England since the 17th century for the Shrikes (Laniidae) from their habit of storing prey on thorns, a trait shared by the Australian butcherbirds (Frazer and Grey, Australian Bird Names, 2013).
In the local Gundungurra language his name is 'goorangboon'. (Kohen in Blue Mountains Dreaming 1st ed, Stockton ed. 1993)
Historically, the cracticines – currawongs, Australian magpie and butcherbirds – were seen as a separate family Cracticidae and, according to the 2018 Clements List, they still are. With their 1985 DNA study, Sibley and Ahlquist recognised the close relationship between the woodswallows and the butcherbirds, and placed them in a Cracticini clade, now the family Artamidae.
Cracticus is a genus of butcherbirds native to Australasia. They are large songbirds, being between 30 and 40 cm (12–16 in) in length. Their colour ranges from black-and-white to mostly black with added grey plumage, depending on the species. They have a large, straight bill with a distinctive hook at the end which is used to skewer prey. They have high-pitched complex songs, which are used to defend their essentially year-round group territories: unlike birds of extratropical Eurasia and the Americas, both sexes sing prolifically.
The name is from the Ancient Greek 'kraktikos' meaning "noisy" or "clamorous", and Latin 'torquis' meaning "adorned with a neck chain or collar". Not exactly the best description of the pure, fluting notes of the butcherbirds.
Links:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grey_butcherbird
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butcherbird
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cracticus
Interestingness 317: 12-21-2008
I am writing to let you know that I have a concern regarding Mr. Brown Pelican's tactless catch-phrases. Mr. Pelican's methods are much subtler now than ever before. Mr. Pelican is more adept at hidden mind control and his techniques of social brainwash are much more appealingly streamlined and homogenized. It is imperative that all of us in this community raise several issues about his intrusive ventures that are frequently missing from the drivel that masquerades for discourse on this topic. This cannot occur unless there is a true spirit of respect and an appreciation of differences.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Tonight however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham, the heir, their eldest son Leslie, and his wife Arabella. Lettice, her fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, and his recently widowed sister returned from France, Clemance Pontefract, are visiting the Chetwynd family for Christmas and have stayed on to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them as well before heading off in a few days’ time to Rippon Court, Sir John’s vast ancestral estate in Bedfordshire, where he, Clemance and Lettice all have business.
Old enough to be Lettice’s father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.
Christmas has been and gone, and with it, Lettice’s elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), her husband Charles and their children and Lettice’s Aunt Eglantine, leaving the house emptier and significantly quieter, especially in the absence of the children. It is New Year’s Eve 1925, and nearly midnight as we find ourselves in the very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings where Lettice has gathered with her fiancée and future sister-in-law, her father, mother, Leslie, Arabella and the parents of her oldest childhood chum, Gerald Bruton, Lord and Lady Bruton. An eight course New Year’s Eve dinner prepared by the Chetwynd’s cook, Mrs. Casterton, and the Glynes kitchen staff, has been consumed, and the party have repaired to the drawing room to enjoy champagne, wine and for the more daring, cocktails. The gilded chinoiserie rococo galleried table has been moved to in the midst of the sumptuous drawing room by Bramley, the Chetwynd’s beloved butler, and he has covered it in glasses and bottles of alcohol, ice and soda syphons for his master, mistress and guests. A bottle of champagne from the Glynes’ well stocked cellar which has been chilling in a silver coolers is almost empty as the New Year looms.
“Oh, I am sorry to hear you won’t be staying in the county for Twelfth Night* celebrations, Sir John.” Lady Gwenyth remarks sadly. “Such a pity! Mrs. Maingot’s Glynes Village Players are really rather excited about their Twelfth Night performance this year.”
“Even though I am a relative newcomer to the district, Lady Gwenyth, having only acquired Fonengil Park last century,” Sir John replies with his nose crumpling in distaste as he gesticulates with his highball glass of hock and seltzer in his right hand. “One thing I do know from my experience of the Glynes Village Players, is that the more excited they are about their performance, the ghastlier it is sure to be!” He pulls an overexaggerated face of mock horror. “I shall be only too glad to be far away from Mrs. Maingot and her amateur dramatics.”
“Oh,” Lady Gwenyth replies with both a sad and startled face in response to Sir John’s harsh remarks. “I rather enjoy their performances each year, Sir John.”
“Well, I’d hardly compare their amateur dramatics to the plays produced in London’s West End, Lady Gwenyth.” Sir John retorts smugly, before sipping from his glass.
“Yes… well,” Lady Gwyneth says with distain as she takes a sip of her own champagne, peering with repugnance over the top of her glass with beady eyes at Sir John in his smart Jermyn Street** tailored set of tails, white dinner vest and bow tie, a large Glynes hot house red rose in full bloom serving as a rather overly garish boutonnière*** in his lapel. “I’ll have to acquiesce to your greater experience in these matters, Sir John. I haven’t been to the capital since the Jersey Lily**** made her debut on the London stage in ‘She Stoops to Conquor’.
“Indeed.” Sir John murmurs as he looks Lady Gwenyth up and down critically, eyeing her elegant, if somewhat old fashioned Edwardian beaded evening gown in pastel pink crêpe de chiné.
“Still, it will be a pity too, that the Glynes villagers will not have the opportunity to wassail***** you and dear Lettice,” Lady Gwenyth goes on, either ignoring Sir John’s rudeness politely, or simply not noticing it. “Especially now that you two are officially engaged.”
“Oh,” Sir John heaves a rather heavy sigh and waves his hand about, as though shooing an irritating insect away. “There were a great many wassails and good wishes to us both from the villagers over the festive period since Lettice and I motored down from London to spend Christmas here at Glynes.”
“Oh that must be rather nice for you and dear Lettice, Sir John.” Lady Gwenyth remarks. “I still remember all the good wishes I received from the villagers when Algernon brought me to Bruton Hall all those years ago as a new bride. It was lovely, and endeared me to them.”
“Endeared you to them? Indeed Lady Gwenyth?”
“Yes. It really was wonderful. As part of local gentry, you really should spend more time down in the village when you are at Fontengil Park, Sir John. You spend far too much time in London.”
“Ahh, but that is where my business requires me, Lady Gwenyth, not enfolded in the soporific bucolic bosom of the Wiltshire countryside.”
“Thinking of the countryside,” Lady Gwenyth remarks, coughing a little awkwardly at Sir John’s lightly veiled implication that she, her family the families of the other landed gentry live sleepy and dull lives. “I was a little surprised that you’re not spending New Year’s Eve with my son at Miss Fordyce’s country retreat. It sounds far more smart and select for an exciting man about London like yourself, than our dull, bucolic parties.” Lady Gwenyth cannot help herself as she adds an acerbic taint to her comment. “Gerald was rather thrilled by Miss Fordyce’s invitation to her private party in Essex, especially after the last one, which he said was frightfully enjoyable. You were there too, as well as Lettice, I believe, Sir John.”
“I was. My sister Clemance and I are very good friends of Sylvia’s.”
“Yes, Lettice told me that. She led me to believe that Mrs. Pontefract and Miss Fordyce went to finishing school together, or something like that.”
“We were hosted by the same German family, Lady Gwenyth,” Clemance utters clearly, correcting the Chetwynd’s neighbour politely as she steps up to join the conversation. “So, I’ve known Sylvia since we were fifteen years old.
“Clemmie, Lettice and I all received invitations from Sylvia for tonight’s bash, as it happens, Lady Gwenyth,” Sir John explains. “However, since we will be leaving in a day or two to go to Bedfordshire, and knowing Lettice enjoys the tradition of spending time with her family during Christmas, we erred on the side of coming down here to Glynes, rather than going to Sylvia’s.”
“I think I’m enjoying this party far more than I would have Sylvia’s anyway, Lady Gwenyth.” Clemance remarks. “Sylvia has always surrounded herself with all these rather passionate and loud performers and artists. There are bound to be high spirits and hijinks this evening – a spirited scavenger hunt about Belchamp St Paul****** no doubt.”
“Oh indeed.” chuckles Lady Gwenyth.
“No. This is a much more agreeable. I must also say that it was very good of Cosmo and Sadie to put Nettie and I up for Christmas and New Year.” Clemance adds gratefully.
“Yes. It saved me the fuss and bother of having to open up Fontengil Park just for a few days.” Sir John adds.
“Oh,” Lady Gwenyth responds, shuddering as she ignores Sir John’s rather tactless remark and focusses upon Clemance instead. “Cosmo and Sadie are always such gracious hosts at any time of the year, Mrs. Pontefract, especially at Christmas time. I’m sure they were only too delighted to welcome you, Mrs. Pontefract.” She allows herself to give Sir John a momentary hard stare. “However, I was just remarking to Sir John that it is a pity you have to leave before the Twelfth Night festivities.”
“Oh I know. It is a great pity. However, a Royal command is not one my brother can readily ignore, Lady Gwenyth,” Clemance answers. “Or refuse. And since the Prince of Wales has specifically expressed his wish to meet Lettice again as John’s fiancée, I am going simply as chaperone.”
“I am surprised that His Royal Highness would want to leave Sandringham*******,” Lady Gwenyth opines. “I would have thought he would have stayed on the Sandringham Estate with Their Majesties for the duration of the festive season.”
“Somehow, I think Rippon Court offers more entertaining pursuits for His Royal Highness than watching his father play with his postage stamp collection******** or his mother fuss over her Fabergé eggs*********.” Sir John says in a superior fashion.
“Our father was a fine rider, a mad keen steeplechaser********** and a bloodthirsty hunter.” Clemance explains with a shudder. “Mother was too. Between them, they established the Rippon Hunt.”
“Being a keen steeplechaser and foxhunter himself, His Royal Highness has expressed his wish to ride in the Rippon Hunt***********, so however reluctantly, I am taking up my official duties as host of the hunt.”
“Not Master of the Hounds************, Sir John?” Lady Gwyneth queries politely.
“Our parents were the Nettleford-Hughes with hunting in their veins, Lady Gwenyth.” Clemance explains kindly. “They couldn’t understand why Nettie didn’t enjoy, nor have the aptitude for, the outdoor sports they embraced with such gusto.”
“We’re a little more cerebral in our pursuits, rather than Neanderthal*************” Sir John adds. “No, I’m far better placed to entertain His Royal Highness and his coterie after their hunting pursuits in the comfort of Rippon Court, and Lettice as my intended will be offering the winners’ trophies.”
Across the room by the white marble fireplace in which a fire roars, keeping the cold of the Wiltshire winter at bay, the Viscount, Lady Sadie and their eldest son and heir chat together, with Lady Sadie in her usual seat in a gilt Louis Seize armchair, her husband on the high backed gilt salon chair embroidered with delicate petit-point by his mother, and their son standing next to his father, warming his backside as he faces out to the room. Across from Lady Sadie in a matching armchair, Lord Bruton snores deeply.
“Looks like Lord Bruton’s had a bit too much of your firewater**************, Pappa.” Leslie opines, nodding at their neighbour slumped in his seat with his head lolling to his left heavily, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I’d best go wake him.”
Lady Sadie glances up at the dainty ornamental rococo clock on the mantelpiece. “No, no, Leslie.” she fusses. “Let poor Algernon sleep. It’s only a quarter to midnight. Your father or Gwenyth can wake him just before midnight, not that I think he’s care too much if he missed the start to 1926, judging by how tired he looked tonight.”
“Too many unpaid bills keeping him awake at night I’d say.” Leslie remarks.
“Still?” Lady Sadie asks. “I thought all that was behind them now with that last sale of pockets of land to that London man.”
“I think it will take more than that to solve the Bruton’s cash flow problems.” Leslie remarks. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pappa?”
The Viscount doesn’t reply.
“Father?” he asks again.
“Cosmo?” Sadie asks her husband, as she gently reaches out and places a bejewelled hand upon her husband’s left knee.
“Eh? What?” the Viscount blusters.
“You’re miles away, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie says with disappointment, shrinking back into her seat and picking up her nearly empty champagne flute. “You aren’t listening to Leslie or I at all, are you?” She pouts petulantly as she lifts the glass to her lips. “You could at last pretend to be listening to me.”
“Just listen to him, that superior sounding old lecher.” the Viscount seethes, seemingly unaware of his wife’s statement as he nods towards Sir John who stands in his cluster with Lady Gwyneth and Clemance near Lady Sadie’s Eighteenth Century painted drawers, his back turned to the Viscount.
“Cosmo!” Lady Sadie hisses. “Quiet! He’ll hear you.” She looks aghast at her husband. “Like him or not, he’s our guest.”
“He won’t hear me,” mutters the Viscount in a comfortably assured reply. “Not over the sound of his own deafening pomposity.”
Leslie and Lady Sadie exchange knowing glances over the top of the Viscount, Lady Sadie cocking an eyebrow and Leslie rolling his eyes, both silently acknowledging that the Viscount is the pot calling the kettle black***************.
“Oh, His Royal Highness is a fine hunter and steeplechaser,” the Viscount mimics Sir John’s statement in a mewling voice. “As if we didn’t all know it’s more about like being drawn to like, with our wastrel future King seeking a sympathetic audience and place to sleep with his mistress, that damnable trollop Freda Dudley Ward****************, rather than doing his duty and staying at Sandringham with his family.”
“Ahh, the worst kept secret in England*****************.” Leslie ventures.
“The poor King and Queen.” Lady Sadie opines with a sigh. “I pity them.”
“I pity us!” the Viscount retorts. “Having to tolerate that damn philanderer under our roof, as long as Lettice insists on being churlish and keeping up the pretence that this ill-fated marriage will be anything other than a disaster, the magnitude of which we have never seen the likes of in the Chetwynd family before.”
“Pappa!” Leslie exclaims, looking over to Lettice, who luckily for the Viscount, is involved in an animated conversation with Leslie’s wife Arabella on the sofa nearby.
“Stop being so melodramatic, Cosmo,” Lady Sadie chides. “It doesn’t become you, as head of the household. And I say again, keep your voice down, for goodness’ sake. Sir John may be completely hedonistic and self-absorbed, but our youngest child is not.”
“I’ve a mind to go over there, punch the cad in his snooty nose, and fling him out of the house by the ear.”
“Oh no you won’t, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie disagrees calmly and matter-of-factly, slapping him on his knee this time. “It would be the wrong thing to do, and even in the pique of a fit of rage, you know it. It would be too, too embarrassing to conduct such a scene before a houseful of guests, even if most of them present are family: for Sir John, Leslie, Arabella, me, you,” She lowers her voice and adds sadly. “For your favourite, Lettice.”
“It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to.” the Viscount mumbles under his breath between gritted teeth.
“You aren’t alone in that, Pappa. We’d all like to.” Leslie says, looking down to his father. “But he is Lettice’s fiancée, and it is New Year’s Eve after all.”
“What the devil has that to do with anything, Leslie?” the Viscount barks.
“Well, you know, Pappa, the season of peace, good will to all men and that all that.” Leslie elucidates with animated gesticulations directed towards the Christmas tree, its golden glass baubles, ribbons and tinsel****************** sparkling and glowing in the drawing room light.
“Good will to all men be damned!” the Viscount retorts in a fiery fashion.
“Language, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie scolds her husband.
