Rus V Urbs - snoozing

The one thing the city cannot offer is long sweet deep uninterrupted sleep.

The stone caravan is noisy enough; stream, wind, hawks, mice enjoying
midnight skinny dips in my sink, swallows, helicopters - surprisingly
often, sporadic gunfire, even, when the wind is in the right quarter,
the sound of an artillery range. It can be very light - full moon in
June means 24 hours of bright light streaming into the window. There
are definitely nights up there when I don't sleep well, and have to
resort to the radio (rewound every 20 minutes or so) or a book by
torchlight.

But there are also days and nights when I hit that deep cool white
double bed under the eaves, and stretch out in the happy knowledge that
I will sleep 12 hours through. Longer, if necessary

I always arrive there with a sleep debt to pay - because a night of
sleep in the city is like zeno's arrow, never quite reaching the
target. 300 hundred people sleeping, snoring, partying, peeing,
weeping, throwing up, within 200 yards of your bed, street lights
winking on and off, trains, planes, automobiles, the hum of a hundred
fridges, the sizzle of a hundred charging phones, the drip of a
hundred taps... and the 6am alarm, drawing you out only the almost
empty street to start the day all over again.

Here's to lying in bed today, paying off debts

Every ounce of effort to reach, repair and heat the Stone Caravan is
worth it, for an hour in the company of an surprisingly acrobatic toad.

Wednesday Night: - 4 Dry Martinis and a kiss in Piccadilly Circus

Thursday Night: - I baked rhubarb with orange zest and ginger.
It's cooling down on the window sill.
I'll eat it for breakfast.

Popped into a local picture framers to get a quotation for mounting a
map for my boss.

Like many of the businesses in West Kensington this is owned by a
Iranian - and as I spread out the map, I admired the beautiful lute he
moved aside.

This, he said, is a Tar <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tar_%28lute%29>,
made of mulberry wood, with goatskin, deer antler, camel bone and sheepgut.

And he played it for me, and audience of one in a quiet little workshop
in West London.

A moments silence for the passing of a piece of Old London

The pie shop in Greenwich is gone.

Lunch in Greenwich used to be Pie, Mash, Peas and a bottle of beer at
Goddards.
It was always crowded and always scrummy.

I knew that it had closed after 70 years (The Goddard family is still
baking wholesale- http://www.pieshop.co.uk/about-goddards/)
<http://www.pieshop.co.uk/about-goddards/>

What I didn't know was the shop (interior circa 1680) would have been
gutted (all save the listed stair case) and a chain burger restaurant
cloned into the site.

I will never (willingly) set foot in an ODEON cinema again.

I went yesterday to the drear gulag which is the Odeon+IMAX in Greenwich
Peninsula- a breeze block silo, 10 minutes by bus from the nearest tube
station on a traffic with a handful of chain outlets (Nandos, Prezzo
etc) at its foot, their windows looking out on one side at a rubbish
burning plant, on the other over a litter strewn carpark.

The foyer was dirty, and worn, none of the screens opened on time,
leading to long queues for the escalators, the place was scattered with
notices apologising for the broken air-con, broken lights etc etc. I
got to my seat at last, the film started ... and the emergency lights -
bare florescent bulbs- came on overhead and stayed on for the entire
film. If it hadn't taken 90 minutes to get there, I would have walked out.

As it was, I stayed, and squinted at the screen, and even enjoyed the film.
Then headed out to the loos - just in time to see them *both* being
closed for cleaning. So another 10 minute queue, in preparation for a
long bus ride.

Odeon still haven't acknowledged my last letter/email- so I expect
bugger all this time.
I'll just take my £10-£20 a week elsewhere.

Slug sweeties

It rained in the night - heavily enough to flatten most of grass in the
yard.

The damp brings the slugs out. Lots and lots of slugs. Shiny pitch
black ones, as big as my thumb. Hundreds of them.
In one square metre of turf I counted 11 of them, curled and twisted
like half sucked licorice chews.

Postmarked by an Owl

I have a nicely impressive set of cuts on my wrist from the talons of a
startled barn owl.

I was at a supper party last night, a farmers' fundraiser for the local
agricultural show; cheese, bread, wine and a raffle, and one of the
locals brought his owl along. Naturally enough it attracted a lot of
attention...

I stayed a few feet back, wine glass in hand. Owl are lovely things, but
don't seem to get any particular gratification from being stroked and
chucked under the chin, so I didn't feel any need to do so. They are
patient beast; this one, 13 months old, had been raised from the egg
submitted to the many caresses with only a slightly harassed look.
Occasionally it eyed the petting hands as if were so many plump white
mice, nicely crunchy and only just out of reach.

