It was Elspeth who started it. When she rang up from Glasgow to say she’d bought two goldfish (CJ and Marylyn) I chirruped happily down the phone to her about goldfish. We’d had goldfish some time ago. Lazarus, who changed his name after I brought him back from the dead by giving him the kiss of life (you blow air through a straw over the finny friend’s gills) and Warty Pete, who lived up to his name (he could have been an extra on Blackadder) who lived a long, long time.
So Elspeth = 2 goldfish = Fine. Until she wanted to bring them home for the holidays. We’d long since got rid of the watery home that contained Lazarus and Warty Pete. No problem, I said. We’ll buy a new tank.
The expense? said The Other Half.
Sorted, I assured him. We’ll buy a cheap plastic tank. Don’t worry.
So the kids and I went shopping.
Well, you know how it is. Once actually in the shop (and I’m a bit of pushover for this sort of thing anyway) the My First Fishtank and the one with Spongebob Squarepants decals seemed a bit naff compared to an elegant glass cube, complete with LED lights and a combined air pump and filter. And once we’d got it home, filled it with gravel and planted it up, it looked lovely. If Barbara Hepworth had designed fishtanks, they’d look like this. It was, I have to admit, just a tadge more expensive than I’d bargained for.
There were grumbles within the Home.
Especially when, struck by just how nice it did look, my mind turned to tropical fish. Before the Warty Pete era, we’d kept tropical fish. I can’t say they ever did frightfully well, as they seemed to drop dead with grim regularity, but, before they made the great change, they did look nice. Maybe this time it would be different??? After all, it was so posh, it seemed a bit elaborate for a holiday home for two visiting goldfish.
So I added a heater to the elegant glass cube and popped in five guppies.
What about the expense? said The Other Half. What about the goldfish?
Sorted, I assured him. We’ll buy a cheap plastic tank. Don’t worry.
So that’s what I did (that’s what, perhaps, I should have done in the first place, I know) adding, to turn a bog-standard B+B for goldfish into something more resembling a luxury holiday let, a pump and filter, some plants and a little arch for them to swim through. CJ and Marylyn are, even as I write, disporting themselves happily on the windowsill of the kitchen.
But what about the guppies in their elegant cube? Fate had slipped the lead into the boxing glove and was waiting in the wings…
TO BE CONTINUED….
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Sherlock Holmes and the Viking's Dilemma
I had looked into Baker Street to update my website, www.mymatesbrighterthanme.com when I found a laughable misunderstanding had arisen. Mrs Hudson, mounted on a penny-farthing bicycle, was cycling round and round our room while Holmes, in a state of some perturbation, was attempting to make her desist by loading the contents of a box of boxer cartridges into his hair-trigger revolver and taking pot-shots at her as she whirled past.
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Why is our worthy landlady biking round the room?”
“Because she is a little deaf,” he explained, stepping to one side as Mrs Hudson whirled past. “I said, “Admit the VIKING, not, “Do a bit of BIKING!”
He loosed off another round of bullets and this time a shot went home.
Mrs Hudson, leaving the remains of the mangled bike behind, leapt lightly from the saddle. “Very good, Mr Holmes,” she said and, laughing heartily at her own mistake, scurried from the room to return seconds later with a magnificent yellow-bearded, yellow-haired man, dressed in leather and swinging a huge hammer.
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You astound me! How did you know this man was a Viking? What little clue, what subtle indication, what almost imperceptible fact led you to that conclusion?”
“The fact he is wearing a helmet with bulls’ horns,” said Holmes.
I was amazed at his perspicacity.
“Now, sir!” said Holmes, addressing our guest. “In what way can I be of assistance?”
The Viking kicked the remnants of the penny-farthing out of the way and sank down upon the ottoman, his face a frenzied mask of worry.
“Mr Holmes, you are my only hope! My only remaining relative in the whole world is my aged Aunt, who I love dearly. Crippled, infirm and with her sight failing, she waits for me at my little home, Dunpillaging, across the wild, tempestuous sea. Her one desire, Mr Holmes, is to own a beautiful stainless steel sink. And can I find one? No. My life is bitter indeed when I think of how she yearns for a beautiful stainless steel sink and how crushed with sorrow she will be when I have to Confess All and return empty-handed, feasting on the acid fruit of failure. Which will be,” he added, “about all I’ll get to eat when she realises she hasn’t got what she wants.”
“She’ll have a sinking feeling?” I suggested.
Holmes idly hit me over the head with a violin to curtail my levity. As I emerged from the wreckage, I felt I had struck the wrong note. Several wrong notes, in fact.