“I fail to understand how a man as odious, hedonistic and self-obsessed as Sir John, can have such a lovely and selfless sister like Clemance.” Leslie remarks. “She is kind, considerate, generous of her time, and utterly charming.”
“Perhaps she is compensating for her brother’s character flaws,” Lady Sadie suggests. “I determined that I was going to despise her when I met her up in London, but try as I might, I can’t help but like her.”
“Why can’t Lettice see what a vile old lecher Sir John is?” the Viscount ponders in exasperated disbelief. “I mean, she’s not dim, is she? She’s got the brains and the nous to establish her own very successful business, in spite of everyone, including us, suggesting it was folly, and that she’d fail. How can she be so blind? Has she lost the use of her eyes, or worse yet, her senses?”
“I don’t think Lettice has lost either, my dear Cosmo,” Lady Sadie soothes purringly. “And furthermore,” she adds with a satisfied smile. “I do believe the sheen is starting to rub off this quixotic******************* engagement to Sir John.”
Both the Viscount and Leslie turn and look at Lady Sadie, her son smiling knowingly, and her husband gazing at her in disbelief.
“Alright Sadie.” the older man says. “You have my full and uninterrupted attention.” He heaves a sigh. “Go on. What do you know that I don’t?”
“I told you the day she announced her engagement to Sir John to us almost twelve months ago, that we were going to have to play the long game with Lettice.” Lady Sadie explains.
“You did.” the Viscount buts in. “And we have. What of it?”
“Well, it’s finally starting to pay dividends without our intervention in the matter, thus preventing Lettice from being driven further into Sir John’s arms because of our perceived interference and bias against the match. I can see by your response, Leslie darling, that being the perceptive young man you are, like me, you too have noticed a change come over Lettice and her attitudes to Sir John.”
“I have Mamma.” Leslie admits. “A definite cooling”
“What the devil do you mean, Sadie?” the Viscount splutters in exasperation. “What’s all this about Lettice’s attitudes towards that ghastly old lecher? Stop being so damn cryptic, woman!”
“I’m not quite sure when exactly, but it seems that at least since her return from that decorative arts exhibition in Paris, Lettice has taken a cooler attitude towards her fiancée, Cosmo. When they arrived to stay, I asked Lettice whether she and Sir John have settled on a date for the wedding yet, and she fobbed me off with some fanciful story that they haven’t had time to settle on one yet. It’s all nonsense of course.” Lady Sadie scoffs. “A happily engaged couple would have settled on one by now, no matter how busy they were. You mark my words.” She holds up a wagging bejewelled finger. “She’s stalling, and I am quite sure she is reconsidering her engagement. Furthermore,” she adds. “If you think about how she was when their engagement first became public, Lettice hung off Sir John, and his every word. Not a cross word was had between them.” Lady Sadie nods, steeling her jaw as she speaks. “Yet now look at her. She’s sitting with Arabella.”
“Tice hasn’t stood next to him all this evening.” Leslie adds. “Haven’t you noticed, Pappa?”
The Viscount sits up more straightly in his seat as he glances between Sir John and Lettice, who sits on the sofa with Arabella, her back clearly turned to her fiancée. “No,” he says, a brightness lightening his gruff tones, his glower lifting a little. “I can’t say I have.”
“And she’s given him critical, or even openly hostile glances when he’s said things she doesn’t like or agree with since they both motored down from London to stay.” Lady Sadie adds. “It’s not the look a happily engaged woman gives her fiancée, Cosmo.”
“Bella even told me last night before bed that Tice confided in her the other day that she and Sir John had the fiercest argument up in London over the Prince of Wales’ visit and their need to leave here just after New Year. Apparently, she told Sir John he could jolly well go on his own, Royal Highness or not, as she was staying here until after Twelfth Night like usual. It was only because of Clemance’s imploring that she recanted and agreed to go with them to Rippon Court the day after tomorrow.”
“Really?” Sir John asks, whilst Lady Sadie gasps and smiles at their son’s revelation.
“According to Bella, and she’s less of a Sir John despiser than we are, so I can’t imagine her fabricating or gilding such a tale.”
Just at that moment, Arabella scuttles past her husband and in-laws, vacating her seat as she goes to the side of the fireplace and rings the servants’ call bell by turning the metal and porcelain handle discreetly built in under the mantle. “We must call for Bramley!” she exclaims excitedly. “We need fresh champagne. It’s nearly midnight!”
Seeing an ample opportunity to talk to Lettice, Leslie leaves his parents’ side and moves over to talk to her.
“To your health, little sister.” Leslie says, slipping down onto the seat vacated by his wife on the Louis Quinze sofa, raising his champagne flute to Lettice’s.
“To your health, dear Leslie.” Lettice parrots, raising her own glass so that it clinks merrily against his.
Leslie settles back against the soft embroidered gold satin upholstery back of the sofa and appraises Lettice as she sits opposite him, arrayed in a simple sleeveless tube frock of madder coloured satin with a drop waist and an asymmetrical hemline designed for her by Gerald. The colours warms her pale complexion and accentuates the golden tones of her marcelled waves******************** Her elbow length white kid evening gloves make for a nice contrast to the bright colour of the frock’s fabric. A diamond bracelet, a gift from Sir John to Lettice, winks and sparkles expensively under the illumination of the Glynes electrified drawing room chandeliers above.
“What?” Lettice asks her brother.
Leslie doesn’t answer straight away, which causes Lettice to blush and glance down to see if she has inadvertently spilt something from New Year’s Eve 1925’s dinner onto her gown, where it has remained unnoticed by her.
“What is it, Leslie?”
“You’re up to something.” he replies matter-of-factly after a moment of deliberation.
Lettice laughs in startled surprise at Leslie’s effrontery. “No I’m not, Leslie!”
“Yes you are, Tice.” Leslie retorts before taking a sip of gin and tonic. “Do you remember when you were six and I was sixteen, and I caught you coming out of the barn on the home farm********************* with that pail********************** of molasses for the cows***********************, which you intended to pour into Lionel’s bed?”
“He deserved a taste of his own medicine, after he deliberately poured water on my mattress, making it look like I’d wet the bed.” Lettice defends herself. Nanny Tess was fit to be tied, and I received such a dressing down and a punishment of no nursery tea for a week.” She scoffs and rolls her blue eyes. “You stopped me doing it.”
“I wouldn’t have stopped you, if you hadn’t been so Janus-faced************************ when I asked you whether you were going to try and reciprocate punishment on Lionel, and you said you wouldn’t. I immediately suspected foul play, so I followed you, and as it turns out, I was right.”
“You stalked me, Leslie.” Lettice takes a sip of her own champagne, the bracelet of gemstones sliding down her raised forearm until it comes to a gentle halt where its circumference and that of her arm match.
“I saved you from your own impetuousness, Tice.”
“Says you.” Lettice laughs. “We’ll never know now. I was so guilty being caught red handed as it were by my own big brother, whom I worshipped and adored, that I did as you told me and suffered my punishment in silence without retribution upon Lionel.”
“He would have done something even worse to you, Tice. You know he would.”
“Perhaps.”
“Lionel’s depths of depravity and evil were evident long before he was seven, Tice my dear.”
“True.” Lettice admits begrudgingly.
“Anyway, you are being Janus-faced now. Mamma noticed it, and so did I.” Leslie remarks. “So, what is going on between you and sleazy old Sir John? You’re saying all the right things, but Mamma and I both sense a shift in you, ever since you came home from Paris.” Leslie looks his sister directly in the eyes. “Is the sheen of your ill-considered engagement to Sir John finally wearing off?”
Lettice laughs again at Leslie’s impudence. “Why don’t you say what you really think, Leslie darling.”
“Is it?” Leslie persists.
“I’m not six any more, Leslie. I don’t need rescuing.” Lettice assures her sibling, reaching out her empty glove clad left hand and patting him on the knee consolingly. “I’m twenty-five, and I can manage this situation myself, and I am, in my own way.”
The concern painted on Leslie’s handsome face give away his misgivings. “I just hope, whatever you are up to, you’re doing the right thing.”
“I appreciate you wanting to come to my aid, Leslie darling, but I don’t need my knight in shining brotherly armour this time.”
Leslie sighs in tired exasperation. “You always were the most independent of all the Chetwynd children, forging your own destiny: not like Lally, who married well as Mamma intended, or me who as the heir apparent has grown up with his future mapped out for him.”
“Lionel, for all his faults, is independent too.” Lettice suggests.
“Yes, but stupid too with all his hedonistic actions to end up having his fate chosen for him against his will, shrouded in scandal, by being banished to British East Africa************************* by Pappa.”
“Please trust me on this, Leslie darling. I know what I’m doing this time.” Lettice promises Leslie. “Whether the outcomes are good, bad or a mixture of both. I’m prepared. I’ll be fine.”
“What are you two talking about over there?” the Viscount calls over to Lettice and Leslie from the drinks table, holding aloft one of two chilled bottles of champagne supplied by Bramley. “Come! It’s almost midnight. Time to toast to 1926.”
“Yes, Pappa.” the siblings say, arising from the sofa and walking over to the table where they join all the other guests and their hosts.
The Viscount hands them both fresh glasses of cool, sparkling French champagne.
The clock on the mantle chimes midnight prettily, in the distance the Glynes Church of England bell rings out across the quiet night and the muffled sound of cheers drift up from the servant’s quarters.
“Happy New Year!” Viscount Wrexham cheers. “Happy nineteen twenty-six!”
“Happy nineteen twenty-six!” everyone echoes as they raise their glasses and clink them together happily.
*Dating back to the fourth century, many Christians have observed the Twelfth Night — the evening before the Epiphany — as the ideal time to take down the Christmas tree and festive decorations. Traditionally, the Twelfth Night marks the end of the Christmas season, but there's reportedly some debate among Christian groups about which date is correct. By custom, the Twelfth Night falls on either January 5 or January 6, depending on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day. The Epiphany, also known as Three Kings' Day, commemorates the visit of the three wise men to baby Jesus in Bethlehem.
**Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.
***A boutonnière or buttonhole is a floral decoration, typically a single flower or bud, worn on the lapel of a tuxedo or suit jacket. While worn frequently in the past, boutonnières are now usually reserved for special occasions for which formal wear is standard, such as at proms and weddings.
****Emilie Charlotte, Lady de Bathe, known as Lillie Langtry and nicknamed "The Jersey Lily", was a British socialite, stage actress and producer. Born and raised on the island of Jersey, she moved to London in 1876, two years after marrying. Her looks and personality attracted interest, commentary, and invitations from artists and society hostesses, and she was celebrated as a young woman of great beauty and charm. During the aesthetic movement in England, she was painted by aesthete artists. In 1882, she became the poster-girl for Pears soap, and thus the first celebrity to endorse a commercial product. In 1881, Langtry became an actress and made her West End debut in the comedy She Stoops to Conquer, causing a sensation in London by becoming the first socialite to appear on stage. One of the most glamorous British women of her era, Langtry was the subject of widespread public and media interest. Her acquaintances in London included Oscar Wilde, who encouraged Langtry to pursue acting. She was known for her relationships with royal figures and noblemen, including Albert Edward, Prince of Wales (the future King Edward VII), Lord Shrewsbury, and Prince Louis of Battenberg.
*****Wassail refers to a hot, mulled holiday punch, traditionally made with spiced cider or ale, and also to a winter solstice custom of visiting orchards to bless the trees for a good harvest. The word "wassail" comes from an Old Norse phrase meaning "be in good health" and is a salute to good health.
******Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.
*******The Prince of Wales, later Edward VIII and Duke of Windsor, celebrated Christmas 1925 at Sandringham House in Norfolk, which was, and remains, the traditional Royal Family location for the festive season. His father, King George V, was the reigning monarch at the time, and the family gathered at their country estate for the festivities.
********King George V was a very enthusiastic and obsessive stamp collector who amassed a world-class collection. He began collecting stamps as the Duke of York in the late 1800s and continued obsessively throughout his life. He was so passionate about it that he declared, "I wish to have the best collection and not one of the best collections in England". He made high-value purchases to build his collection, including setting a world record at the time by paying £1,450.00 for a Mauritius two pence blue stamp in 1904. He famously acknowledged that he was the "damned fool" who paid such a high price. He had his collection housed in 328 albums, and it was focused on British Empire stamps. His private collection formed the foundation of the Royal Philatelic Collection, which is now considered one of the most valuable stamp collections in the world.
*********Queen Mary collected a wide variety of objects, including Eighteenth Century furniture, lacquerware, gold boxes, and jewellery. She also collected miniatures, enamelwork, and Fabergé eggs, and was particularly interested in restoring and acquiring pieces that had previously been part of the Royal Collection. Her collection was eclectic and also featured items like the famous Queen Mary's Dolls' House and a significant number of photo albums documenting her life and travels.
**********A steeplechase is a long-distance race involving both galloping and jumping over obstacles, primarily fences and water jumps. In horse racing, steeplechases involve horses jumping over various obstacles like fences and ditches.
***********During the 1920s the Prince of Wales, later Edward VIII and Duke of Windsor, was ranked among the most daring horsemen in England. Having forged an impressive reputation in the hunting field for courage, determination and skill, he moved on to steeplechasing furthering the indignation of George V and Queen Mary who urged their son to abandon the dangerous sport. Unheeded Edward broke his collar bone, blacked his eyes and suffered concussion with what seemed to be alarming regularity. The Prince’s addiction to his hazardous hobby even caused the Prime Minister Ramsay Macdonald to request discontinuance. The prince stubbornly refused. Only after the near fatal illness of the King in 1928, did the he finally renounce the sport and order the sale of his entire stud.
************The Master of the Hounds was in charge of the hunt and supervised the field, hounds, and staff. The huntsman, who had bred the hounds and worked with them, would be in charge of the pack during the hunt. Once the group was assembled, the huntsman would lead the pack of hounds and field to where a fox might be hiding.
*************The term "Neanderthal" was first used in 1864 when Irish geologist William King proposed the species name Homo neanderthalensis for the fossils found in Germany's Neander Valley. However, the first known use of "Neanderthal" to describe the fossil itself dates to 1874 in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary.
**************Referring to a strong alcoholic drink like whisky or gin, the origins of the use of the word “firewater” came from two sources: one started with the adulteration of alcohol with tobacco juice, hot peppers or opium, and the other began with the custom of testing the proof of alcohol by throwing it in the fire, if flammable alcohol would be acceptable for purchase.
***************Referring to hypocrisy, highlighting a situation where someone criticises another person for a fault that they themselves share, the idiom originated in the early 1600s from the Spanish novel “Don Quixote”, which was translated into English by Thomas Shelton in 1620.
****************Winifred May Mones, Marquesa de Casa Maury, commonly known by her first married name as Freda Dudley Ward, was an English socialite. She was best known for being a married paramour of Edward, Prince of Wales, who later became Edward VIII. She was twice married and divorced. Her first marriage was on 9 July 1913 to William Dudley Ward, the Liberal MP for Southampton. Her first husband's family surname was Ward, but 'Dudley Ward' became their surname through common usage. They divorced on the ground of adultery in 1931 and were the parents of two daughters. Although married in 1913 to William Dudley Ward, Freda was also in a relationship with Edward, Prince of Wales from 1918, until she was supplanted by American Thelma Furness from 1929 to 1934 before he then took up with Wallis Simpson, whom he eventually married and abdicated for.
