February 29th - Bachelor's Day - Postscript
The years have skidded by, like clouds over the Sussex Downs.
Aphrodite moved out of her flat the day after she'd come to mine. She moved to Denmark Hill in London before I'd had a chance to even speak with her. Her friends were loyal and mine were dumbfounded.
Every leap year I would recall the whole day in painful and pointless detail. Every year I would make sure I had fresh coffee, croissants and flowers. I made sure my friends all had my latest address. I even tidied my rooms and if it was a work day then I'd either book it off or phone in sick.
Every leap year, I waited for her to come and to ask me the question.
I am home all day today. I have coffee, croissants and flowers.
Saturday, 29 February 2020
The Island of Pointless Romantic Gestures (Recollections #2)
February 29th - Bachelor's Day
The sun had risen over Langney Point, the Unigate Dairy milk floats had spread all over the postcodes and retreated as slowly as they came and the morning paper rounds had been completed.
The faded green curtains shared a glimpse of the courtyard outside and wild spread white sheets inside. My bedroom was on the first floor at the top of the stairs and could be reached via the ground floor kitchen and front door.
Most week day visitors used to start arriving after midday, except Thursdays when friends and or others would come an hour or so earlier, dependent on how long the queue at the dole office was. Today was a Friday though - Friday 29th February.
Aphrodite and I had been together for just over 3 years (exactly 3 Valentine Days + 15 x 24hr in fact). She was beautiful, relatively tall, very blonde and what film directors used to call gamine. I was ridiculously lucky that she even bothered to talk to me, let alone that she was prepared to be seen in public with me and the fact that she was happy for us to sleep together was beyond comprehension.
Normally (unless she was at mine or me at hers) we'd wait until she'd finished her morning's writing and her brutally brisk walk to and from Beachy Head. I was sort of awake, that sort of not really awake at all awake. I heard soft footsteps on the stairs, the door opened and there she was captured in the door frame like a blonde Holly G at Tiffany's. Aphrodite stopped and smiled and raised a coffee and a smile.
"Happy Bachelor's Day, Boy".
She always called me Boy even though I was a good 4 years older than her. She flung my copy of 'A Happy Death' on the floor from the pillow (for a writer she was surprisingly rough with books). She cleared a small space on the bedside table and plonked the coffees down. She rustled in her battered BEA rucksack and pulled out a greaseproof bag that revealed two hot croissants.
"A morning picnic today, Boy". She said. At the same time dipping her head in for the most delicate of kisses.
"Wow, that very thoughtful of you. What's the occasion?"
She looked at me and gave me her 'you idiot' frown. "I've already told you. It's Bachelor's Day".
"Not another Clinton Cards thing is it? Haven't they made their money this month already?" I responded all kind of smug/glib.
The frown repeated. "Of course it isn't a corporate construct. It dates back centuries".
I took a sip of my coffee, noticing that she'd sat up and faced me, front on.
"It's a leap year day. On this day, women can ask men to marry them".
"Oh". I mumbled.
An opaque silence filled the book cluttered bedroom. The curtains were still revealing very little either in or out.
"Boy..."
"Don't".
She got off the bed, bent down and kissed me and then she walked out the room, gently closing the down behind her. I looked at her coffee cup, the untouched croissants and then through the small gap.
The sun must be somewhere over to the pier by now.
The sun had risen over Langney Point, the Unigate Dairy milk floats had spread all over the postcodes and retreated as slowly as they came and the morning paper rounds had been completed.
The faded green curtains shared a glimpse of the courtyard outside and wild spread white sheets inside. My bedroom was on the first floor at the top of the stairs and could be reached via the ground floor kitchen and front door.
Most week day visitors used to start arriving after midday, except Thursdays when friends and or others would come an hour or so earlier, dependent on how long the queue at the dole office was. Today was a Friday though - Friday 29th February.