“You say your Aunt is crippled?” said Holmes, his sympathies keenly engaged.
“Yes.”
“Infirm?”
“Yes.”
“With failing sight?”
“Yes.”
A rare smile crossed Holmes’ finely chiselled features. “Fear not! The solution is elementary.”
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You astound me! What solution can there possibly be to this poor wanderer’s abstruse problem?”
For an answer, my friend picked up a builder’s hod which was lying, together with other bits and pieces, such as a speckled band, five orange pips, a blue carbuncle and a beryl coronet on the mantelpiece. “Give this to your Aunt,” he said, pressing the hod into the Viking’s eager hands. “This is the object of her desires, this is all she craves. After all,” he added as our visitor got up to leave, “a hod is as good as a sink to a blind Norse.”
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Why is our worthy landlady biking round the room?”
“Because she is a little deaf,” he explained, stepping to one side as Mrs Hudson whirled past. “I said, “Admit the VIKING, not, “Do a bit of BIKING!”
He loosed off another round of bullets and this time a shot went home.
Mrs Hudson, leaving the remains of the mangled bike behind, leapt lightly from the saddle. “Very good, Mr Holmes,” she said and, laughing heartily at her own mistake, scurried from the room to return seconds later with a magnificent yellow-bearded, yellow-haired man, dressed in leather and swinging a huge hammer.
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You astound me! How did you know this man was a Viking? What little clue, what subtle indication, what almost imperceptible fact led you to that conclusion?”
“The fact he is wearing a helmet with bulls’ horns,” said Holmes.
I was amazed at his perspicacity.
“Now, sir!” said Holmes, addressing our guest. “In what way can I be of assistance?”
The Viking kicked the remnants of the penny-farthing out of the way and sank down upon the ottoman, his face a frenzied mask of worry.
“Mr Holmes, you are my only hope! My only remaining relative in the whole world is my aged Aunt, who I love dearly. Crippled, infirm and with her sight failing, she waits for me at my little home, Dunpillaging, across the wild, tempestuous sea. Her one desire, Mr Holmes, is to own a beautiful stainless steel sink. And can I find one? No. My life is bitter indeed when I think of how she yearns for a beautiful stainless steel sink and how crushed with sorrow she will be when I have to Confess All and return empty-handed, feasting on the acid fruit of failure. Which will be,” he added, “about all I’ll get to eat when she realises she hasn’t got what she wants.”
“She’ll have a sinking feeling?” I suggested.
Holmes idly hit me over the head with a violin to curtail my levity. As I emerged from the wreckage, I felt I had struck the wrong note. Several wrong notes, in fact.
“You say your Aunt is crippled?” said Holmes, his sympathies keenly engaged.
“Yes.”
“Infirm?”
“Yes.”
“With failing sight?”
“Yes.”
A rare smile crossed Holmes’ finely chiselled features. “Fear not! The solution is elementary.”
“Great Heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You astound me! What solution can there possibly be to this poor wanderer’s abstruse problem?”
For an answer, my friend picked up a builder’s hod which was lying, together with other bits and pieces, such as a speckled band, five orange pips, a blue carbuncle and a beryl coronet on the mantelpiece. “Give this to your Aunt,” he said, pressing the hod into the Viking’s eager hands. “This is the object of her desires, this is all she craves. After all,” he added as our visitor got up to leave, “a hod is as good as a sink to a blind Norse.”
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Crimefest
This time last week I was living in the lap of luxury, eating an enormous four star breakfast in a four star hotel surrounded by people who wanted to talk about writing. This week I’ve just had my usual two pieces of toast with Marmite, one of my titchy little tropical fish has died, Lucy is glued to the TV watching rugby and I’ve got to do the ironing.
This is called real life. (*Sigh*)
Last week was, of course, one of the highlights of the year, the annual Crimefest held at the Bristol Marriot Hotel. It’s the fourth time I’ve been to Crimefest and it just keeps getting better and better. The best thing about it, from my point of view, is being able to talk about books and writing from a standing start. Usually you have to edge into these conversations, but here they just happen.
John Curran, for example, who’s edited the monumental Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks, a labour of love if there ever was one, will chat quite happily about the Queen of Crime and gave a fascinating short talk on Golden Age writers. Deryn Lake recounted any historical writer’s dream job, where she was asked to research the history of Rawlings and found John Rawlings, her apothecary hero, in an 18th Century newspaper.
This is in addition to catching up at length with old friends such as Suzette Hill, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and Lyndon Stacey and, I’m glad to say, others such as Jennifer Palmer and Frances Brody.