*****************Freda Dudley Ward was the Prince of Wales's paramour for many years, with their affair beginning in the early 1920s. Their relationship was not a secret; it was openly acknowledged by their social circles, families, and the public. His parents the King George V and Queen Mary were concerned about the Prince of Wales's affair with Freda Dudley Ward, as it was a public relationship that threatened to cause scandal and damage his reputation, especially given the expectation that he would marry a foreign royal. They disapproved of the affair, viewing it as a public scandal and hoping the situation could be managed and kept out of the papers to protect the monarchy and the future king. It was a source of considerable tension between father and son. The constant disapproval from his father contributed to Edward's already existing resentment and hatred for his royal role and the constraints it placed upon him.
******************One of the most famous Christmas decorations that people love to use at Christmas is tinsel. You might think that using it is an old tradition and that people in Britain have been adorning their houses with tinsel for a very long time. However that is not actually true. Tinsel is in fact believed to be quite a modern tradition. Whilst the idea of tinsel dates back to Germany in 1610 when wealthy people used real strands of silver to adorn their Christmas trees (also a German invention). Silver was very expensive though, so being able to do this was a sign that you were wealthy. Even though silver looked beautiful and sparkly to begin with, it tarnished quite quickly, meaning it would lose its lovely, bright appearance. Therefore it was swapped for other materials like copper and tin. These metals were also cheaper, so it meant that more people could use them. However, when the Great War started in 1914, metals like copper were needed for the war. Because of this, they couldn't be used for Christmas decorations as much, so a substitute was needed. It was swapped for aluminium, but this was a fire hazard, so it was switched for lead, but that turned out to be poisonous.
*******************Taken from the name of the hero in Miguel de Cervantes 1605 novel, “Don Quixote”, to be quixotic means to be extremely idealistic, unrealistic and impractical, typically marked by rash and lofty romanticism.
********************Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
*********************A "home farm" is typically a farm that is part of a large country estate and provides food for the main house. In a British context, it was historically the land farmed directly by the landowner or an employed manager, often while the rest of the estate was rented out to tenant farmers.
**********************Although often assumed to be American, the word “pail” is actually an English word that originated in the Middle English period (1150 – 1500) and is used in both American and British English, though it is considered more common in American English today, where it is often synonymous with "bucket". While "bucket" is the more dominant term in British English, "pail" is still understood and can be considered a more old-fashioned or regional variant.
***********************In farming, molasses provides an energy-rich supplement for livestock, helps them to better digest fibre in their feed.
************************Arising in the late Seventeenth Century, referring to the Roman deity of beginnings and endings often depicted with two faces, “Janus-faced” refers to deliberate deceptiveness especially by pretending one set of feelings and acting under the influence of another.
*************************The Colony and Protectorate of Kenya, commonly known as British Kenya or British East Africa, was part of the British Empire in Africa. It was established when the former East Africa Protectorate was transformed into a British Crown colony in 1920. Technically, the "Colony of Kenya" referred to the interior lands, while a 16 km (10 mi) coastal strip, nominally on lease from the Sultan of Zanzibar, was the "Protectorate of Kenya", but the two were controlled as a single administrative unit. The colony came to an end in 1963 when an ethnic Kenyan majority government was elected for the first time and eventually declared independence as the Republic of Kenya.
This festive upper-class scene is not all that it may appear to be, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The champagne glasses are 1:12 artisan miniatures. Made of glass, they have been blown individually by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and are so fragile and delicate that even I with my dainty fingers have broken the stem of one. They stand on an ornate Eighteenth Century style silver tray made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The wine cooler is also made by Warwick Miniatures. The Deutz and Geldermann champagne bottle is also an artisan miniature and made of glass with a miniature copy of a real Deutz and Geldermann label and some real foil wrapped around their necks. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The clear glass soda syphon and porcelain ice bucket and tongs was made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The cranberry glass soda syphon was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The remaini g bottles of alcohol were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures. The gilt tea table in the foreground of the photo on which they all stand is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The Chetwynd Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by Lettice, Harold and Arabella with garlands, tinsel, bows golden baubles and topped by a sparking gold star is a 1:12 artisan piece. It was hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio.
The Palladian console table behind the Christmas tree, with its two golden caryatids and marble top, is one of a pair that were commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.
The gilt chair to the right of the photo is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which also makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.
The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of the Chetwynd’s palatial drawing room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century spirit of the room.
On the console table made by Peter Cluff stands a porcelain pot of yellow and lilac petunias which has been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. It is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain.
On the bombe chest behind the Louis settee stand a selection of 1950s Limoges miniature tea set pieces which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. In the centre of these pieces stands a sterling silver three prong candelabra made by an unknown artisan. They have actually fashioned a putti (cherub) holding the stem of the candelabra. The candles that came with it are also 1:12 artisan pieces and are actually made of wax.
The sofa, which is part of a three piece Louis XV suite of the settee and two armchairs was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM.
The Hepplewhite chair with the lemon satin upholstery you can just see behind the Christmas tree was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
All the paintings around the Glynes drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper of Chinese lanterns from the 1770s.
July 06, 2016
Gaucherie:
[goh-shuh-ree]
Noun
1. lack of social grace, sensitivity, or acuteness; awkwardness; crudeness; tactlessness.
2. an act, movement, etc., that is socially graceless, awkward, or tactless.
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Another quick photo today. Time went by much too quickly and left very little time to play with the camera so while driving from my eye appointment to my scheduled oil change, I pulled over for a couple minutes and fired off a couple shots.
The light was fading and there wasn't too much around, unless I wanted to venture out into the tall grass... seeing as I was wearing shorts and ticks have been insane this year, I opted to stay close to the road and just go with what I could get.
Not bad for a quick shot, but hopefully there's more time tomorrow.
Hope everyone has had a good day.
Click "L" for a larger view.
“What was the thought-process here?”
There hadn’t been much of one, really.
“We call the Dunbars and they tell us you aren’t there. They say Roger told them he would be HERE for the night.”
Yeah, that had been a rookie mistake.
“It’s one thing to lie to us, it’s another to let your friend be a part of it. Did you forget that we are your parents, and we want to know you’re safe? Chris.”
Chris jolts out of his internal reflection. He’s back at 231 Jewel Avenue. His mother sat forward on the couch, hands clasped under her chin. Some strands loosened from her otherwise kempt hair, and the dark of her eyelids, betrayed the anxiety she was trying to bury. His father had not spoken since driving Chris away from the scene at Frannie’s place.
“We… I didn’t do it to make you upset,” Chris explains sincerely.
“We don’t think that,” his father sighs.
…
“What we think-“ began Mrs. King.
“… is that you’re restless, moving back here,” Mr. King resolves, earning a fixed stare from his wife. “But we know, now that you and your old friends have caught up, you’re going to be focused on things like, let’s say, your classes. And you’re going to be responsible, not looking for trouble. Am I in the ballpark?”
“Yes sir.”
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. King follows up with ultimatums. Chris puffs air behind his lips, cringing as he takes turns studying each of their expressions. The living room clock ticks incessantly throughout their still largely-unfurnished home.
“Well,” Chris pitches forward onto his feet. “I guess if that’s all sorted out, I can make it to class if I hurry.”
“Chris, where-“ Mrs. King objects as he darts to various corners of the room, recovering his backpack and materials that had been dropped the other afternoon. “You haven’t slept or even-“
“Going to school, being responsible!” contests Chris, one arm through the wrong strap of his pack, attempting to unlock the already-unlocked front entrance. “I’ll be home on time! We won’t get into any more trouble, I promise!”
He manages the door and peels out down the sidewalk, in the direction of Hamilton Junior High. Chris’ parents approach the stoop uneasily. Detective King’s fingers curl in and out of a fist on the doorframe as he watches his son.
Mrs. King laces her fingers at her waist. “Couples finish each other’s sentences.”
“Mm.”
“You didn’t finish mine correctly though.”
…
“I was going to tell Chris that we think he needs to stay at home when he’s not at school, for the time being. Until he can be honest with us. Be honest with himself about-“
“Liz.”
Her husband’s interruption is indistinct, but only so in volume. Behind the airy word, a storm brews. “… Can you appreciate… that I cannot and will not tell our son how he should be handling this? We know what… happened. Christ I don’t even know how I’m handling this.”
“Forgiving yourself is a good place to start, Greg.”
“Easy for you to say, you were always the bigger man,” Greg King chokes on a laugh, and his wife lays one hand on his shoulder.
“I can’t t-“ he begins, faltering. “… take more of his life away from him.”
“It’s our job to keep him safe, not in the dark” Liz King asserts resolutely.
“Our son is fine.”
***
The room didn’t hurt anymore.
Bryan wasn’t sure how it had been hurting in the first place, but, whatever it was, it had finally dulled.
No. It hadn’t? Now that humming, which had plagued him every moment he could remember being here, was inside him. It didn’t hurt; it fueled him. He was a furnace, unquestionably alive.
He was standing upright as well: an unexpected revelation. The woman with the calmative eyes was there, like always. Her staid face, and even the way she stood, was a veneer, hiding a dangerous avidity.
“Wait,” Bryan stops her as she clears her throat. “You’re going to ask me if I… I know my name. You keep asking me that. It’s Bryan Smith. And I’m here. ‘Here’ is…”
“Out of the woods, Mr. Smith,” she affirms warmly. “It was about this time last week that you were caught in an atmospheric phenomenon brought on by the meltdown of Trojan Labs’ greenhouse reactor.”
“I’ve. Always heard people, like, died to that kind of thing.”
“It was highly experimental, we knew. But we had run enough simulations and smaller models, to persuade the city we were secure. To know there wouldn’t be malfunctions,” she elaborates to a puzzled Bryan. “… We thought we knew. We might have been looking at a termination of all our funding and projects, but you’ve pulled through. More than that, you’re why we aren’t back at square one.”
As she said this, someone very new swaggered into Bryan’s makeshift recovery room: Dressed in fluorescent green and baby blue, with a collar and beard of equivalent extravagance. He grinned with just his bottom teeth and gave the pair a tiny salute.
Bryan nearly blanked on everything the woman had just conveyed. “Uh, how’s that?”
“We lost the reactor, but we gained you. You didn’t simply survive the event; the energy we lost control of superseded your physiology. As we speak, your cardiovascular and respiratory systems are essentially backup generators; you’re running on emissions that weren’t scientifically recognized last week.”
Before he knew what was happening, the woman takes him by the back of his hand, and places it under a lip of the capsule in which he had been convalescing. She applies almost no pressure at all, and the bed lifts like a sheet of paper. As Bryan’s eyes bug out, she steps away, leaving the feat of strength to his body alone.
“That’s you,” is her assurance.
“Wh- HOW is that..?” he grasps the frame, for fear of it crashing down. “… Oh god, what did I eat last night?”
The amusement on the new arrival’s face had not broken for a second, even as he made to mollify Bryan’s perplexity. “Your eyes do not deceive, friend. You’re like a real superhero, what do you think about that, eh?”
Bryan lets the cradle drop to the tiles at their feet, and pinches his arm. “Real?.. I have to get home!”
“Mr. Smith- BRYAN!”
The woman’s outburst cuts short his sudden beeline to the closest door. “Everything you have to your name was found in your car. Like I said, you’ve been here for days. We checked your records, we consulted with the authorities while they were investigating our mishap… you’ve been living paycheck to paycheck. No residency,”
She takes a moment to formulate the words, but her eyes stay locked on Bryan’s.
“no living relatives.”
It was all still so dizzying. Bryan wanted to believe there was some mix-up, some grand prank being played on him. If not for the woman’s face… those eyes, like bottomless wells that seemed to encapsulate the sadness he had been relieved of for his time away from the conscious world… if not for the feeling in his fingers and soles deadening at the mention of the life he had carved out for himself thus far, Bryan might have bought into his own mercy.
“It’s true, isn’t it? … I remember now.”
“We’re sorry,” the woman stresses. “All of us at Trojan. We are so sorry our hubris—our lack of caution—disrupted your life. I have to tell you, behind closed doors… we didn’t know what the machine was capable of, not really. It could ended far worse for you.”
Bryan couldn’t be certain if she was about to cry, the way she hung her head. “Well… hey, don’t beat yourself up; I took the job. I guess I signed some kind of… liability thing. Yeah. And it turned out okay, so. If you were worried I was going to charge the presses, don’t be.”
“‘Press’… ‘charges’,” the bearded man corrects.
“Or that!” Bryan agrees.
The woman is hardly comforted. “You would be well within your rights…”
“How can I be mad when I got super-strength out of the deal?”
Bryan tenses his arms in front of himself as if to refresh her memory, and in doing so, realizes the small light display traveling along his skin: Suspended eddies of yellow and orange, their forms disturbing in sync with Bryan’s own heartbeat. They furled like the cloud Bryan saw swallow him on the day of the incident.
“Whoa.”
The woman inches nearer; at once, no longer keeping up the repentant facade, but Bryan was too entranced to notice.
“It’s for this unforeseeable… blessing that resulted from our error, and only because we are aware of your living situation…”
She passes a hand onto Bryan’s forearm, stealing his attention.
“… that Trojan is asking of you to aid us once again.”
Bryan flinches, as one would do to ward off a drunken stupor. “I hadn’t picked up on it… your red hair. ‘cause your eyes-“
“I get that sometimes.”
She smiles. On Bryan’s cot, the bearded man sits cross-legged, observing. He beams, when meeting Bryan’s baffled look.
The recently-created metahuman focuses. “Err, what was it you were thinking to have me do, missus..?”
“Doctor. I’m Dr. Angela Wainwright, a technician here at Trojan.”
What WAS it with those eyes…
“You’re going to deliver Fairfax, Mr. Smith.”
***
“’Never’, as in, ’NEVER never’?” Chris prods.
“Never.” Glinda tugs the bag’s strap firmly onto her shoulder again. “I take pride in my classes.”
“So your first time ever skipping a period, you skip three,” Roger summates. “Go big or go home.”
Both boys snicker lightly; the levity, complementing the brisk midday. A passerby would not have suspected the heightened nerves within the children’s ranks.
“Would you both leave it alone?” pleads Glinda. “I’m going to turn back if I think about it anymore…”
“It’s just this once.”
Vicki steps into the lead of their troop, as all five kids venture past the civilization of Fairfax, to the woods waiting ahead. She has in an iron grip her satchel, bearing the enigmatic H-Dial.
“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, and then we’re going to get out. For good. To be clear-“
Vicki halts, pointing at the boys individually with a middle and index finger.
“Glinda’s grounded. SHE’s got to be back in town when school lets out for real. So don’t be the reason we get hung up.”
“US?!”
“How did your guys’ parents not flip out over you being attacked by supervillains?” Glinda questions them, stumped. “Seriously, it’s so unfair.”
“I don’t know, my… dad bailed me out. It was weird,” Chris confesses.
“Grounding just isn’t my folks’ thing. Anyway, running into crazy metahumans is par for the course; I live in Fairfax,” Roger points out bleakly.
“So do I,” Glinda fires back. “Of course it’s only my family that treats it like I was out shopping for criminals to fight.”