Aphrodite and I had been together for just over 3 years (exactly 3 Valentine Days + 15 x 24hr in fact). She was beautiful, relatively tall, very blonde and what film directors used to call gamine. I was ridiculously lucky that she even bothered to talk to me, let alone that she was prepared to be seen in public with me and the fact that she was happy for us to sleep together was beyond comprehension.
Normally (unless she was at mine or me at hers) we'd wait until she'd finished her morning's writing and her brutally brisk walk to and from Beachy Head. I was sort of awake, that sort of not really awake at all awake. I heard soft footsteps on the stairs, the door opened and there she was captured in the door frame like a blonde Holly G at Tiffany's. Aphrodite stopped and smiled and raised a coffee and a smile.
"Happy Bachelor's Day, Boy".
She always called me Boy even though I was a good 4 years older than her. She flung my copy of 'A Happy Death' on the floor from the pillow (for a writer she was surprisingly rough with books). She cleared a small space on the bedside table and plonked the coffees down. She rustled in her battered BEA rucksack and pulled out a greaseproof bag that revealed two hot croissants.
"A morning picnic today, Boy". She said. At the same time dipping her head in for the most delicate of kisses.
"Wow, that very thoughtful of you. What's the occasion?"
She looked at me and gave me her 'you idiot' frown. "I've already told you. It's Bachelor's Day".
"Not another Clinton Cards thing is it? Haven't they made their money this month already?" I responded all kind of smug/glib.
The frown repeated. "Of course it isn't a corporate construct. It dates back centuries".
I took a sip of my coffee, noticing that she'd sat up and faced me, front on.
"It's a leap year day. On this day, women can ask men to marry them".
"Oh". I mumbled.
An opaque silence filled the book cluttered bedroom. The curtains were still revealing very little either in or out.
"Boy..."
"Don't".
She got off the bed, bent down and kissed me and then she walked out the room, gently closing the down behind her. I looked at her coffee cup, the untouched croissants and then through the small gap.
The sun must be somewhere over to the pier by now.
Monday, 24 February 2020
The Island of Pointless Romantic Gestures (Recollections #1)
I used to live on a small island off the northern coast of Europe surrounded by the North Sea, Irish Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. It was a quiet island, inhabited by silent dreams, futile relationships and pointless romantic gestures. Invariably it was a cold and wet place with borders, history, pubs, memories, lies, arcane laws, ludicrous accents, wild folk tales and long winters.
Yet it occasionally, when bathed in a rare lemonade shade sun, transformed itself into (an albeit scaled down) version of paradise. Full of summer picnics on the Downs, languid days on the beach and late nights wrapped in the the deep embrace of cheap vodka and expensive perfume.
Pure love was the only thing to strive for and even then you had to be...Lucky.
So, very lucky!
One early spring morning I awoke in my home town (the name of which I have long forgotten) before the frost and milkman had arrived. Sitting down at my chair and loading the sheet of paper into my typewriter I proceeded to write the hundred and one things I loved about Mon Amante.
It was easy, the reasons flew to the page. I finished, showered, dressed and walked to the railway station. She lived about 50 miles away but I'd have to travel via Capital. I bought a 2nd class ticket and boarded the train, heading for the buffet car. Where I ordered 4 slices of hot buttered toast and 4 cans of full strength lager.
Despite it being commuter hour, the train was relatively quiet. I sat back on the smoke backed seat and started breakfast, reading the newspaper I'd found on the seat whilst simultaneously watching the countryside slip by at 60mph and the lager slip down at a no less impressive rate. By the time we reached Capital, I'd topped up twice on the liquid company. The portable tape cassette player I had with me had provided a delightful soundtrack. Sinatra, ACR and Sinatra some more. I double-checked the 101 and then proceeded to write a companion piece of a further 72 reasons that no love in the world had ever existed like this.
An hour later, the train reached Capital and I made my way to the river. Standing next to the obelisk, I wrote 'Lips like Honey' in Paloma Picasso lipstick beneath the Sphinx and took a couple of pictures with my Polaroid™ camera. I then carried along beside the river to the other station. My next train wasn't until midday but the station bar was open. There is nothing more romantic than sitting alone in a station bar, with a pint of lager at 11.01am.
