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.

To customer services - Odeon Cinemas

Dear sir or madam,

I would like to tell of you my severe disappointment in visiting your
cinemas.

You are "fanatical about film" – so am I.

I have cash, I live within easy walking distance of one of your
cinemas, and I love watching films on the big screen. Last year I spent
over £1000 (gulp!) attending film festivals, in the UK and overseas, and
in the last 7 days alone I have spent more on cinema tickets than
groceries – and more still on the extras, drinks, snacks, a meal before
or after.

Surely, I fall within some parameter defining a target customer for the
films you are showing this week: Star Trek, Synecdoche or State of Play
for example, all films which should appeal to adult audiences. Surely
you want to entice me in, and syphon the cash off me during the 2.5
hours I will be in your hands.

Apparently not.

On the screen, James Bond may order a well-made chilled Martini, in the
space bars of the 23rd Century James T Kirk can down Bud Classic and
Jack Daniels – but in the foyer James and Jane Public are offered
primary coloured counters offering only infantile treats in massive
quantities. Barrels of Popcorn, Buckets of tooth-piercingly sweet iced
Soda and dayglo Hoppers of Pick n' Mix.
Oh. And Nachos. With Gloopy Orange Cheeze-greeze on top.

I'm 30+ years old damn it, not FIVE.
I'm allowed to stay up past 8pm these days, without asking Mum first,
and these infantile treats no longer hold much appeal.

I like grown-up movies - and beer, wine, gin, coffee, dark chocolate,
cashew nuts, pretzels.

Not Candy, Nachos and Cola.

I'm not whining, honestly - I want to give you lots more money than I
already do, I am itching to hand over my cash for a single shot of real
coffee, but, oddly, you do not seem to want it!

Don't tell me that other customers don't feel the same. Clearly you
also see the oddity here. Why else would there be a tatty photocopied
notice in the Box Office, window advertising wine and beer?

But on a muggy bank holiday Monday evening, no actual drinks on sale, no
one to take my cash and hand me a cold beer in a plastic mug.
Your staff just shrug "Sometime on Saturdays we have a little cart with
wine, but only when we have the staff.".

So, I've learned my lesson. If I want to spend an evening watching a
movie, I'll stick to the Independents, to the BFI, to the Curzon, wait
three weeks until until the film reaches the Prince, or god-dammit, rent
a DVD, and avoid your hellish crèche.

Pelican Crossing

Two nights ago I had a close encounter with a creature straight out of

a medieval bestiary.
I got up close and personal with a stray Pelican in St James Park.

I was walking across the Horse Guard's end when I saw it - walking
along the pavement on the wrong side of the temporary fencing erected
around the pond, and beyond the crash barriers set up for the trooping
of the colour. It was in imminent danger of walking into the path of
traffic, which would be unpleasant both for the bird and for everyone
else.

I mean - these birds are BIG. Its head was at chest level, its wings
span was at least as great as mine, and its bill - oh boy!

As we peered at each other, I remembered that at least one of the St
James Pelican's has previous for eating pigeons. Whole. Alive. And
wriggling.

It didn't seem distressed - it was neither flinching from , nor
snapping at passers by, of which there were many. It was just waddling.

But it was bleeding, from a point somewhere under its left wing, where
the feathers were stained, and dipped its bill at intervals to worry
the site.

This was an odd echo of something I saw last week - a painting of a
crucification in Florence which was crowned by an image of a Pelican
feeding her young with her own blood, drawn from her breast. This
mythical aspect of Pelican parenting was widely believed in the middle
ages, and led to the pelican being adopted as a symbol for the
Eucharist. Now I was perhaps seeing the origin of that myth.

Anyway, it couldn't be left where it was, so I an another couple of
passers-by, herded it gently back into the park, and towards the
water, at a slow and stately pace, and alerted the park rangers to its
injury.

Looking into that dark, perfectly round eye, cocked with cold
curiosity at the antics of the humans surrounding it, was a
thrilling reminder of the *otherness* of the living world.

Star Trek: Heretical - certainly. Blasphemous - probably. An abomination?

Definitely not.

36 hours on I am still startled by Star Trek. I really do have to see it again, and soon.

Other people, better qualified and more articulate, can discuss its
qualities as a film, and its relationship to canon.