“And, uh,” Chris takes his eyes off Frannie, who had—all through their cafeteria meeting and now the hike—only listened to the others’ recounts of last night, beyond one very stilted acknowledgement of the four of them saving her. “I’d have bet your mom wouldn’t have let you out of the house, Frannie. For your own safety, I mean.”
Chris, still quite unsure of how to engage with the quiet girl, covertly checks with Glinda: Her face tells him he was decidedly in “blunt” territory, nearing “tactless”.
He makes a move to patch things. “With how reclusiv-“
Roger holds his own face mournfully. Frannie merely shrugs.
“I stashed the Dial, then went back to see how she and her mom were doing,” Vicki brings up. “And to hear what the police were making of it, but, I couldn’t really get close. Offered to walk Frannie to school for Mrs. Nash, since I was the only one of us she didn’t see in the yard. I mean, she did, but I was… blue… and several different sizes.”
“She thinks I’m going to be at Vicki’s after school,” Frannie finishes.
“Everyone’s parents…” Glinda gripes. “EVERYone’s. But nooo, not mine…”
Vicki stops the other four with a barely-raised hand. She can’t seem to look any of them squarely in the eyes.
“Guys, I just want to tell you, I’m sorry I left you all to get chewed out by-”
“No, Vicki, we had to keep the Dial secret,” Roger cuts in. “We were all thinking it.”
Glinda softens, forgetting her self-pity. “No sense in all of us getting into hot water,” she offers. “There’s no guarantee your parents would’ve let you off the hook.”
“Yeah,” Vicki concurs dubiously, glancing away at the trees.
Deeper into the forest the five of them walk, led on by Vicki. It was only because the girl had been utterly lucid from terror the previous night that she could now find her way. A few short intermissions, allowing Vicki to reclaim her orientation, were all that deterred them, before they arrived at the large fern veiling the mines’ inconspicuous exit. Urging her friends to the tunnel, Vicki comes close to trampling over the hand of the man guarding the lip of the hole; he holds a hefty wrench aloft. The resolve on his face is intertwined with petrification, as he realizes who he is threatening. Frannie takes an uneven step back.
Vicki initiates the encounter with a “Hi”, wincing soon after. “You were there last night- or, early this morning, I guess. … when I fell through the ceiling. Right? I’m seriously hoping-“
“For godsakes, let them in before the entire county hears her!”
Behind the guard was the lady doctor whom Vicki had witnessed tending to Nick. The two adults hastily pull Vicki and Chris into cover. Glinda shields a still shaken Frannie and descends inside before either can be similarly handled.
“Hey, personal space. We can walk!” Roger adds.
“Quiet!” the doctor frowns.
“Before you ask,” Vicki confronts her with an only slightly lower tone, “no, I didn’t lead any supervillains here.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Now, it was the man from earlier, that had hounded Nick about the Dial, who was trudging up the tunnel. He was perhaps only approaching middle-age, but his hair had completely greyed. It was now that Vicki noted, with the exception of Nick, everyone in the mine appeared to have on a lab coat, or varying stages of scholarly wear; this man—their apparent leader—wore his with a morose demeanor.
“Just more accessories. Brilliant.”
“Uh. ‘Accessories’ makes it sound like you’re doing something illegal too,” comments Chris.
Seven pairs of disparaging eyes divert to him.
Chris hides his hands in his pockets. “I’m not… wrong…”
Vicki examines the stacked crates crowed near the mine’s mouth. “Planning a trip?”
The man looks at her down the length of his nose. “You saw to that. By tangling with Nick. By running off with that-”
“Nick gave it to me.”
“By involving YOUR FRIENDS, yes, we are now forced to relocate! Because whatever risks come of trying to flee, they are greatly outweighed by the suspicion you’ve brought here; running in and out as you have, leading our hunters straight to us-“
“I told you, one way or another I’m getting the full story. It just so happens I was in the neighborhood, dropping something off for a friend,” Vicki jiggles the H-Dial under the man’s nose. Then she waves an arm at the other kids. “And you know what? Pardon me if I think they deserve the same answers, considering they live here and each of us could’ve died in the last twenty-four hours thanks to whatever X-Files bull all of you are involved in.”
Beleaguered, the man sags his head at the girl, then his associates. He does his best to ignore the latter segment of Vicki’s counter. “We’ll take the Dial to him for you.”
“I’ll take it to him myself, thank you. C’mon guys.”
Hesitantly, Chris and the rest resume following the dauntless Vicki down the crumbling passageway. The grey-haired man and doctor keep the guard from blocking the children, but do not let their surprise-guests out of view. Frannie stays right on Glinda’s heels, of which Roger takes notice. He snaps the frizzy-haired girl out of her inwardness by shallowly swinging an arm out.
“Hey. I hope you didn’t feel like we forced you to tag along. Don’t worry though-“
“I wanted to come,” Frannie says distantly, but not conflicted.
This is enough to satisfy Roger. “That was a great pitch. Back at your place, when you clocked that red Stormtrooper guy.”
“‘Stormtrooper’?”
Roger tries again. “I like baseball too.”
Frannie shrugs again. Glinda, listening to them trail behind her, tries not to visibly sulk; she distracts herself, nudging Vicki.
“Psst. Vicki.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“It feels like we whisper right now,” Glinda supposed, thrown off. “… You said that that boy outside school was also using the Dial?”
“Yeah.”
“And you said he got hurt? What happened when you hung up the phone to use it for…”
“I don’t know,” Vicki draws a sharp breath. “I don’t know, but if he-“
Around a tight corner, their path empties into a cavern. Milling about are dozens more men and women than Vicki had approximated during her initial visit. Likewise, a smattering of floodlights reveal just how expansive the hideout is. Some of the adults have stopped carting supplies around, to regard Vicki and her entourage. A good number are angry. More are scared, though no one openly opposes the grey-haired man allowing them this far; he singles out one person to Vicki, coldly advising her:
“There’s your friend. Give him that deathtrap back, and then take your band of hellions and go. Home.”
Sitting right where Vicki remembered seeing Nick with his leg half-fused with the tunnel wall was a paunchy, towheaded man guzzling a water bottle. He wore thick glasses, a bright red button-up, jeans, sneakers. He was clearly older than the grey-haired man in charge, but had a very round, clean face. It was strange, but Vicki’s first thought was that he was like an unused person.
Vicki exaggerates tilting her neck, doubtfully judging. “That’s Nick. Really.”
“He’s old?” Glinda looks pale. “Oh, gross, I thought they could be an item.”
Nick overhears this, taking a swig of water at an inopportune time. He spits when he recognizes Vicki, immediately getting up and dusting off his pants.
“I told you not to bring that back here,” he announces loudly to Vicki, but also for the grey-haired man to hear. “… but uh, actually, this works out okay because-“
“First,” Vicki orders, “tell me something only the boy I saw would know about what happened yesterday.”
He thinks for a second. “At the park, I got your shoes all muddy when I ran into you. And uh, you accused me of throwing you into a tree… I’ll have you know I was perfectly in control.”
Vicki’s eyes narrow. “You don’t look like a ‘Nick’.”
He pokes at himself, as if to somehow rebut her thesis. “No?”
“Maybe St. Nick,” Roger coughs.
Vicki hands off the H-Dial to the peculiar man, who accepts it quickly, yet confusedly. She taps a foot on the loose dirt. “So. That young guy was just the hero you were using. You had me hang up and redial. That made you… you, again.”
Nick juggles the Dial, winding the cord up haphazardly. “That’s… exactly right. Hit the nail on the head. I had a feeling you’d get the hang-“
“You’re not dying anymore. As in, you had me use this thing, without any training, to go save my friend who YOU incriminated by running into us… when you could’ve just redialed, and helped Frannie yourself!”
“Kid…”
“‘Vicki’,” she amends curtly, making their introduction official. “… ’Nick’.”
“Vicki. I…” The words catch in Nick’s throat. He holds the back of his head and laughs to himself, aware of his own explanation. “… I didn’t think the real me would be alive to go back to!”
“You mean you had me… when you thought you were going to..!“
Vicki stomps back up to him. He grins skittishly, looking to the other adults for help.
“What is with you and involving me in things that will get one or both of us killed, without TELLING ME??”
She turns back to her four friends, to see them uncomfortably and quizzically standing in an row.
“Oh, yeah! That’s a whole thing with this guy!”
“Yeaahh…” Roger trails off. “So, we’ve got some ground to cover here, but, let’s go for why you were going to have Vicki kill you..?”
Nick had no sooner opened his mouth than he received a bombardment of other questions from the kids.
“Did these people hire you to help Fairfax?” Glinda wonders.
Chris interposes, “Where’d you even find that thing? Did you make it?”
“Why does the Dial-voice-guy sound like my dentist?” Vicki mumbles, distrait.
Nick, cupping his ears, can endure no more. “Okay, okay! You know what? Confession time, alright?”
As passive as he had been, the grey-haired man now moves alarmingly fast to be practically nose to nose with Nick. “Absolutely not.”
The kids, doctor and all the rest of their on-edge company freeze where they stand, but Nick restfully addresses the man. “Mike…”
The man recoils in frustration at his name being divulged; Nick does not let him turn away fully.
“It’s a lost cause now, keeping them in the dark. This is all coming down, probably sooner than we think. We may just need some more allies. Besides,” Nick smiles, pulling the three-finger sign to his shoulder, “Scout’s honor.”
“They’re children,” Mike tiredly cues him, not a hint of humor in the words.
“If even one more person makes it out of this cave alive because these kids could help… Mike, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t say that’s worth taking the chance.”
Nick doesn’t wait for a response. He sweeps his hands up to be noticed. “Everyone…”
The entire cavern was already giving him their full attention.
“Ah. … Well I… found the H-Dial—that’s what it calls itself—in a cave, in my hometown. That was out west. I was a little younger than these guys here.”
Nick gives a fatherly wink to Chris and Roger, both of whom eagerly await more of the story.
“I don’t know how it got here any more than you do. But I learned to use it. I told all of you,”
Nick motions to the crowd, “what it let me do. When I realized what was going on in Fairfax, I made the promise that I’d help you, whether or not… some of you thought I was insane.”
The man named Mike only adjusts his neck, saying nothing in dissent.
“But I didn’t tell you everything. ‘suh matter of fact, I haven’t told anyone everything for something like thirty years.”
…
“My real name’s Robby. Not Nick.”
…
“That hero I’ve been using—Maquette—I changed into him back in 1962. I’ve stayed that way, because that last time that I changed, Robby was mortally wounded. I thought if I ever went back, to be him again, I’d be a goner for sure. I thought…”
The deluge of admissions breaks; Robby, overwhelmed by those admissions, regulates his breathing for a moment. Then he holds his hands out to emphasize Vicki.
“… that last night was my time. Your friend needed help, and I had reason to believe I couldn’t be the one to give it to her. Seems like I gave the Dial to the right kid for the job.”
Vicki shies away from all the stares placed upon her; annoyed, more than embarrassed.
“As for why I’m still kickin’,” Robby ponders, with his chin tucked into his flannel like a turtle, “I couldn’t say… I guess being in limbo for a few decades did me some good.”
All is silent once again. Just as Chris and Roger appear to be shaping up to let loose another bout of scrutiny on Robby, someone’s shoes intrusively shuffle on the rocks and, stunning everyone, it is the reticent Frannie who lets her will be known. Glinda and the others clear away to give her a direct line of sight to the odd man, as all of Frannie’s social inhibitions seemingly fall to the wayside, overridden by her question’s import to her.
“If you became Maquette to save yourself… what happened to Robby’s life?”
Robby jerks back, caught quite off his guard. Then, feigning relaxation, he crosses his arms robotically and gives her a smile and a nod. “I’m glad Vicki got to you in time,” he states, avoiding her in uninventive fashion. But Vicki’s gaze bullies him into submission.
“Uh. Truth be told? I don’t really know what I’m going… to do with myself. I’ve been Nick longer than I was ever Robby.”
Glinda, remembering something, drifts from the conversation with Robby, to where Mike and the lady doctor stand.
“Mr. um… sorry, I should’ve said right away, Vicki told me there were a bunch of you down here and that you looked like you needed help, so I brought food and a little water, here. There’s some fruit…”
She starts to unload her rucksack onto an old workbench.
“I asked some of the kids at school to chip in-“
Mike’s eyes bulge with fury and fear, and the doctor intuitively steps between him and the girl.
Glinda panics. “I… I d-didn’t tell any of them what it was for!”
Mike holds his tongue. “… I’m sorry. But you need to understand-“
The doctor hugs Glinda.
“Dr. Clark and I, and all of us,” she says on behalf of their concealed community, “are very grateful. We haven’t had enough food since we’ve been here. This is more than generous, thank you. You can call me Shelly.”
“I’m Glinda.”
Her friends had migrated over now, with Robby and some other adults; all of them, commending Glinda in their own way. Most had stony faces as they did so, but all of them were genuine.
Vicki gives Glinda a slap on the back. “Pretty good idea, Glinda.”
The throng eventually settles. First the kids’, then everyone’s eyes fall to Dr. Michael Clark. He hunches over the bench, arms straight, watching what came across to the newcomers as a high-tech desk toy: A rotating tray, with spires of silver flowing up and down themselves, reconfiguring into a handful of simple structures every few seconds.
Vicki has the first go at reaching the man. “So this is the stuff you’ve got in all these crates?”
Nothing.
Roger steps up next, more fed up with the inaction than Vicki was. “Hey. I think we all get that you don’t want anything bad to happen to these people. And I get that you don’t know us from a hole in the wall. But you trusted this guy to help you…”
jabbing a thumb at Robby.
“Wow,” he exclaims.
“And we were neck-deep in all this, way before we knew names,” Roger determines. “I think you’re stuck with us, at this point.”
Dr. Clark reads the room, the looks being given by his peers. It was evident that metaphorical walls had been dismantled by Robby. Prolonged secrecy would be pretense. The consensus had shifted with Glinda’s act, and it was time to speak.
“… We worked for Trojan Laboratories. Biologists, engineers. I’m an architect.”
He accredits the shape-changing creation before them to himself, with his last comment. The kids raise an eyebrow at the already-suspect Trojan Labs being mentioned; Glinda, mouthing something to Vicki about the monster they saw. The five of them, even Frannie, near the senior scientist. Dr. Clark continues grimly, clinically, as though fending off a force of nature in order to get the words out.
“We signed on because we had aspirations of leading the world into a new revolution in all fields. Medicine, transportation, leisure… But Trojan didn’t want innovations for a better future. They want weapons, for reasons we never learned, which scared us even more.”
…
“We devised a way to smuggle our projects out in one night, or we would give Trojan the chance to catch on. … They did anyway. They had metahumans, from off the street no doubt. Guard dogs. We were ambushed just when we thought we were in the clear. They split us apart, kept us from leaving Fairfax where we might find authorities beyond their reach. We knew we were surrounded. Those of us you see now collapsed this branch of the mine behind us, and it seems to have worked in discouraging their hunters from thinking we could be here. For now.”
Shelly, the doctor, quits handing out Glinda’s donations to the more malnourished among them, long enough to add, “Twice, some of our number have left the cave to make it outside city limits. But it’s been months now. We have to assume Trojan got them.”
“But, your families-“ Roger attempts.
“Trojan’s employees were and are alone, every last one. We have no relatives or relationships outside of our work. They find you on that basis, they ensure it stays that way,” Dr. Clark informs bitterly. “That’s how they like us. Helpless.”