At some point it all got to much for Wol, and he launched himself into
the air, talons extended, jesses slipping - and landed on my wrist, just
abaft the glass.

I felt nothing but the lightest brush of a claw before he had been
scooped up again, back on the handlers hand.

But my arm felt suddenly wet. I looked down. Blood was running freely
over my hand.
Those talons are like the razor of a Brighton Racetrack thug - bright,
fast and very very fast.

A horsefly bite is more painful - but an owl strike is pretty spectacular.

(no subject)

There is a toad crouched just 10 inches from my toes, a gorgeous warty
ochre thing, spoldged with black, about 4 inches long. It has clear
decided that disguise is the best defence against this curious forked
thing which almost stood on it in the long grass, and so it has frozen
in place. Actually, it first tried to crouch in full sunlight, which I
thought was probably not a good idea for a nice damp toad, so I tickled
it with a grass stem until it flopped into a shaded patch, where it
still sits, pretending to ignore me.

I'm on the doorstep again. Did I say this was a quiet spot? I was
lying. The toad is quiet enough, but the honeysuckle hums with bees,
the grass throbs with crickets, the field are full of the conversations
of ewes and lambs, and the stream is constant babble.

The swallows are gone, I think for good. Fledged and away in a single week.

The toad has also just slipped away into the grass.

PS - I found out how the visitors got in during the winter. The
windowsill into the privy has rotted away, leaving the window swinging
free. The work of a moment to slide through, and into the porch. The
Privy is now bolted from the outside, so that route is blocked.

Your mobile phone details are at risk - act now if you want to remain private

I don't know about everyone else, but I guard my phone numbers quite
carefully. Unsolicited calls from private numbers are very disruptive,
and, if travelling aboard, expensive.
Frankly, its bad enough having double glazing firms and fake lotteries
ringing my work line (my predecessor used the number a little too
liberally on line) without them calling me as I struggle on and off the
tube, while I write at lunchtime (my phone on in case work need me) or
in the peace of the Stone Caravan.

But now a company, acting within the letter of the laws on privacy and
data-protection, but certainly not the spirit, plans to publish all our
mobile phone numbers to anyone who has a name and a vague location for
us, and £1 to spare.

Here is the BBC report with more details.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/working_lunch/8091621.stm

And here is the website of the offending spam-enablers.
http://www.118800.co.uk/

The good news is - you can opt out - but you need to act before the
service goes live next week...

The bad news is - as of Thursday July 9th the website displays only the
following information:

The 118 800 service for mobile phone connections is currently
unavailable - from this website and by phone - whilst we undertake
major developments to our 'Beta Service' to improve the experience
for our customers. We'll be back as soon as possible with the new
improved service.

All ex-directory requests made by people in our directory to date
are being processed. There will be no need to resend these requests.
And we will take further ex-directory requests when the service
resumes. We will not be taking ex-directory requests by phone or
text whilst the service is not operational.

Please do not call us on 118 800 for anything other than landline
directory enquiry requests as you will be charged for the call.

Sorry for any inconvenience caused.

So, in other words, they have removed the opportunity to remove a number
*before* they make it available to the first set of sticky-fingered
stinking spammers and stalkers to line up on Day One of their vile
"service".

House sharing

Mama Swallow is fledging her brood in my living room. They fly in
circles under the beams, trying to aim for the open window - then one by
one disappear. All is silent for twenty minutes, and then with a
bucketful of adolescent swallow chatter they are back, ready to start
all over again.

I will have to find a way of dissuading Mama next year - swallows are
lovely, but swallow lime is very caustic, and I have shovel loads of it
on the staircase, lifting the paint. I like to leave the windows open
when the cottage is unoccupied, to improve air flow and reduce damp. I
have bars to prevent human intruders, but nothing to stop swallows.
Fruit netting perhaps? Or folding trellis? I could wedge expanding
trellis in the gap between window and sill...

It's hard to know where to start with the cleaning in the knowledge that
there is building work taking place (fingers crossed) in the very near
future - so more dust and grime and disruption to come.

But I am having great success removing the black mould from the casein
lime paint - I paint it with bleach, which kills the mould and removed
the stain, wash with water - et voilà - white walls again.

The kitchen-scullery will soon be cleaner than it ever was before - it
is the only part of the cottage which has its original stone flag floor,
and I am determined to get down on my hands and (dammit!) knees and
scrub them bright clean.