But - I think I know how the good citizens of Wittenberg must have
felt the morning Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the door of his
church.
It is exciting, the dawning of a whole age - but oh, if we embrace it,
suddenly all those years of study, the painstakingly gathered
mysteries of Trek priestcraft, the crypts stuffed with holy relics,
glorious art works and revered texts, are rendered dusty and
worthless.
No wonder my ancestors remained devout Catholics to the point of
martyrdom.

Yet as a film rather than a reinterpretation of gospel. Star Trek
purely is gorgeous and thrilling to watch, intelligent, witty and made
with an admirably light touch.
It doesn't have quite the humanistic sensibilities of its 1966
incarnation - but it holds its own in the same universe as Firefly, or
the Culture novels.

The casting is a triumph - with Zachary Quinto the standout
performance in a talented ensemble. He doesn't impersonate Spock - he
simply embodies him, and the result is astonishing.
(BTW - I suspect Nimoy was wearing prostheses to emphasize his
resemblance to Quinto, rather than the other way around.)

Now, here comes the personal revelation.

I've loved Star Trek for 40 years - but I have just only just realised
that I never actually wanted to serve on Enterprise, or any of her
sister ships.

I'd take the king's shilling to man the yards of Surprise with Lucky
Jack Aubrey, would jump at a chance to crew on Serenity, I long to be
recruited to Special Circumstances and have my own knife missiles.
I've learned to hand, reef and steer, have taken helm of a square
rigger in a force 9 in the straits of Gibraltar. I even considered
applying to the Merchant Navy.

But Enterprise and its five year mission left me cold.

No longer. This is a now a ship on which I long to serve/

I'll be on the next shuttle to the Academy*, ta very much!

*Actually I'm flying to Europe, with my mum for 3 days. But I'll wear a mini-skirt and boots, and backcomb.

News flash - the morning after 3 Vesper Martinis*

I woke up on time, and got to work, looking bright and almost normal,
with the aid of a milky coffee and an egg sandwich.

But...

... I haven't been able to complete a crossword or sudoku since.

So something up there was as effectively (and enjoyable) scrambled as
the egg in my sandwich.

*

"A dry martini," [Bond] said. "One. In a deep champagne goblet."

"Oui, monsieur."

"Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure
of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large
thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?"

"Certainly, monsieur." The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

"Gosh, that's certainly a drink," said Leiter.

Bond laughed. "When I'm...er...concentrating," he explained, "I never
have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be
large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small
portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my
own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name."

Be still my geeky heart...

I am a little surprised to discover just how much I want to see Star
Trek tomorrow.

I never really considered myself a Trekker/Trekkie/Trekkist, per se,
(although I shared a flat with one, once).

I haven't seen every film, only skimmed DS9, abandoned Voyager after the
first season. I've never read zines, hung out on boards, been tempted
by fic...

But Trek is
a.) an essential element of my childhood, of teatime viewing, sometimes,
like Who, from behind the sofa.
b.) the essential strand of the DNA of fandom itself.
The Daddy and Mammy of them all.
The Ur-Fandom.
It's Fandom's Jerusalem.

And now - oh joy, I have the very last available ticket to watch "Star
Trek Babies" on the IMAX tomorrow evening.

Thrilled in every sinew.

Yay - long dry summer ahead!

If the long-range forecast is correct, the cottage will dry out, and I

can spend long sun-soaked days repainting, and long twilit evenings
lolling in the hammock and watching the owls flit among the emerging
stars.

Or -

- I could, if I can eke out enough leave days this year. Rats. I've
got 9 left - one a month until December.

I'll have to spin out a series of long weekends - perhaps padding them
with some unpaid leave through July and August?

Now - I think I'll celebrate with 30 minutes on the grass with lunch.

Googlewhack!

"Pegfree tents"

I can't believe, that after all these years, there are still
googlewhacks to be found in the wild...

(I am looking for a small tent which can be erected indoors without
using pegs)

"Galaxy's centre tastes of raspberries and smells of rum, say astronomers"

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2009/apr/21/space-raspberries-amino-acids-astrobiology

Two of my favourite things - there is a God!
Only the discovery of cute baby space squid could improve the study now.

Cherry blossom everywhere...

... I'm going to go and contemplate it properly - with dumplings and sake
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanami

Mysterious visitors to the Stone Caravan: Dear "Goldilocks"...