“Hang on, aren’t you throwing in the towel kinda early here?” Vicki spins around to all the Trojan defectors, then stops at Chris. “Didn’t your dad say anything about officers responding to a disturbance out here, by the mines, last night?”
Chris blinks. “No..? He wasn’t the one under a microscope, y’know.”
Vicki rolls her eyes.
Robby takes over before the kids can make more presumptions. “I told you Vicki, those weren’t cops last night. Trojan’s smoking us out. They’re at our front door. You can’t go to the ‘real’ police either, we don’t know how many Trojan’s bought out. But it has to be some higher-ups, and more than just a few; it’s the only reason Trojan can get away with that prototype reactor nonsense.”
“My dad’s not some spy,” Chris warns, defensive toward Robby’s intimation.
“Your father’s a cop?”
“A detective.”
“If you- sorry, this is weird being this tall,” Robby bows and grabs his knees to be less imposing, at Chris’ own height. “If you let your dad in on this, he has superiors to report to. Maybe some bad ones. That’s his job. It’s not his fault, but he could make things worse for these guys.”
“You know you were right, Robby,” Dr. Clark interrupts him. “This could all very well end tomorrow, or tonight. We can’t. Stay here. It’s getting to be that trying our luck with the local law is wiser than waiting for your Dial to… to part the Red Sea for us.”
Robby massages his forehead as if he has a migraine coming on. “We’ve been over this Mike, you haven’t been up there. You canNOT surface yet. And the Dial… it’s not NOT science just because we don’t get it yet. It’s… eccentric. That much is obvious. But it works. It’s saved me, and it can save you. And whereas I’ve been up there, dancing around with Trojan and apparently every superpowered criminal in New England… now there’s six of us that can be eyes and ears up there. Using the Dial to its full potential. Making Trojan go underground for a change.”
Vicki slashes at the air, miming for the debate to end. “Hey look, all I wanted were some answers. That’s what we deserved, after last night. Frannie and her mom are safe now; they’re going to have squad cars out front for the next year. Guys… we can’t actually… I mean c’mon!”
I’d like to do something,” declares Glinda, “but I-I really don’t think I want to use that thing…”
Robby withdraws a little. “No, no I’m not forcing anyone to help, or to use the Dial. But I can walk you through this. We can do some real good with it.”
At this, a scientist from the crowd speaks out, inciting more and more of them to object.
“You’ve barely kept yourself safe with that thing!”
“They need to get their families to leave Fairfax, now!”
Frannie ducks off towards an alcove of the mine as tensions mount.
Shelly stands by Glinda with a hand on her shoulder. “Nic- Robby, never mind forcing them. You can’t ask this of them.”
“I can,” Robby contradicts staunchly. “Easily, actually. Because I’ve known this whole time what could happen if I really am your one and only hope, and it terrifies me. You don’t want just me; you want us.”
“Ever since I got back,” Chris injects, surprising himself by suddenly having the floor, “Roger’s been telling me stuff like ‘let’s not go there’, ‘it’s best not to go there’… But, Rog, all I’ve been trying to do is to ‘go there’. So I can understand what in the world is going on with my home! So I can fit in again! I haven’t been around when everything went bad, but I didn’t have the choice then. I’m here now; I want to be involved, now! … That’s uh, how I feel about it.”
Vicki strides past him to be with Frannie, uttering offhandedly: “Chris I really don’t think you need to be extending devotion to friends into crime-fighting, okay?”
From the time he had met her the month prior, Chris had scarcely, if ever, been able to follow up her more charged remarks, let alone criticize them. He had yet to comprehend how she, as he perceived, could be heedlessly altruistic one instant, as it had been with racing to save Frannie, then so closed-off and cynical in the next breath. He was at last compelled to call her out.
“What- Are you telling me you could straight-up walk away from this, knowing these people are down here, knowing Trojan’s this villain think tank-“
“Don’t tell us you weren’t having fun, kicking those guys all over Frannie’s yard,” Roger goads her.
Vicki glares. “I’d stick with Chris’ argument. … I’m trying to be practical here, alright? We keep chancing it like dumb kids, and we’ll go out like dumb kids. That ASIDE, there’s one Dial. What would we do, play hot potato?”
“If that’s what keeps Trojan off balance, and all of you alive, then yes,” Robby proclaims with authority. “Any one of you may just need to use the Dial in the coming days. Yes, Frannie has the police keeping an eye out for her for now—and we can only hope they’re all on the level—but what about you, or him? You’re that sure Trojan can’t find you?”
“Frannie and I beat two of these bozos by throwing small, dense objects at them,” dismisses Vicki. “Are we really going to pretend like-“
Robby reproaches this scathingly, harsher than anyone present would have thought him able to channel. “They’ve killed before, or did you forget that?! You? You got damn lucky! You want to try going three for three, chucking rocks? Maybe one of you ends up getting kidnapped, or just turned into dust, but hey, it’ll be REAL impressive if you set them back a whole day!”
Though startled like the rest of them, Roger backs the man’s sentiment, hoping his friends will be convinced.
“Robby’s right. The look on that guy’s face when he saw we had the Dial… He and his pals want this tech and they want it bad. We’re not going hold them off just by sticking together. The best way to keep them from getting the Dial is to push back, using the Dial.”
Robby and Dr. Clark react to the boy’s earlier statement with equal consternation.
“Say again…”
“You SHOWED them the Dial…”
Roger protects himself. “Hey the guy was a second away from hurting Frannie! It bought us time! I’d do everything I did the same way if I had a do-over!”
“Then that’s that,” Robby digresses.
…
“You know what we’re up against. You know this doesn’t go away without a fight. What I swore to every man and woman in this cave, I swear the same thing to you five.”
Those same five—unconventional guardian angels to a fraught host—have no shared resolution to give the man in return. The illuminated walls of the mine stand silently by just as its occupants do. Robby exhales.
“You must all be ditching classes right now. Time’s a-wasting. What’s it going to be?”
***
“Why does it feel,” Cathan queries, drumming his fingers on the other fist, “like, instead of sending you boys out there to make improvements to our situation, what I’ve actually been doing is sending you boys out there to find out everything’s already properly shagged, and you only come back here to confirm it with me?”
Still dressed as Golden Web, minus the ruined mask, George rests his knuckles on the table between them. ”We’re telling you, the little snot-heads had this- this phone, and they used it to give one of ‘em powers. SO…”
He side-eyes Kaleidoscope and Chain Master.
“… our new bunkies didn’t exactly do their job either. Isn’t that right? So much for the stupid pen being-“
“If you want to give us a rundown of how we should’ve done a job you weren’t even there for,” Kaleidoscope glowers, drowning him out, “please, George, go ahead. I’ve got a great imagination.”
“You’re not my master and commander just because you do psycho-weed with the boss,” George spurns.
Chain Master shoots up from his seat on the bottom stair-step. The gloves in his balled fists squeak.
“There you go Brent, don’t let him talk to her that way,” Cableman seems to cheer the large man on, only his delivery is devoid of all passion as he does not avert his concentration from the minuscule components and circuitry at his fingertips.
George sizes up Brent, who eclipses him. The younger man calls his bluff. “Ooh, y’know I wasn’t going to apologize, but then I remembered you were tall. … Get outta town, man.”
Edward Murr steers away from the conflict, conversing with Cathan one-on-one. “What we need to do is weigh our priorities again. How wise can some delinquents be to what we’re aiming for, really? They think we’re just another band of these metas running all over this town, knocking over gas stations. They’ve got their hands full. We’ve got openings.”
Gazing at his right-hand man dolefully, so as to jog Murr’s recollection of their past, Cathan then imparts, “We’ve cut corners on jobs like this before, Ed. Did you sleep well afterwards? When you realized we didn’t get everyone out we could have, if we hadn’t gotten twitchy?”
To which, Murr has no challenge; only a quiet forewarning. “Before we sink, Cathan.”
“Would’ve been great if we’d had those comms by now,” George now directs at Cableman. “Might’ve coordinated things more quickly, might’ve surprised the kid and made a clean getaway… but, sure, let’s pretend it was all on me and Distortionex. So sorry we fell short of expectations.”
This time, the sullen Cableman does look up. “You act like I’m being paid.”
Cathan’s pent-up irritation runs over. He punches the central table; the arm fluctuates with numerous, alien textures in a split-second, sufficiently silencing his five onlookers.
“We’re doing all this to right wrongs where we can, not for pay.”
Their leader’s scowl bores holes in Cableman’s reflective face shield; it moves on, to George.
“Not for petty bragging rights.”
Golden Web backs off. “Hey… your cause is our cause, man. But honestly, where’s this big blue meathead get off, acting like he and his gal pal-“
“Give it a break George,” Murr begs, fatigued. “He hasn’t said anything.”
“Yeah? I’m beginning to wonder if he can say an-“
Cathan subtly recedes from the escalating disagreement, noticing Kaleidoscope has done the same. He follows her into a secondary, uncompleted nook of the basement, pausing at the doorway when he sees what she’s doing: a mouse at the base of the far wall noses through a mound of lint. Kaleidoscope flexes her wrist, and the harmless particles morph into a trap, triggering instantaneously and cracking the pest over the head. The woman and the mouse are still.
“Kalei.”
“You can just use my real name.”
“I’m not talking to Nancy, I’m talking to Kaleidoscope,” Cathan says matter-of-factly.
“I’m just… so ready for this plan to be over and done with.”
“So am I,” Cathan confirms sensitively, hovering a hand over his heart.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll have none of that from you.”
Nancy shakes her head vigorously, leaning against the tattered wallpaper, tracing the sculpted crystal of her palm with a thumb. “Getting rid of the boy should have been easy. I still… STILL can’t change things with a will of their own.”
She scoffs at her own words, swiveling on the wall with her shoulder, away from Cathan. He stifles the reflex to take hold of her hands. He makes two fists and collects himself.
“You haven’t let me down. You’re honing your abilities every day; I’ve seen so. The others will straighten themselves out sure enough, and soon-“
“These people you want us to save,” Nancy inquires, “… it really is important, isn’t it? Like you couldn’t forgive yourself if you didn’t.”
“It’s exactly that,” Cathan admits.
The glass woman walks up to him. “Then let’s. Just. Do that. We don’t need to cover all our bases, chasing down potential threats in some… some KIDS…”
A dejected look creeps onto Cathan’s face. “You wouldn’t kill that boy last night. Not that you couldn’t, but that you didn’t let yourself.”
“PLEASE Cathan. Let’s do the job and end this. For Brent and me.”
“For you and Brent,” Cathan echoes, shutting his eyes. “… Yes, alright. Within the month. I-I know that’s not quick enough for your liking, but this is me, promising you: Within the month, we’ll make our move.”
“And our debt will be paid, when they’re free,” Nancy prompts. “Then, we’ll be square.”
“I wish you would stay anyway, debts be damned,” Cathan smirks boyishly.
“We can’t live this life forever. Neither can you,” Nancy reminds him solemnly.
“Now you’re not going to get all serious on me. I’ll sing one of my shanties, and you’ll have to pretend you don’t like it.”
Nancy laughed wholeheartedly despite herself, only encouraging Cathan.
“Oh I shan’t forget the day
When I first met Maggie- Nancy Mae;
She was cruising up and down old Woolwich place.
She had a figure finer
Than the fastest ocean liner,
And me, being a sailor, I gave chase.”
The song went on unheard by those beyond the rooms’ divide, except for Brent, the Chain Master. He too sidled away (as well as his mammoth frame would allow him to do so) from George’s squabbling, and listened to the pair from around the corner.
“Oh Nancy, Nancy Mae,
They are taking you away,
And you’ll never walk down Lime Street anymore.
For you’ve rolled so many sailors,
And you’ve skinned so many whalers,
And now you’re doing time in Botany Bay!”
Brent felt a weight on his chest at Cathan completing the shanty, and at the ensuing chuckles.
“Can I call upon you to take us on another trip?” Cathan asks under his breath.
“You know how it riles the others, especially Cabl- Todd. Us, using my illusions that way. The look he had last time…”
“To the Devil with Todd. We could do with some beauty in our lives, us two.”
Colors dance out from Nancy, up to the vacant hinges of the doorway where Brent remained unnoticed. Cathan and Nancy are enveloped by her powers, transported to carefree days of the past, or to days that had never truly been at all. Brent did nothing.
***
What had Chris been thinking?
The armored man was crouched in the treetops across from the Nash household. All day, the police had made efforts to communicate with Frannie’s mother, and identify the order of events. They made note of the residual materials left by Distortionex’s attacks, and zoned the yard off for further analysis. For all the good it did; the successful captures of meta-criminals that Fairfax’s law enforcement had under their belt were due to luck. They knew it. The man knew it.
Chris was never this rash. What got into him? His friends? They should know even better than him that this is no town to fool around in. … I save them from one disaster and they go run into another one…
That thing from the cornfield had put up more of a fight than he had anticipated. By the time he had caught back up with the children, the scuffle here had subsided. All he had seen of Chris was the boy being escorted away by his father. It might have ended so much worse.
Greg was there for them; he’ll make sure they stay away from things like this. It’s all over now. But, Chris looked real rattled. If I could see him again, and know he’s alright-“
A red squirrel scurries along the next tree over from the man. The creature attempts a leap to a branch from his tree, but misses. It falls, all the way to a log waiting below, and onto exposed jags of bark in the rotted trunk. There is no more movement.
The man’s face hardens beneath his frightening disguise.
You’re too emotional right now. You know what happens if you get anywhere near him, like this. Get your head on straight. Then get back out there, and don’t let it come this close, ever again.
He only got a glimpse. That’s all he could ever get anymore.
Don’t jinx it.
***
Robby claps his hands. “Alrighty, lightning round. Hit me.”
“Why were you ’Nick’?” Glinda puts forward.
“Why not?”
“No like, why not any other name?”
“‘sjust a name,” Robby concocts sheepishly.
It was well into the afternoon, and the children had need to get back into town. In the wake of Robby’s move to get a solid decision out of them, an unspoken understanding had been achieved. They would be back. To what extent they might be aiding the Trojan refugees was, as ever, up in the air, but they knew this would not be their last time in the mine. The majority of the scientists had been won over, as far as accepting the kids as allies, partially thanks to Shelly ultimately showing faith in Robby. Dr. Clark had said all he would on the matter.
All that was left to be settled were a few discontented curiosities.
“What was the deal with ‘Maquette’ anyway?” Vicki throws in. “You would draw in a notebook-“
“Doodle-based aptitude. I could manipulate my own physicality and perform impossible stunts by drawing it first.”
“Sounds tedious.”
“Ah! Not so,” Robby contends. “It also made me draw subconsciously, faster than a human mind could design.”
“So it gave you a superpower just so you could use the actual superpower.”
“… Well when you put it like that. … Ah yes, the gentleman in the jersey,” Robby readily moves on to Roger.
Roger inspects the H-Dial. “So I was thinking, this thing’s gotta have someone that teleports, right? We can just… cycle through until we get one who can zap everyone out of here! Outside Fairfax. Or, like someone who can disguise all of you; Vicki said one of the creeps from last night was making it so she couldn’t see anyone in town.”