That lager disappeared, the train arrived. A new lager arrived, that train disappeared. My notebook was creased, the words were flow/fly all over the white/lines. I popped out of the station and bought two bottles of Thunderbird Wine. I got on the 1:30 train. I had to arrive before 3:30. The train meandered though the silence of SE Capital. Stopping at all the halts, cuttings and sidings ever invented (and a few more etc...). The train arrived at Destination Central. I left one empty bottle on the seat.
DC's cab rank was empty but the freephone was working. Her address was tattooed on my arm and we'd arrived and I'd paid before I'd even had the chance to ignore the drab town centre, where the pub with the Iron Wheel outside played host to the Indie Disco every third Thursday...
Dropped off 50 yards from her house. sealing the envelope with the 101 reasons + 72 train observations, two sphinx photos, a postcard of a Young Sinatra, a bar of white chocolate and a wrap of speed - I walked up her path. I then gently placed the flowers and bottle of Thunderbird wine behind a big grey flowerpot (obscuring it from the road and the thirsty but in view from the open door). I then slipped the envelope through the letterbox.
The Corporation bus journey back in to Capital was less than eventful, the Sinatra batteries faded and the words waxed, waned and then disappeared completely.
"It happened in.... a long time ago".
Dusk was busying itself amongst the emerging streetlights. I stepped into The Lord Nelson, ordered a full one and asked to use the phone at the end of the bar. I rang her number, she picked up the receiver and the 10p dropped. "Open the door".
I didn't wait for her answer. I was lucky, very lucky...
Even if only for that day! On that small island.
Yet it occasionally, when bathed in a rare lemonade shade sun, transformed itself into (an albeit scaled down) version of paradise. Full of summer picnics on the Downs, languid days on the beach and late nights wrapped in the the deep embrace of cheap vodka and expensive perfume.
Pure love was the only thing to strive for and even then you had to be...Lucky.
So, very lucky!
One early spring morning I awoke in my home town (the name of which I have long forgotten) before the frost and milkman had arrived. Sitting down at my chair and loading the sheet of paper into my typewriter I proceeded to write the hundred and one things I loved about Mon Amante.
It was easy, the reasons flew to the page. I finished, showered, dressed and walked to the railway station. She lived about 50 miles away but I'd have to travel via Capital. I bought a 2nd class ticket and boarded the train, heading for the buffet car. Where I ordered 4 slices of hot buttered toast and 4 cans of full strength lager.
Despite it being commuter hour, the train was relatively quiet. I sat back on the smoke backed seat and started breakfast, reading the newspaper I'd found on the seat whilst simultaneously watching the countryside slip by at 60mph and the lager slip down at a no less impressive rate. By the time we reached Capital, I'd topped up twice on the liquid company. The portable tape cassette player I had with me had provided a delightful soundtrack. Sinatra, ACR and Sinatra some more. I double-checked the 101 and then proceeded to write a companion piece of a further 72 reasons that no love in the world had ever existed like this.
An hour later, the train reached Capital and I made my way to the river. Standing next to the obelisk, I wrote 'Lips like Honey' in Paloma Picasso lipstick beneath the Sphinx and took a couple of pictures with my Polaroid™ camera. I then carried along beside the river to the other station. My next train wasn't until midday but the station bar was open. There is nothing more romantic than sitting alone in a station bar, with a pint of lager at 11.01am.
That lager disappeared, the train arrived. A new lager arrived, that train disappeared. My notebook was creased, the words were flow/fly all over the white/lines. I popped out of the station and bought two bottles of Thunderbird Wine. I got on the 1:30 train. I had to arrive before 3:30. The train meandered though the silence of SE Capital. Stopping at all the halts, cuttings and sidings ever invented (and a few more etc...). The train arrived at Destination Central. I left one empty bottle on the seat.