...Thank you for looking after my home so well while I was away.

I was certainly surprised to discover that someone had found a way into
the cottage, and had sat in my chair, and slept (?) in at least 1 of the
3 bed.

But I delighted to realise that my mysterious visitors had clearly loved
the place as much I do, that much of the chaos left after the flood had
been removed, and that nothing appeared to be missing. In fact, it made
walking back into my home a much less distressing experience than I had
feared!

You may have believed the Stone Caravan was abandoned (rather than
simply evacuated after the flood),but you treated it with the respect it
deserved.

The arrangement of furniture suggests that you have enjoyed several days
in by the fireside, curled on the sofa which you found in the back room,
reading the books which you carefully reshelved. I hope the stay was
peaceful.

I am keen to discover how you got in - not because I fear that you will
do any damage, but because others who follow may not behave with as much
love and care as you.

So, if you read this, (and by some chance recognise yourselves as the
visitors to an isolated cottage below Kielder Water, feel free to
comment - anonymously if you prefer. I'd love to hear what you found,
what you did, what you thought. And perhaps, as long as the owner also
approves, perhaps a legitimate return visit could be arranged.

(A small contribution towards the gas and firewood you used is not
essential, but would be appreciated....)

This kind of carriage disturbance is much more fun

I seem to be sitting in the middle of a rather mature hen party. There
is a lot of bucks fizz being passed around.
Oh,my mistake - it's a cross country 50th Birthday Party. With Easter
cupcakes and pringles.
Many happy returns Sue, who ever you are.

The man behind me has been talking on his phone for two and a half hours non-stop...

... giving me yet another reason to hate the mobile phone and love email.

I am morphing into one of those crabby old people you used to regret the
day the telephone was moved from the howling icy wastes of the hallway
into the living room.

Ah - a pause - he lost the signal. He's redialling.
And again.
No
Yes
He's reconnected.

Oh ffs moron, no one in this carriage is interested or impressed by your
minute by minute commentary on the non-events in in your property
negotiation.
We can all tell that you are not doing business, just talking to fill
the ghastly emptiness and impotence of your existence.

I hope your ear is thoroughly microwaved before we reach Durham, and
falls off with a faint flopping bacon-y sizzle at Newcastle.

Back to the Watchtower

Speeding North via the East Coast line to open up the cottage and check
the drying process; it's barely rained here, but North of Hadrian's
Wall - who knows?

Eyewitnesses tell me that the repaired ditch has held, so the river
should be flowing through it's regular channel again, and not my front
door. And if the river has gone the weasels (it was weasels, not mink,
it seems) should have moved on, and stopped using my spare duvets as a
larder.

I dropped an off-hand suggestion that I might use some of my holiday
over the coming months to extend the weekends, taking Mondays off to
work on the replastering. This was met with mild panic - "but how will
we ever manage without you, Miss Holloway". Which is very reassuring in
terms of job security in a quiet patch, but also a little scary...

Back to the trains - the more I come to rely on trains for transport
(and to understand their huge advantages) the more acutely I feel the
loss of the branch lines, slashed from the network in the 50s and 60s.

Sitting here, in a comfortable seat, with tea available, is time
regained. I can read, talk, sleep, write, daydream - and with the
addition of 21st century technology, watch films, listen to radio or
music or blog.

I get very little pleasure out of travelling by car. It's difficult to
do any of the above when you are on the verge of vomiting. My parents
used to joke that they couldn't drive more than 5 miles out of town
without holding their daughter out of the window to barf. It was of
course due to my weak stomach, rather than to the brown haze of Benson
and hedges which all cars boasted at that time in lieu of air con. Even
now I remember the gut-knotting tension that came over me every time a
parental hand reached over to activate the dashboard cigarette lighter,
the dread as it popped out again, fully armed,the disgusting hiss as
heated coil met tobacco, the desperate negotiation for another inch of
window to be wound down. When our infant locks were washed at the end
of week the first rinse water would run black. At the time it seemed
normal. Just dirt. Now I realise that we were all essentially kippered.

Obviously this is ancient history. But my stomach has never felt
entirely comfortable as a car passenger since, and even "that new car
smell" which seems to excite some people so much, triggers an unbearable
Pavlovian nausea