Robby slows him down, taking the Dial away from him and setting it aside. “Heroes with powers like that come once in a blue moon, and I do mean ‘once’. I had the Dial for three years before Maquette, and I’m telling you the only time I got a hero on the level you’re describing was with The Prime Mover. Now she was somethin’ else.”
A nostalgic twinkle enters his eyes, bemusing the kids.
“I was listening to my radio, and the Siren Gang was robbing a bank all the way over in Granite City, but she helped me get there and stop them in a matter of-“
“I’m sorry…” Vicki snorts, making a time-out “T” with her hands and exchanging a look with Glinda. “… You got a ‘she’?”
Robby takes a seat. “The Dial works in mysterious ways,” he enlightens her, a little too seriously.
Vicki lets up on ribbing him. “Right. About that: It was making me say Saturday morning cartoon catchphrases..? Basically as painful as the guy that disintegrated part of my leg.”
“The heroes have their own personalities that you have to make space for. If you stay on the line for as long as I did, you can work past it. But eh, the one-liners are more or less a feature of the H-Dial that’s here to stay. It’s a packaged deal.”
Vicki nods wryly. “Awesome. And by ‘awesome,’ I mean ‘that majorly blows.’”
“We really need to get going now, guys.” Chris recommends. “Remember, Glinda especially-“
Roger hops off his boulder. “Yeah, agreed.”
Glinda pats down her pack to make certain there was no more food to leave. “Do we have…”
“Hey,” Robby whips around. “Which one of you took the Dial-“
“… Frannie?”
The gang looks behind themselves, as one. She was loitering near the tunnel by which to exit.
The H-ring on the Dial is pulled back in her hand.
Letting go of the mechanism, the rotary phone ignites into a shower of neon sparks. It consumes itself in a collapsing cyclone, and where once was Frannie, a sleek and scarlet being emerges from the pinkish fog.
“Frannie.”
With the Dial, and without a word, the newly-summoned hero splits away for the tunnel in a puff of dust, impossibly fast, and she blinks out of sight.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Tayside Regional Council's ...that's Dundee's to you and me... no. 190 was a long-wheelbase Bristol VRT with Alexander body. As far as I remember the VRTLL was rather uncommon. Many, perhaps all, of the VRTs bought by the Scottish Bus Group were long ones, all of them ending up in England among subsidiaries of the NBC. Offhand, the only others I remember were Reading's ...but I know there were more. These didn't last very long in Dundee.
From memory, and without flying to Google Maps, this was Nethergate High Street, Dundee. Correction from locals is welcomed. It was Tuesday 26th June 1979. That's me ol' mate Muttley across the street there, outside the Bradford & Bingley, about to raise his own camera. We were both on the buses in Bristol. He went with me on a few of my bus-snapping trips, but he was saving up to get married and was borasic most of the time. He can be seen in the background of quite a lot of these photos. I used to be slightly irritated by his Bristol-ECW fundamentalism and was probably hoping to broaden his outlook by exposing him to Bristols without ECW bodies. Somewhere along here he went in Boots to buy film. The girl behind the counter gave him a Scottish pound note in his change. "Bloody Toytown money", he complained to me rather tactlessly, I felt, with the assistant still in earshot. "Och, it's better than yoors", she called out to our retreating backs. Good for her, too.
I got in touch with again him a week or two ago ...Facebook, of course... and got on the blower for a chinwag. I last spoke to him in 1980. He's a good sort ...if he couldn't do you a good turn he wouldn't do you a bad one. He'd bought his camera from a driver at Lawrence Hill, old sweat Harry James, a veteran of the desert campaign. I asked him on the phone if he could remember what it was. I didn't really expect him to, but he knew straight away: it was a Zeiss Werramat. I'd quite like one myself these days.
Port Isaac, was a busy coastal port from the Middle Ages to the mid 19th. century when it was an active harbour where cargoes like stone, coal, timber and pottery were loaded and unloaded.
Fishing and fish-processing were also important and today there are still fishermen working from here although tourism plays an increasingly important role.
Most of the old centre of the village consists of 18th. and 19th. century cottages, many officially listed as of architectural or historic importance, along narrow alleys and 'opes' winding down steep hillsides.
The Village of Port Isaac, was frequently used as a 'set' for filming the Poldark series, and 'Nightmare Man' where it was beautifully depicted albeit as a village in the Hebrides!
More recently the Port Isaac has become associated with the TV series 'Doc Martin' ( in which Port Isaac was tranformed into the fictional Port Wenn) and the Film ' Saving Grace'.
Doc Martin a British television comedy drama starred Martin Clunes as a doctor whose tactless manner causes mayhem in the small Cornish community of Port Wenn. Created by Dominic Minghella, The series was filmed on location in the village of Port Isaac, North Cornwall, with filming of most interior scenes and production carried out in a converted barn at a local farm. martin Clunes plays surgeon Martin Ellingham, whose glittering career comes crashing down around him when he develops a phobia which prevents him conducting operations.
Saving Grace was a comedy/crime film, starring Brenda Blethyn, Craig Ferguson and Martin Clunes filmed in 2000. After Grace Trevethyn's husband commits suicide, he leaves her in economic ruins, Grace left by herself is now facing loosing her house because all the money her husband owed. Together with her gardener she uses her plant-cultivation ability to grow marijuana.
Amy Foster or Swept from the Sea has it was called when released in America, is a 1997 movie based on a 1903 story, Amy Foster by Joseph Conrad. It stars Rachel Weisz, Vincent Perez, Ian McKellen, Kathy Bates and Zoe Wanamaker and was directed by Beeban Kidron. The story concerns a Russian, unable to speak English but able to play chess, shipwrecked on the coast of Cornwall on his way to America.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
TRP: what's your sign?
Thnx Punk for the theme of today, I had to do this one, 'cause well my name "Aqua Libra" is a combination of my sign.....Aqaurius, and the sign of my sweet girlfriend .....Libra......
This is what they say about AQUARIUS:
positive: Friendly and humanitarian, Honest and loyal, Original and inventive, Independent and intellectual
negative: Intractable and contrary, Perverse and unpredictable, Unemotional and detached
likes: Fighting for Causes, Dreaming and Planning for the Future, Thinking of the Past, Good Companions, Having Fun
dislikes: Full of Air Promises, Excessive Loneliness, The Ordinary, Imitations, Idealistic
They are often misunderstood and are considered ?different? because of their tendency toward aloofness. They can be friendly, original, intuitive, helpful, as well as impersonal, tactless, eccentric. They rarely seek approval or complements, since they are not ego-oriented.
They desire to bring about changes by replacing old ideas for new innovative ones. They are the inventors of the zodiac. Many presidents and famous inventors have been Aquarians.
They sometimes deliberately try to shock people. They are freedom-loving, but rarely allow others the same freedom. They have many friends, but few intimate ones.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
IN MANY years as a foreign correspondent, quite often in scrapes, Bagehot only once troubled Her Majesty’s representatives overseas for help. This was in Kigali, six years ago, after Rwandan agents looted his hotel room.
Ignoring two passports and several hundred dollars in cash, they stole the fruits of a three-week research trip through neighbouring Congo—notebooks filled with accounts of the massacres and rapine carried out by Rwandan soldiers there during the previous decade. Using software that is not commercially available, they also evaded the security settings on a laptop computer belonging to The Economist and erased its contents.
In this section The lessons of Boris
It was annoying, not least because as a British taxpayer your columnist was helping pay the thieves’ salaries. Rwanda, a fly-speck central African country, with 10m people and of no strategic interest for Britain, has in recent years received over half a billion pounds of British aid: far more than it has had from any other country. Hence Bagehot’s hopeful request to Britain’s envoy to help retrieve his stolen belongings. Fat chance of that. The ambassador appeared not to believe that President Paul Kagame’s government would stoop to such a trick.
Yet it was clear then, and has become clearer since, that it is one of Africa’s most ruthless, repressive and belligerent regimes. It is also tactless; last year British sleuths uncovered a Rwandan plot to kill two dissidents in London, one of them a Liberal Democrat activist. But Britain’s Department for International Development (DFID) still backs Mr Kagame. After he was shown to have armed his umpteenth uprising in Congo earlier this year, Rwanda’s other main donors, including the EU and Sweden, froze all or part of their largesse. So did Britain; but then DFID’s departing boss, Andrew Mitchell, used his last day in the job in September to slip Rwanda £16m ($26m). Mr Mitchell does not much like Lib Dems either. Still, what was he thinking of?
His successor, Justine Greening, now has this and bigger questions to worry about. A decision to protect DFID’s budget against cuts was one of the coalition government’s boldest policies—a matter of both conviction and strategy. It chimed with David Cameron’s benign paternalism and with the prime minister’s bid to make the Conservative Party appear more compassionate. Yet the longer Britain’s economic doldrums endure, the more controversial this exemption seems.
Right-wingers are seething. “Monster behind genocide and rape squads” ran a headline in the influential Daily Mail newspaper, above a photo of Mr Kagame campaigning for a recent presidential election—which he won with 93% of the vote. Other parts of DFID’s spending are also under attack, including £280m a year given to India, a country with an aid programme (and space programme) of its own. Lord Ashcroft, a Tory tycoon, senses a “growing fury over giving away ever-increasing sums to foreigners”. Polls suggest he may be right: almost half of Britons, according to the latest by YouGov, support the notion that “Britain should look after itself, and leave poorer countries to sort themselves out.”
That there are not more of these curmudgeons is testament to one of Britain’s more laudable features: a philanthropic concern for the world that has survived its shrinking global influence. As a share of gross national product, Britain gives three times more aid than America and 50% more than Germany. Its charity also comes with few strings. France channels much of its aid to its African clients; DFID is forbidden by law to take British national interest into account. For this and other reasons, development wonks (which Britain has in abundance) praise DFID richly. Far from incompetent—as its critics say it is—it frequently comes up in Whitehall audits as the government’s best performer. Seeking to trumpet these achievements, Mr Mitchell went so far as to call Britain a “development superpower”.
Paved with good intentions
That was an ill-chosen phrase, because power suggests influence, which DFID has little of. Poverty reduction, not influence, is its forte, which is why it has kept faith with Mr Kagame. His regime may be repressive but it uses aid well; between 2006 and 2011 Rwanda cut its poverty rate by almost 12 percentage points. Yet this progress has come at some cost to DFID’s reputation, and, in a violent region, will be reversible so long as Mr Kagame continues to stamp on dissent. Britain’s donations to India, not dissimilarly, are also easy to justify in the narrowest development terms. Despite its growing wealth, India has more poor than Africa and a state that is largely incapable of serving them. Yet the country’s new wealth makes DFID’s support to India anomalous. It appears illogical to many Britons and humiliates India. The country’s president, Pranab Mukherjee, has rudely derided Britain’s alms as “a peanut”.
Contrary to what many wonks wish to believe, politics and development are inseparable, for the donor as well as the recipient. Ms Greening appears to recognise this. In a spirit of self-preservation, she has tightened her control of DFID’s spending, launched an inquiry into Britain’s support for Rwanda and is expected to announce a large reduction in British aid to India on November 9th. She is right to do so: if the department’s mostly well-spent budget cannot be justified both at home and abroad it is liable to be slashed.
That would not only be a loss to the poor people who might benefit from it. Britain also gains from its prowess in dispensing aid, albeit in a vaguer way than Mr Mitchell’s talk of his department as a superpower suggested. To continue punching above its weight in the world, as its economic and military advantages shrink, the country will need other areas of expertise such as this. One admiring foreign diplomat even suggests DFID’s strengths semi-justify Britain’s permanent seat in the UN Security Council. All the more reason for Britain to give more carefully.
The Get Rich Slowly Philosophy
Published on - April 15th, 2010 (Modified on - November 3rd, 2010) (by J.D. Roth)
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There’s been an influx of new readers at Get Rich Slowly lately. To serve as an intro the new folks (and to celebrate the site’s fourth anniversary, and in honor of Financial Literacy Month), today I’m going to review my financial philosophy. Although we covered each of these points in turn last autumn, it’s been a while since I collected these core values in one location.
Based on my research — and my experience with what does and doesn’t work — I’ve compiled a list of fourteen guidelines that form the basis of everything I write. Some of these tenets draw on age-old wisdom: “Saving must be a priority” is just the ancient truth that you’ve got to “pay yourself first”, for example. But other rules — such as “do what works for you” — I came up with based on my own struggles.
Here, then, are the fourteen tenets of the Get Rich Slowly philosophy:
Money is more about mind than it is about math. That is, financial success is more about mastering the mental game of money than about understanding the numbers. The math of personal finance is simple — spend less than you earn — it’s controlling your habits and emotions that’s difficult.
The road to wealth is paved with goals. Without financial goals, you have no direction. If you have no direction, it’s easy to spend money on things you’ll regret later. But if you’re saving for a house, your daughter’s college education, or a trip to Europe, your goal will keep you focused, making it easier to spend on what’s important and ignore the things that aren’t.
To build wealth, you must spend less than you earn. Basic math, yes, but it’s important. Successful personal finance is all about building positive cash flow. By decreasing your spending while increasing your income, you can get out of debt and build wealth.
Saving must be a priority. Before you pay your bills, before you buy groceries, before you do anything else, you should set aside some part of your income. If you have to start small, start small. Even $25 a month is good. As you earn more and develop better habits, save as much as possible. (My wife saves nearly a third of her paycheck!)
Small amounts matter. Your everyday habits have a huge impact on your financial success. Frugality and thrift help build good habits, and make a real difference over time. Plus, there are tons of opportunities to flex your frugal muscles.
Large amounts matter, too. It’s good to clip coupons and to save money on groceries, but it’s even better to save on the big stuff like buying a car or a house. By making smart choices on big-ticket items, you can save thousands of dollars at once.
Slow and steady wins the race. The most successful folks are those who work longest and hardest at things they love to do. So try to find ways to make frugality fun, and recognize that you’re in this for the long haul. You’re making a lifestyle change, not looking for a quick fix.
The perfect is the enemy of the good. Too many people never get started putting their finances in order because they don’t know that the “best” first step is. Don’t worry about getting things exactly right — just choose a good option and do something to get started.
Failure is okay. Everyone makes mistakes — even billionaires like Warren Buffett. Don’t let one slip-up drag you down. One key difference between those who succeed and those who don’t is the ability to recover from a setback and keep marching toward a goal. Use failures to learn what not to do next time.
Do what works for you. Each of us is different. We have different goals, personalities, and experiences. We each need to find the tools and techniques that are effective for our own situations. There’s no one right way to save, invest, pay off debt, or buy a house — and don’t believe anyone who tells you there is. Experiment until you find methods that are effective for you.
Financial balance lets you enjoy tomorrow and today. Being smart with money isn’t about giving up your plasma TV or your daily latte. It’s about setting priorities and managing expectations, about choosing to spend only on the things that matter to you, while cutting costs on the things that don’t.
Action beats inaction. It’s easy to put things off, but the sooner you start moving toward your goals, the easier they’ll be to reach. It’s better to start with small steps today than to wait for that someday when you’ll be able to make great strides. Get moving.
Nobody cares more about your money than you do. The advice that others give you is almost always in their best interest, which may or may not be the same as your best interest. Don’t do what others tell you just because they hold a position of authority or seem to have a persuasive argument. Do your own research, get advice from a variety of sources, and in the end, make your own decisions based on your own goals and values.