Ah - the weasel has left some mice living! One just peered under the
front door at me (I'm sitting on the doorstep enjoying the open air). I
wonder how many generations have passed since I left wool under the
Christmas tree for mouse nests?

I can't make the cottage homely right now - so the solution is probably
to invest in a sleeping bag and a primus stove, and camp in the single
upper room until the building work is done.

I made Rillettes last night; 1lb pork shoulder, 1lb pork belly, sliced
and simmered overnight in the back of the aga, with cloves, bay leaves,
thyme, until almost melted away, then shredded, seasoned (heavily) with
salt, pepper and nutmeg and packed in pots, under a cap of clean white
fat.

Not for the faint of heart, or those not willing to spend a week on
celery to work off the extra calories - but - but -
in a few days time - pure pink poetry, sliced and spread on crusty bread
with tiny pickled cornichons and a glass of cider....

Ecosystems

The swallows at the top of the stairs eat the flies.
The weasels under the stairs eat the mice.
I eat shortbread and drink coffee and squint at the bit of wall I have
scrubbed clean.

We are all happy and getting fatter.

Except, sadly, the mice.

Cottage Update; resolve my dilemma

Mama Swallow is back in residence in the stairwell. As are 3 big fat
infant swallows.

Do I a.) finally get down to work scraping mould from the wall in the
kitchen and living room, and trust that Mama S will stop scolding me
every time she flies in, and settle back raising the sprogs when I leave

b.) take the hint - she is very vocal about it - and sit outside in the
sun for 3 hours, drinking tea and watching clouds, safe in the knowledge
that Mama and babies will be safe and undisturbed inside.

(The good news is that the damage to plaster and flooring is less
extensive than we had all feared. As soon as the swallows move on, and
the back wall has been pinned, the cottage should only take a long
weekend to put back to rights)

And I have weasels.

Oh My! Iddle-widdle baby ducks!

Bumblebees. In water. With stumpy little winglets and inturned toes.
I could just sit here and watch them for hours.

(Must fix camera)

Bad Timing in a Nice Neighbourhood

My diary has a note for Tuesday - "Town hall - Club license hearing"

A night club (aka "Champagne Bar") opened in our street a few months
ago, on the site of an old pub and snooker hall.

Our street is entirely residential, lined with pre-war council blocks
and mansion flats, housing hundred of residents of all ages, whose
windows face the club.
The club is right next door to a children's library and backs onto a
school.
There is very limited parking, and no public transport after 1pm.

So residents were alarmed when they learned that the owners of the
club had applied for a lap-dancing license and a 5am opening license 6
nights a week. When were they supposed to sleep? I don't hear the
club at night, I'm on the far side of the building, but my neighbours
do, and I was planning to attend to support them.

The lap dancing license was opposed and the application suspended - but
the late night application license continued, and looked likely to be
passed It turns out that the only grounds on which the council can
refuse the 5am opening license is the risk of serious crime and
disorder in the neighbourhood.
Not noise, not the rights of people in bedrooms 20, 30, 40 yards from
the club to an interrupted nights sleep, not the participation of a
community in decisions about the way their home neighbourhoods and
businesses should be supported and developed.

Only "Serious" crime and disorder.

I wonder if the murder of a customer in the doorway of the club 3
nights before the license hearing is serious enough?

Because that's why my street is festooned in incident tape this
morning, and why the library garden is being searched by forensic
teams in white-all-in ones this morning.

Ugh. Not nice.

There is too much light in this bar! - Midsummer, and uneasy slumbers.

At the stone caravan June and July are the season of the (almost)
midnight sun. It is possible to walk home through even the darkest part
of the oak wood at 11pm - the sun is below the horizon, but only in a
shallow dip, and light is still reflected over the hillside. And dawn
comes thundering up a few hours later.

But at least it is cool under the slate roof, and only the owls disturb the silence. (and I mean - really disturb - the owl in the
tree by my door hunts with a hoarse scream like a bull beneath the earth. The rocks seems to shake).

But this week I am in London, with a security light outside my bedroom window, and I cannot achieve blackout without also stifling the last
breath of air in a still room.
So I woke at 3, and stayed that way, listening to the traffic, and eventually creeping downstairs to drink tea and read.

I daren't shower and dress and go out - my flatmate (the evangelical) is a very light sleeper, and gets little enough rest as it is.
And there is no where to go at 3.30 anyway, not even a night bus to whisk me away.

I'm getting superstitious about talking about writing progress...