DC's cab rank was empty but the freephone was working. Her address was tattooed on my arm and we'd arrived and I'd paid before I'd even had the chance to ignore the drab town centre, where the pub with the Iron Wheel outside played host to the Indie Disco every third Thursday...
Dropped off 50 yards from her house. sealing the envelope with the 101 reasons + 72 train observations, two sphinx photos, a postcard of a Young Sinatra, a bar of white chocolate and a wrap of speed - I walked up her path. I then gently placed the flowers and bottle of Thunderbird wine behind a big grey flowerpot (obscuring it from the road and the thirsty but in view from the open door). I then slipped the envelope through the letterbox.
The Corporation bus journey back in to Capital was less than eventful, the Sinatra batteries faded and the words waxed, waned and then disappeared completely.
"It happened in.... a long time ago".
Dusk was busying itself amongst the emerging streetlights. I stepped into The Lord Nelson, ordered a full one and asked to use the phone at the end of the bar. I rang her number, she picked up the receiver and the 10p dropped. "Open the door".
I didn't wait for her answer. I was lucky, very lucky...
Even if only for that day! On that small island.
Thursday, 20 February 2020
The Cummings Dozen
The original purpose of this blog was to enable me to reflect on the things that sprang to mind about the country of my birth and where I’d lived for all my life until moving to the other side of the world in 2007. Some of the memories/recollections/visions were obvious... “Spangles eh! Remember them?” Some less so...
It has never meant to be a space for me to champion anything approaching some sort of superiority for being born in English. It is purely sleight of hand, a trick of fate. Being born in England, at the time I was born does not bestow greatness of any kind. Although I recognise the exceptionally good fortune I have had: No major war, relatively good health and a good education etc. England is just another place on the planet, with borders, people, history, pubs, memories, lies, arcane laws, ludicrous accents, wild folk tales and long winters.
England is just a country and currently it is in a mess.
It has been hijacked by dangerous ‘influences’ (NB not influencers - save them for a wholly different day) who seem to think that the British Empire still exists and that more importantly the entitled are somehow born of greater value, IQ and worthiness. The cult of the Pseudo-Scientific at the heart of this current government (Neo-Tory/Fascist) is an alarming but not unsurprising trend. They sadly believe such guff and nonsense and without a credible opposition (Political &/or Media) they are being allowed to dip a toe in the water to market test the viability of their obnoxious eugenics obsession.
Choose the brightest egg from these, guaranteed top IQ - The Cummings Dozen.
These are the darkest of times and we must accelerate our resistance, time is running out.
It has never meant to be a space for me to champion anything approaching some sort of superiority for being born in English. It is purely sleight of hand, a trick of fate. Being born in England, at the time I was born does not bestow greatness of any kind. Although I recognise the exceptionally good fortune I have had: No major war, relatively good health and a good education etc. England is just another place on the planet, with borders, people, history, pubs, memories, lies, arcane laws, ludicrous accents, wild folk tales and long winters.
England is just a country and currently it is in a mess.
It has been hijacked by dangerous ‘influences’ (NB not influencers - save them for a wholly different day) who seem to think that the British Empire still exists and that more importantly the entitled are somehow born of greater value, IQ and worthiness. The cult of the Pseudo-Scientific at the heart of this current government (Neo-Tory/Fascist) is an alarming but not unsurprising trend. They sadly believe such guff and nonsense and without a credible opposition (Political &/or Media) they are being allowed to dip a toe in the water to market test the viability of their obnoxious eugenics obsession.
Choose the brightest egg from these, guaranteed top IQ - The Cummings Dozen.
These are the darkest of times and we must accelerate our resistance, time is running out.
Saturday, 1 February 2020
Film 2020 - #2
The Ipcress File
"Very neat. Must we sit through any more of this torture? I've got a lot of things to do."
"Very neat. Must we sit through any more of this torture? I've got a lot of things to do."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)