It’s more important to be happy than it is to be rich. Don’t be obsessed with money — it won’t buy you happiness. Sure, money will give you more options in life, but true wealth is about something more. True wealth is about relationships, good health, and ongoing self-improvement.
The most important of these tenets — and this site’s motto — used to be “do what works for you”. But as I wrote Your Money: The Missing Manual, I realized the book’s theme was “nobody cares more about your money than you do”. And that’s the actual core value here at Get Rich Slowly. My philosophy — on this site and in my book — is all about taking an active role in your financial future, about becoming your own financial guru.
Addendum: There’s now a fifteenth point to the Get Rich Slowly philosophy. Namely, you can have anything you want — but you can’t have everything you want.
I talk a lot about my financial philosophy, but don’t know if I’ve ever asked about your financial philosophies. So, tell me: What money rules do you live by? What are the fundamental tenets of your fiscal life?
The whole series of 'Family morning' can be seen on my blog.
There is a certain conviction in the society that in order be happy and full one must build up a family. That is why probably a lot of you have heard a rather tactless question to my mind: 'When are you going to build up your own family?'
People get used to live in families. A desire to create a family is not surprising. It is hidden not only in notorious expression 'together easier, than alone', but also in objective opportunity to feel yourself a part of, learn to share, give love and kindness. Family protects, gives a sense of value, rescues from loneliness.
People are different and so are families. What can be a taboo in one family, can be easily accepted in the other. There is no one universal standard. Personal life is one's own business.
Family should be not appreciated as something given or imposed. It is your conscious choice. You choose your own couple. You choose a harmonious life. You choose a happy being.
At the end family is not an important thing. Family is everything.
Mityaev's family in the pictures
| blog
This reconstructed ruin called the Arch de Triumph, perfectly frames the mid afternoon sun. Taken at the MacKenzie King Estate in Gatineau Quebec, about a 30 minute drive north of Ottawa. King was the longest-serving Prime Minister in Canadian history in power from 1921 to 1948 (except 1935-40). According to his biographers, King lacked the typical personal attributes of great leaders, especially in comparison with Franklin D. Roosevelt of the U.S., Winston Churchill of Great Britain, Charles de Gaulle of France. Voters did not love him. He lacked charisma, a commanding presence or oratorical skills; he did not shine on radio or in newsreels. His best writing was academic. Cold and tactless in human relations, he had allies but very few close personal friends; he never married and lacked a hostess whose charm could substitute for his chill. His allies were annoyed by his constant intrigues. He kept secret his beliefs in spiritualism and use of mediums to stay in contact with departed associates and particularly with his mother, and allowed his intense spirituality to distort his understanding of Adolf Hitler. (Wiki)
One of his eccentric pastimes was the collections of ruins and their reconstruction at his estate in Gatineau. Some of the stones were salvaged from the fire that destroyed the Parliament Buildings in 1916, while others were obtained from fragments of the British Houses of Parliament.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
This is actually very personal for me, but I think that it is part of the 'healing process' and having the whole wide world (or a comparatively inconsequential percentage of it) being aware of my problem is more likely to discourage it from getting worse. And if this photograph encourages somebody to get help; to stop; to realise how awful and painful and agonising this is, all the better.
First off, if you have an eating disorder, or if you think you have one, get help for it.
It is VERY difficult to get better on your own.
Or even with help.
A common misconception about eating disorders is that they are not an authoritative affliction; that they are conventionally experienced by superficial teenage girls seeking attention.
While that description may be apt in particular contexts, like most psychological or physical disorders, unless you have experienced it yourself, the suffering experienced is absolutely incommunicable and incomprehensible.
To the people who know me who 'know,' they think that the solution is easy: eat something (I think it's incredibly tactless to say this to somebody with an eating disorder :\).
But every time you open up the refrigerator or cupboard, there is an impenetrable barrier.
It just seems impossible to stop.
Every time I think that I am recovering there is some type of relapse, something that sends me spiralling.
I have to get better.
I know I have to.
I WANT to get better.
(This will probably end up being some douchebag's 'thinspiration' later on, and I really don't want it to be.)
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
In Galle in Sri Lanka.
The three monks were out for a walk, and this guy (the photographer) really hounded them throughout for photos. It was annoying for me. The monks were clearly more patient.
EXPLORED
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Mijaíl Ivánovich Glinka (en ruso: Михаил Иванович Глинка; Novospásskoie, provincia de Smolensk, 1 de junio de 1804-Berlín, 15 de febrero de 1857) fue un compositor ruso, considerado el padre del nacionalismo musical ruso.
Durante sus viajes visitó España, donde conoció y admiró la música popular española, de la cual utilizó el estilo de la jota en su obra La jota aragonesa. Recuerdos de Castilla, basado en su prolífica estancia en Fresdelval, «Recuerdo de una noche de verano en Madrid», sobre la base de la obertura La noche en Madrid, son parte de su música orquestal. El método utilizado por Glinka para arreglar la forma y orquestación son influencia del folclore español. Las nuevas ideas de Glinka fueron plasmadas en “Las oberturas españolas”.
Glinka fue el primer compositor ruso en ser reconocido fuera de su país y, generalmente, se lo considera el 'padre' de la música rusa. Su trabajo ejerció una gran influencia en las generaciones siguientes de compositores de su país.
Sus obras más conocidas son las óperas Una vida por el Zar (1836), la primera ópera nacionalista rusa, y Ruslán y Liudmila (1842), cuyo libreto fue escrito por Aleksandr Pushkin y su obertura se suele interpretar en las salas de concierto. En Una vida por el Zar alternan arias de tipo italiano con melodías populares rusas. No obstante, la alta sociedad occidentalizada no admitió fácilmente esa intrusión de "lo vulgar" en un género tradicional como la ópera.
Sus obras orquestales son menos conocidas.
Inspiró a un grupo de compositores a reunirse (más tarde, serían conocidos como "los cinco": Modest Músorgski, Nikolái Rimski-Kórsakov, Aleksandr Borodín, Cesar Cui, Mili Balákirev) para crear música basada en la cultura rusa. Este grupo, más tarde, fundaría la Escuela Nacionalista Rusa. Es innegable la influencia de Glinka en otros compositores como Vasili Kalínnikov, Mijaíl Ippolítov-Ivánov, y aún en Piotr Chaikovski.
es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mijaíl_Glinka
es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Los_Cinco_(compositores)
Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka (Russian: Михаил Иванович Глинка; 1 June [O.S. 20 May] 1804 – 15 February [O.S. 3 February] 1857) was the first Russian composer to gain wide recognition within his own country, and is often regarded as the fountainhead of Russian classical music. Glinka's compositions were an important influence on future Russian composers, notably the members of The Five, who took Glinka's lead and produced a distinctive Russian style of music.
Glinka was born in the village of Novospasskoye, not far from the Desna River in the Smolensk Governorate of the Russian Empire (now in the Yelninsky District of the Smolensk Oblast). His wealthy father had retired as an army captain, and the family had a strong tradition of loyalty and service to the tsars, while several members of his extended family had also developed a lively interest in culture. His great-great-grandfather was a Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth nobleman, Wiktoryn Władysław Glinka of the Trzaska coat of arms.
As a small child, Mikhail was raised by his over-protective and pampering paternal grandmother, who fed him sweets, wrapped him in furs, and confined him to her room, which was always to be kept at 25 °C (77 °F); accordingly, he developed a sickly disposition, later in his life retaining the services of numerous physicians, and often falling victim to a number of quacks. The only music he heard in his youthful confinement was the sounds of the village church bells and the folk songs of passing peasant choirs. The church bells were tuned to a dissonant chord and so his ears became used to strident harmony. While his nurse would sometimes sing folksongs, the peasant choirs who sang using the podgolosochnaya technique (an improvised style – literally under the voice – which uses improvised dissonant harmonies below the melody) influenced the way he later felt free to emancipate himself from the smooth progressions of Western harmony. After his grandmother's death, Glinka moved to his maternal uncle's estate some 10 kilometres (6 mi) away, and was able to hear his uncle's orchestra, whose repertoire included pieces by Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. At the age of about ten he heard them play a clarinet quartet by the Finnish composer Bernhard Henrik Crusell. It had a profound effect upon him. "Music is my soul", he wrote many years later, recalling this experience. While his governess taught him Russian, German, French, and geography, he also received instruction on the piano and the violin.
At the age of 13, Glinka went to the capital, Saint Petersburg, to study at a school for children of the nobility. Here he learned Latin, English, and Persian, studied mathematics and zoology, and considerably widened his musical experience. He had three piano lessons from John Field, the Irish composer of nocturnes, who spent some time in Saint Petersburg. He then continued his piano lessons with Charles Mayer and began composing.
When he left school his father wanted him to join the Foreign Office, and he was appointed assistant secretary of the Department of Public Highways. The work was light, which allowed Glinka to settle into the life of a musical dilettante, frequenting the drawing rooms and social gatherings of the city. He was already composing a large amount of music, such as melancholy romances which amused the rich amateurs. His songs are among the most interesting part of his output from this period.
In 1830, at the recommendation of a physician, Glinka decided to travel to Italy with the tenor Nikolai Kuzmich Ivanov. The journey took a leisurely pace, ambling uneventfully through Germany and Switzerland, before they settled in Milan. There, Glinka took lessons at the conservatory with Francesco Basili, although he struggled with counterpoint, which he found irksome. Although he spent his three years in Italy listening to singers of the day, romancing women with his music, and meeting many famous people including Mendelssohn and Berlioz, he became disenchanted with Italy. He realized that his mission in life was to return to Russia, write in a Russian manner, and do for Russian music what Donizetti and Bellini had done for Italian music. His return route took him through the Alps, and he stopped for a while in Vienna, where he heard the music of Franz Liszt. He stayed for another five months in Berlin, during which time he studied composition under the distinguished teacher Siegfried Dehn. A Capriccio on Russian themes for piano duet and an unfinished Symphony on two Russian themes were important products of this period.
When word reached Glinka of his father's death in 1834, he left Berlin and returned to Novospasskoye.
While in Berlin, Glinka had become enamored with a beautiful and talented singer, for whom he composed Six Studies for Contralto. He contrived a plan to return to her, but when his sister's German maid turned up without the necessary paperwork to cross to the border with him, he abandoned his plan as well as his love and turned north for Saint Petersburg. There he reunited with his mother, and made the acquaintance of Maria Petrovna Ivanova. After he courted her for a brief period, the two married. The marriage was short-lived, as Maria was tactless and uninterested in his music. Although his initial fondness for her was said to have inspired the trio in the first act of opera A Life for the Tsar (1836), his naturally sweet disposition coarsened under the constant nagging of his wife and her mother. After separating, she remarried. Glinka moved in with his mother, and later with his sister, Lyudmila Shestakova.
A Life for the Tsar was the first of Glinka's two great operas. It was originally entitled Ivan Susanin. Set in 1612, it tells the story of the Russian peasant and patriotic hero Ivan Susanin who sacrifices his life for the Tsar by leading astray a group of marauding Poles who were hunting him. The Tsar himself followed the work's progress with interest and suggested the change in the title. It was a great success at its premiere on 9 December 1836, under the direction of Catterino Cavos, who had written an opera on the same subject in Italy. Although the music is still more Italianate than Russian, Glinka shows superb handling of the recitative which binds the whole work, and the orchestration is masterly, foreshadowing the orchestral writing of later Russian composers. The Tsar rewarded Glinka for his work with a ring valued at 4,000 rubles. (During the Soviet era, the opera was staged under its original title Ivan Susanin).
In 1837, Glinka was installed as the instructor of the Imperial Chapel Choir, with a yearly salary of 25,000 rubles, and lodging at the court. In 1838, at the suggestion of the Tsar, he went off to Ukraine to gather new voices for the choir; the 19 new boys he found earned him another 1,500 rubles from the Tsar.
He soon embarked on his second opera: Ruslan and Lyudmila. The plot, based on the tale by Alexander Pushkin, was concocted in 15 minutes by Konstantin Bakhturin, a poet who was drunk at the time. Consequently, the opera is a dramatic muddle, yet the quality of Glinka's music is higher than in A Life for the Tsar. He uses a descending whole tone scale in the famous overture. This is associated with the villainous dwarf Chernomor who has abducted Lyudmila, daughter of the Prince of Kiev. There is much Italianate coloratura, and Act 3 contains several routine ballet numbers, but his great achievement in this opera lies in his use of folk melody which becomes thoroughly infused into the musical argument. Much of the borrowed folk material is oriental in origin. When it was first performed on 9 December 1842, it met with a cool reception, although it subsequently gained popularity.
Glinka went through a dejected year after the poor reception of Ruslan and Lyudmila. His spirits rose when he travelled to Paris and Spain. In Spain, Glinka met Don Pedro Fernández, who remained his secretary and companion for the last nine years of his life. In Paris, Hector Berlioz conducted some excerpts from Glinka’s operas and wrote an appreciative article about him. Glinka in turn admired Berlioz’s music and resolved to compose some fantasies pittoresques for orchestra. Another visit to Paris followed in 1852 where he spent two years, living quietly and making frequent visits to the botanical and zoological gardens. From there he moved to Berlin where, after five months, he died suddenly on 15 February 1857, following a cold. He was buried in Berlin but a few months later his body was taken to Saint Petersburg and re-interred in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Monastery.
Glinka was the beginning of a new direction in the development of music in Russia Musical culture arrived in Russia from Europe, and for the first time specifically Russian music began to appear, based on the European music culture, in the operas of the composer Mikhail Glinka. Different historical events were often used in the music, but for the first time they were presented in a realistic manner.
The first to note this new musical direction was Alexander Serov. He was then supported by his friend Vladimir Stasov, who became the theorist of this musical direction. This direction was developed later by composers of "The Five".
The modern Russian music critic Viktor Korshikov thus summed up: "There is not the development of Russian musical culture without...three operas – Ivan Soussanine, Ruslan and Ludmila and the Stone Guest have created Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin. Soussanine is an opera where the main character is the people, Ruslan is the mythical, deeply Russian intrigue, and in Guest, the drama dominates over the softness of the beauty of sound." Two of these operas – Ivan Soussanine and Ruslan and Ludmila – were composed by Glinka.
Since this time, the Russian culture began to occupy an increasingly prominent place in world culture.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail_Glinka
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Five_(composers)
Un réseau incroyable et incontournable !
Les stations sont certainement moins belles et décorées que celles de Paris ou Moscou mais elles sont propres, calmes et les wagons aérés ! Je n'ai jamais été incommodée par aucune mauvaise odeur ni personnages indélicats (!) et les gens qui l'empruntent sont d'une grande courtoisie, même serrés comme des sardines !
An incredible and major network !
Stations are certainly less beautiful and decorated that those of Paris or Moscow but them are clean, quiet ! I was never disturbed by any tactless people !
Sandal Castle, on the outskirts of the city of Wakefield, is somewhere I had wanted to visit for decades given its role in the Wars of the Roses and the 1460 Battle of Wakefield - which was fought just outside of it.
www.flickr.com/photos/barryslemmings/albums/7215771612361... to see full set.