I suppose one of the biggest stars was Stella Rimington, ex-head of MI5. I was lucky enough to be on a panel with Stella Rimington. She, of course, writes the Liz Carlyle books (highly recommended) which give a real insiders’ account which certainly sounds plausible of how the Intelligence Services conduct an operation. As the Liz Carlyle books are, of course, fiction, she’s able to add the reasons why people do what they do and it’s a great mix.
Another real pleasure was meeting Carola Dunn. Carola, the author of the much-loved Daisy Dalrymple series, has lived in America for many years but is (as her accent immediately reveals) English. As we both write mysteries set in the 1920s, it was fascinating to compare notes. I have her new book, Anthem For Doomed Youth, on my to-be-read pile.
Perhaps the nicest thing about Crimefest is the complete lack of them-and-us-ism. I’ve come across this at other events, where some guests are treated like VIP’s and the rest of us are merely invited to marvel. I’m not quite sure why this doesn’t happen at Crimefest, but it doesn’t. It’s a terrifically friendly atmosphere, aided by excellent organisation in a very friendly hotel.
Now I suppose I’d better do the ironing!
This is called real life. (*Sigh*)
Last week was, of course, one of the highlights of the year, the annual Crimefest held at the Bristol Marriot Hotel. It’s the fourth time I’ve been to Crimefest and it just keeps getting better and better. The best thing about it, from my point of view, is being able to talk about books and writing from a standing start. Usually you have to edge into these conversations, but here they just happen.
John Curran, for example, who’s edited the monumental Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks, a labour of love if there ever was one, will chat quite happily about the Queen of Crime and gave a fascinating short talk on Golden Age writers. Deryn Lake recounted any historical writer’s dream job, where she was asked to research the history of Rawlings and found John Rawlings, her apothecary hero, in an 18th Century newspaper.
This is in addition to catching up at length with old friends such as Suzette Hill, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and Lyndon Stacey and, I’m glad to say, others such as Jennifer Palmer and Frances Brody.
I suppose one of the biggest stars was Stella Rimington, ex-head of MI5. I was lucky enough to be on a panel with Stella Rimington. She, of course, writes the Liz Carlyle books (highly recommended) which give a real insiders’ account which certainly sounds plausible of how the Intelligence Services conduct an operation. As the Liz Carlyle books are, of course, fiction, she’s able to add the reasons why people do what they do and it’s a great mix.
Another real pleasure was meeting Carola Dunn. Carola, the author of the much-loved Daisy Dalrymple series, has lived in America for many years but is (as her accent immediately reveals) English. As we both write mysteries set in the 1920s, it was fascinating to compare notes. I have her new book, Anthem For Doomed Youth, on my to-be-read pile.
Perhaps the nicest thing about Crimefest is the complete lack of them-and-us-ism. I’ve come across this at other events, where some guests are treated like VIP’s and the rest of us are merely invited to marvel. I’m not quite sure why this doesn’t happen at Crimefest, but it doesn’t. It’s a terrifically friendly atmosphere, aided by excellent organisation in a very friendly hotel.
Now I suppose I’d better do the ironing!
Saturday, May 7, 2011
The Last Post
The last veteran of World War One, Claude Choules, died this week at the grand old age of 111. It’s very strange to feel that our last living link to the war has gone. I was born 12 years after the end of the Second World War and, throughout all of my childhood, “The War” – there was only one – was always there. (When I read Gone With The Wind many years later the constant references to “Before the war” struck a very familiar chord.)
The influence of Second World War was so persuasive that it was only by logical deduction I knew (this is as a kid, remember) that there must have been a first war for there to have been a second. I came across my Grandfather’s medals in a long-unopened drawer and my mother reacted with a shuddering horror. The first world war was a sort of “naughty” war, the one we didn’t speak about, so naturally, that was the one I was interested in!
Incidentally, my mother’s reaction was a classic case of distrusting remembered experience. By her account, my granddad, who together with a approximately 100,000 other Britons, volunteered as soon as war was declared, was stuck in a muddy trench for four years with no training, hardly any food, and no respite while idiotic generals blindly sent wave after wave of trusting Tommies off to die. There wasn’t any point to the war which had been declared because of the incompetence, stupidity and sheer heartlessness of the upper classes.
That is, of course, a total myth. The German Army of 1914 was very large, very well trained and very well equipped. The German war aim was total domination of Europe. The absolutely chilling plans, as detailed by the German Chancellor, Bethmann-Hollweg in September 1914, envisaged the whole of Europe as a puppet state. Any neutral country would be allowed a figure-head of a leader but would be under German economic control. France would be “Forced to her knees” which meant, with free access to the Channel ports, the Germans could “Impose their will on England”.