... particularly after the last two story structure collapses, but -I
feel that I might have finally got onto the endgame with the Ethiopian
script (now called "T'sion")

I now solutions to three of the biggest headaches;

- How Lily the Irish Hoyden and Michael the Ethiopia Public School Boy
end up in the highlands together at the end of Act 1

- Why Paul the anti-heroic academic is so highly motivated to get
back home to Europe

- Exactly what his guilty secret is.

These are the pebbles I've been tripping over all year; I knew these
things happened, just not exactly why, in a way I could show and not
tell.

Now, all I would have to do it but these events in the right order,
and I might be able to put this MF to bed at last.

But, after all these months, I am far to nervous to say so out loud,
in case I hex it.

And - the solution to my writer's block was... ?

Watching really well-made "popcorn" movies, with absolutely no
relevant political or historical content what so ever.
(In my case with a flask of iced gin and some pretzels, rather
than popcorn...)

Fantastic Writers Therapy!

Cheers!

It is reely, reely, reely difficult to concentrate on the second act...

... when you are sitting opposite a reely, reely, reely old guy reading
the Times and playing with the toys in his pocketses.

Seriously. Stop it.
They'll all still be attached when you get home to the privacy of your
own bathroom I promise.

[Fwd: Just back from Devon...

... where the heavens opened and a large portion of the Channel was

scooped up and dumped on my head.

Seriously my coat was 3 times heavier when I took it off than when I
put it on, and I had to wring out my hat in a basin.

I hate getting cold and wet in away from home summer because nothing
is geared up for comfort - the B&B, though wonderful, didn't have the
heating on (why would it - in June!) and it took a hot shower and lots
of coffee to stop the shivers.

In Paignton, while waiting for a train connection (a steam train
connection) I discovered a truly awesome fast food nightmare.

Battered Chip Shop Chips.

Lovely fat chips, parcooked, then dipped in a light batter before
being finished and served. The sample I had were deepfat heaven. I'd
have stayed for more, but at that point the ceiling in the chip shop
started to bulge and disintegrate under the apocalyptic rainfall, so
I slipped out to find a cup of tea in the station buffet instead.

At the station the locomotive was steaming happily - and so was I,
sitting in a little puddle in the (unheated) buffet.

This was my first ever steam train trip (this is honestly the only way
to make a train connection to Kingswear/Dartmouth), and what amazed me
most was the noise - or rather, the lack of it. With no electric
motors in the carriage the trip was silent except for the wonderful
"clickety-clack", and at station halts dead silence would fall, except
for the hiss of rain and steam. I saw a Sparrowhawk on a fence post,
but most of the view was lost in the cloud and water. (Did I mention
it was wet?)

At Kingswear I struggled up the land to the hotel, ankle deep in a new
formed stream, dragging the suitcase behind me.

Yet - just two hours later, the cloud had gone, the sky was blue, the
river dart was sparkling gold. Weird.

The lonely lament of the White Van Man

So, I'm sitting on the grass, in a park, enjoying the sun, when I hear
the lilting lament of my neighbour/

I'll call him White Van Man - I have no idea what he drives, although
I can guarantee that he does drive, and that he is "not a man to
tangle with"

He was 50 odd, and seemed to have been angry for most of that half
century.

Anyway, as the parakeets sang overhead, as children splashed in the
shallows, as lovers curled together in knots of content, WVM head
forth to his companion on the evils of Direct Debits. For 45
minutes. Non stop.

He had only two complaints - that he liked to pay what he owed, when
he owed it, and that the didn't like giving access to his account to
strangers - and he performed infinite variations on this his outrage.
For 45 minutes. A virtuoso performance, by any standard.

Meanwhile his companion, a comely lady with a patient sigh, laid out
the picnic, poured tea from a thermos, shifted as the shade of the
tree moved across the grass, and sighed, sympathetically when a
response was required of her.

Then - suddenly - the evil of direct debit was forgotten. Two tiny
figures had caught WVM's attention, two diminutive ladies, in ankle
length black dresses and shady white head dresses walked past, eating
ice-creams.

Here was a subject dear to WVM's heart - "what are they doing here", he spluttered, "in a English park, in England, all covered up like that. This was a Christian country,
after all - do they think they are ..."

His companion screwed the top back on the Thermos. "They're Nuns, dear"

"What?"

"I said - they're Nuns."

"But, what - " WVM spluttered, the natural flow of his spleen
disturbed, "what? Why are they here?"

"It's a convent, dear."

And she stood up, popped the rubbish in the nearest bin, and left.