A Norman motte and bailey castle - consisting of a pudding shaped mound (the motte) and a earth ditch and bank enclosure (the bailey) - it was built after William de Warrene, the 2nd earl of Surrey was granted the Wakefield estate in 1107. At that stage a timber tower or keep would have sat on the mound and the ditch and bank would have been topped with wooden palisade. In this respect it resembled the timber frontier forts of America during the 17th and 18th centuries. Later the wood was replaced in stone.
It should be pointed out that de Warrene’s father, also William, had earlier built the imposing motte and bailey which still exists at Castle Acre, In Norfolk. Having seen both castles it is clear that the first design influenced the second. Wakefield is “Castle Acre mark 2”.
Wakefield had two baileys but access to the top of the motte, its last refuge, was controlled by a circular barbican tower built in the centre of the caste. This centre barbican is almost unique in Britain as most are outside the castle’s main gate and normally act as ‘air locks’ to allow visitors to be checked or searched inside the first gate before that is closed behind them and the main gate is opened in front. In theory both gates are never open at the same time. Wakefield’s design suggests that the second William de Warrene may not have entirely trusted his own men and wanted to control access within the castle as much as he controlled access into the whole site.
As with other motte and bailey castles, such as Windsor, Warwick and Berkhampsted, the timber defences were later replaced in stone, during the 13th century, probably starting with the keep and working down into the bailey. Destruction during and after the 17th century English Civil War has removed much of the stone but what is left creates the picture of a solid and elegant building and a handsome seat for a regional or national lord. That national lord was eventually Richard, Duke of York.
In the mid 14th century the castle passed into the hands of King Edward III and came into the possession of his son Edmund of Langley, later created Duke of York (DoY) for his support of King Richard II. His son Edward DoY was one of the few English casualties at Agincourt in 1415 and his nephew was Richard 3rd DoY. It was Richard who fought to keep English possession of Normandy and - when that failed - he accused King Henry VI and his close supporter the Duke of Somerset of mismanagement and was then tactless enough to remind everyone that he (Richard) had a better claim to the throne than Henry.
King Henry’s persistent mental illness led to Richard DoY being put in charge as a Protector and his claims to the throne were even recognised as far as naming him heir, after Henry’s death. Unfortunately Henry had a son and a very truculent French wife, Margaret of Anjou, and neither wanted to see the crown pass to Richard and the York family.
Thus the scene was set for the so-called Wars of the Roses, an inaccurate term which I hate. After a disaster at Ludlow in 1459 Richard had bounced back with the support of the Nevilles - particularly Richard, the Earl of Warwick , and Richard the Earl Salisbury who was Warwick’s father.
Richard DoY appears to have been an able administrator, when he briefly held the reigns of power, and he might have made a good king. However that never happened. Two of the Richards, York and Salisbury, were wintering at Sandal Castle with an estimated 3000 to 8000 troops and looking to the north where hostile forces led by Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Clifford and a renegade Neville were gathering. There was a temporary Christmas truce and that truce still had several days to run when events turned against the Richards.
What happened next is unclear. The stories vary. Somehow the two Richards were lured out of the castle into the adjacent field which was surrounded by trees. In one version they go to assist a foraging party, in another they go to engage a small Lancastrian force and in another they go to greet a force displaying friendly colours led by the renegade Nevilles. Once out of the castle, the two Richards were hit on three sides by troops which had been concealed in the trees. Chronicler Edward Hall says the DoY was “caught like a fish in a net”.
Contemporary figures are 2,500 dead Yorkists and 200 dead Lancastrians. Richard DoY was killed in the fighting or suffered a battlefield execution. His son Edmund Earl of Rutland was killed on Wakefield bridge while fleeing, possibly killed personally by Lord Clifford in retaliation for the death of Clifford’s father at St Albans in 1455. Salisbury was captured later. Salisbury would probably have survived and probably been ransomed but unhappy tenants at Pontefract dragged him out of the castle and executed him themselves. It appears the Lancastrians were not over keen to protect him.
Lord Clifford only lasted another three months as he was killed the day before the huge Battle of Towton. Meanwhile Richard DoY’s three sons changed the family colours from father’s blue and white to blue and claret (blood red) to commemorate the death (martyrdom?) of their father and brother. These brothers were… Edward (later Edward IV), George Duke of Clarence (false, fleeting, perjured Clarence) and Richard of Gloucester (later Richard III). Together with the Earl of Warwick they would all be major players in the so-called Wars of the Roses.
I Better think of my answers now
because I know the questions with be asked
Like if I brought the joy I found in the confessions of a mask
The tip of my tongue's already touching the top of my mouth
It's meaning manifest in mercy
Burn it down, burn it down
Burn it down, burn it down
Burn it down, burn it down
Burning down the house
It's true that tactless teem totem-poles, turn tolerance to tired taboos
It's true that a bullet never knocks on the door, it's about to come crashing through
It's true that tactless teem totem-poles, turn tolerance to tired taboos
It's true that a bullet never knocks on the door, it's about to come crashing through
I'm walking one last mile in big steps as your alter-wine
(walking one last mile)
I'm doing it in tattered shoes that aren't even mine
Because my own are in a box locked up with possessions I can't have
Like the gunman with his future and the prison priest's golden calf
girl: walking one last mile
walking one last mile
- Protest the hero
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Mijaíl Ivánovich Glinka (en ruso: Михаил Иванович Глинка; Novospásskoie, provincia de Smolensk, 1 de junio de 1804-Berlín, 15 de febrero de 1857) fue un compositor ruso, considerado el padre del nacionalismo musical ruso.
Durante sus viajes visitó España, donde conoció y admiró la música popular española, de la cual utilizó el estilo de la jota en su obra La jota aragonesa. Recuerdos de Castilla, basado en su prolífica estancia en Fresdelval, «Recuerdo de una noche de verano en Madrid», sobre la base de la obertura La noche en Madrid, son parte de su música orquestal. El método utilizado por Glinka para arreglar la forma y orquestación son influencia del folclore español. Las nuevas ideas de Glinka fueron plasmadas en “Las oberturas españolas”.
Glinka fue el primer compositor ruso en ser reconocido fuera de su país y, generalmente, se lo considera el 'padre' de la música rusa. Su trabajo ejerció una gran influencia en las generaciones siguientes de compositores de su país.
Sus obras más conocidas son las óperas Una vida por el Zar (1836), la primera ópera nacionalista rusa, y Ruslán y Liudmila (1842), cuyo libreto fue escrito por Aleksandr Pushkin y su obertura se suele interpretar en las salas de concierto. En Una vida por el Zar alternan arias de tipo italiano con melodías populares rusas. No obstante, la alta sociedad occidentalizada no admitió fácilmente esa intrusión de "lo vulgar" en un género tradicional como la ópera.
Sus obras orquestales son menos conocidas.
Inspiró a un grupo de compositores a reunirse (más tarde, serían conocidos como "los cinco": Modest Músorgski, Nikolái Rimski-Kórsakov, Aleksandr Borodín, Cesar Cui, Mili Balákirev) para crear música basada en la cultura rusa. Este grupo, más tarde, fundaría la Escuela Nacionalista Rusa. Es innegable la influencia de Glinka en otros compositores como Vasili Kalínnikov, Mijaíl Ippolítov-Ivánov, y aún en Piotr Chaikovski.
es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mijaíl_Glinka
es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Los_Cinco_(compositores)
Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka (Russian: Михаил Иванович Глинка; 1 June [O.S. 20 May] 1804 – 15 February [O.S. 3 February] 1857) was the first Russian composer to gain wide recognition within his own country, and is often regarded as the fountainhead of Russian classical music. Glinka's compositions were an important influence on future Russian composers, notably the members of The Five, who took Glinka's lead and produced a distinctive Russian style of music.
Glinka was born in the village of Novospasskoye, not far from the Desna River in the Smolensk Governorate of the Russian Empire (now in the Yelninsky District of the Smolensk Oblast). His wealthy father had retired as an army captain, and the family had a strong tradition of loyalty and service to the tsars, while several members of his extended family had also developed a lively interest in culture. His great-great-grandfather was a Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth nobleman, Wiktoryn Władysław Glinka of the Trzaska coat of arms.
As a small child, Mikhail was raised by his over-protective and pampering paternal grandmother, who fed him sweets, wrapped him in furs, and confined him to her room, which was always to be kept at 25 °C (77 °F); accordingly, he developed a sickly disposition, later in his life retaining the services of numerous physicians, and often falling victim to a number of quacks. The only music he heard in his youthful confinement was the sounds of the village church bells and the folk songs of passing peasant choirs. The church bells were tuned to a dissonant chord and so his ears became used to strident harmony. While his nurse would sometimes sing folksongs, the peasant choirs who sang using the podgolosochnaya technique (an improvised style – literally under the voice – which uses improvised dissonant harmonies below the melody) influenced the way he later felt free to emancipate himself from the smooth progressions of Western harmony. After his grandmother's death, Glinka moved to his maternal uncle's estate some 10 kilometres (6 mi) away, and was able to hear his uncle's orchestra, whose repertoire included pieces by Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. At the age of about ten he heard them play a clarinet quartet by the Finnish composer Bernhard Henrik Crusell. It had a profound effect upon him. "Music is my soul", he wrote many years later, recalling this experience. While his governess taught him Russian, German, French, and geography, he also received instruction on the piano and the violin.
At the age of 13, Glinka went to the capital, Saint Petersburg, to study at a school for children of the nobility. Here he learned Latin, English, and Persian, studied mathematics and zoology, and considerably widened his musical experience. He had three piano lessons from John Field, the Irish composer of nocturnes, who spent some time in Saint Petersburg. He then continued his piano lessons with Charles Mayer and began composing.
When he left school his father wanted him to join the Foreign Office, and he was appointed assistant secretary of the Department of Public Highways. The work was light, which allowed Glinka to settle into the life of a musical dilettante, frequenting the drawing rooms and social gatherings of the city. He was already composing a large amount of music, such as melancholy romances which amused the rich amateurs. His songs are among the most interesting part of his output from this period.
In 1830, at the recommendation of a physician, Glinka decided to travel to Italy with the tenor Nikolai Kuzmich Ivanov. The journey took a leisurely pace, ambling uneventfully through Germany and Switzerland, before they settled in Milan. There, Glinka took lessons at the conservatory with Francesco Basili, although he struggled with counterpoint, which he found irksome. Although he spent his three years in Italy listening to singers of the day, romancing women with his music, and meeting many famous people including Mendelssohn and Berlioz, he became disenchanted with Italy. He realized that his mission in life was to return to Russia, write in a Russian manner, and do for Russian music what Donizetti and Bellini had done for Italian music. His return route took him through the Alps, and he stopped for a while in Vienna, where he heard the music of Franz Liszt. He stayed for another five months in Berlin, during which time he studied composition under the distinguished teacher Siegfried Dehn. A Capriccio on Russian themes for piano duet and an unfinished Symphony on two Russian themes were important products of this period.
When word reached Glinka of his father's death in 1834, he left Berlin and returned to Novospasskoye.
While in Berlin, Glinka had become enamored with a beautiful and talented singer, for whom he composed Six Studies for Contralto. He contrived a plan to return to her, but when his sister's German maid turned up without the necessary paperwork to cross to the border with him, he abandoned his plan as well as his love and turned north for Saint Petersburg. There he reunited with his mother, and made the acquaintance of Maria Petrovna Ivanova. After he courted her for a brief period, the two married. The marriage was short-lived, as Maria was tactless and uninterested in his music. Although his initial fondness for her was said to have inspired the trio in the first act of opera A Life for the Tsar (1836), his naturally sweet disposition coarsened under the constant nagging of his wife and her mother. After separating, she remarried. Glinka moved in with his mother, and later with his sister, Lyudmila Shestakova.
A Life for the Tsar was the first of Glinka's two great operas. It was originally entitled Ivan Susanin. Set in 1612, it tells the story of the Russian peasant and patriotic hero Ivan Susanin who sacrifices his life for the Tsar by leading astray a group of marauding Poles who were hunting him. The Tsar himself followed the work's progress with interest and suggested the change in the title. It was a great success at its premiere on 9 December 1836, under the direction of Catterino Cavos, who had written an opera on the same subject in Italy. Although the music is still more Italianate than Russian, Glinka shows superb handling of the recitative which binds the whole work, and the orchestration is masterly, foreshadowing the orchestral writing of later Russian composers. The Tsar rewarded Glinka for his work with a ring valued at 4,000 rubles. (During the Soviet era, the opera was staged under its original title Ivan Susanin).
In 1837, Glinka was installed as the instructor of the Imperial Chapel Choir, with a yearly salary of 25,000 rubles, and lodging at the court. In 1838, at the suggestion of the Tsar, he went off to Ukraine to gather new voices for the choir; the 19 new boys he found earned him another 1,500 rubles from the Tsar.
He soon embarked on his second opera: Ruslan and Lyudmila. The plot, based on the tale by Alexander Pushkin, was concocted in 15 minutes by Konstantin Bakhturin, a poet who was drunk at the time. Consequently, the opera is a dramatic muddle, yet the quality of Glinka's music is higher than in A Life for the Tsar. He uses a descending whole tone scale in the famous overture. This is associated with the villainous dwarf Chernomor who has abducted Lyudmila, daughter of the Prince of Kiev. There is much Italianate coloratura, and Act 3 contains several routine ballet numbers, but his great achievement in this opera lies in his use of folk melody which becomes thoroughly infused into the musical argument. Much of the borrowed folk material is oriental in origin. When it was first performed on 9 December 1842, it met with a cool reception, although it subsequently gained popularity.
Glinka went through a dejected year after the poor reception of Ruslan and Lyudmila. His spirits rose when he travelled to Paris and Spain. In Spain, Glinka met Don Pedro Fernández, who remained his secretary and companion for the last nine years of his life. In Paris, Hector Berlioz conducted some excerpts from Glinka’s operas and wrote an appreciative article about him. Glinka in turn admired Berlioz’s music and resolved to compose some fantasies pittoresques for orchestra. Another visit to Paris followed in 1852 where he spent two years, living quietly and making frequent visits to the botanical and zoological gardens. From there he moved to Berlin where, after five months, he died suddenly on 15 February 1857, following a cold. He was buried in Berlin but a few months later his body was taken to Saint Petersburg and re-interred in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky Monastery.
Glinka was the beginning of a new direction in the development of music in Russia Musical culture arrived in Russia from Europe, and for the first time specifically Russian music began to appear, based on the European music culture, in the operas of the composer Mikhail Glinka. Different historical events were often used in the music, but for the first time they were presented in a realistic manner.
The first to note this new musical direction was Alexander Serov. He was then supported by his friend Vladimir Stasov, who became the theorist of this musical direction. This direction was developed later by composers of "The Five".
The modern Russian music critic Viktor Korshikov thus summed up: "There is not the development of Russian musical culture without...three operas – Ivan Soussanine, Ruslan and Ludmila and the Stone Guest have created Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin. Soussanine is an opera where the main character is the people, Ruslan is the mythical, deeply Russian intrigue, and in Guest, the drama dominates over the softness of the beauty of sound." Two of these operas – Ivan Soussanine and Ruslan and Ludmila – were composed by Glinka.
Since this time, the Russian culture began to occupy an increasingly prominent place in world culture.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail_Glinka
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Five_(composers)