This was a very real threat. The Germans could have won and for a long time it seemed very likely they would do just that. They’d had a long time to prepare for the war, while Britain managed a huge Empire with a tiny army that was more akin to a police force. (Hitler could never understand how the British managed it.) That tiny army had to expand (Hi, Granddad!) be equipped, meet, fight and defeat the enemy in France. After all, the Germans had invaded France and Belgium and weren’t shifting unless forcibly removed.
In the end, Britain and the Allies won a stunning victory, but the human cost was frightful. In the Depression of the Thirties, when the homes fit for heroes had failed to materialize, “Before the war” was seen as a golden age. What had the war been for? No one was any better off as a result. It had all been, so the myth ran, pointless…
But it wasn’t. Thanks to men like Claude Choules, my granddad and thousands like them, we lived – freely – to fight another day. Rest in peace.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
What Else Is There To Write About?
There doesn’t seem much else to write about other than The Wedding. What with the weather and the friendly crowds and everyone exuding good cheer and happiness, it was a brilliant day, wasn’t it? I watched it on the telly with enough family around to make it feel a bit like a party and the nice thing about watching it in the comfort of one’s own home, is that a) you can put the kettle on as and when b) you can make all the comments that you want to make in church but are constrained by the social decencies from voicing. Like, isn’t Kate’s dress gorgeous and thank God it’s not a meringue crossed with a circus tent and isn’t she beautiful? And will her poor father ever get the circulation back in his hand? (Never did a bride grip her Dad’s hand more tightly). And didn’t the trees in the church look good? And what on Earth were Eugenie and Beatrice wearing on their heads? And isn’t William handsome? And, come to that, Harry isn’t half bad either. And aren’t the titchy bridesmaids wonderful, especially the little one, firmly shepherded by the lovely Phillipa Middleton, who kept one hand on her head with an iron grip on her wreath?
London in party mood is a great place. I was there for the Jubilee and the whole city becomes one happy place where complete strangers talk, don’t push, make friends and are simply glad to be there. It’s great to stand on Westminster Bridge with no traffic, to have people from all over Britain and all over the world chilling out and being nice, picnicking on the grass and – on occasion – bursting into song. I don’t know why it’s so great to stand by the Victoria Memorial with thousands of other people, singing their hearts out, but it is. And there’s another Jubilee next year…
London in party mood is a great place. I was there for the Jubilee and the whole city becomes one happy place where complete strangers talk, don’t push, make friends and are simply glad to be there. It’s great to stand on Westminster Bridge with no traffic, to have people from all over Britain and all over the world chilling out and being nice, picnicking on the grass and – on occasion – bursting into song. I don’t know why it’s so great to stand by the Victoria Memorial with thousands of other people, singing their hearts out, but it is. And there’s another Jubilee next year…
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Take the Pascal Moon away from the first moon you thought of…
Hasn’t the weather been wonderful? I’m only hoping it lasts until Easter Sunday, as we’ve got eight for lunch plus a few more relatives in the afternoon. As Easter is very much a Movable Feast, I hope we can get out in the garden!
Easter is, of course, the season of new life. The name is the last remnant of the worship of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the Spring, Estre or Oestre. As to when Easter should be celebrated (here comes the movable feast bit) we celebrate it on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the spring equinox, where the day and night are of equal length, causing, if you believe the archeological programmes on the telly, a lot of people long ago to build stone circles and chant a lot.
Now, I must admit, should anyone think I've got this sort of information at my fingertips, I looked it up, but this is where it gets confusing.
The spring equinox – pay attention at the back there! - is fixed for this purpose as March 21 and the "full moon" is actually the paschal moon, which is based on 84-year "paschal cycles" established in the sixth century, would you believe. It rarely corresponds to the astronomical or actual full moon. Just to make life even more interesting, the Eastern churches, such as the Greek and Russian orthodox, count it up the same way, but use the Julian calendar (on which March 21 is April 3) and a 19-year paschal cycle.
I think I’ll just check the calendar same as usual and celebrate at the same time as everyone else.
The new life bit is absolutely unmissable though. The garden’s gone mental. Only a few weeks ago, there were bare patches on the so-called lawn and now it looks (from a distance) green. All over. Mostly.
Mind you, I did help it along. To the intense amusement of my Other Half, I bough a pair of rigid plastic sandals with huge spikes sticking out the bottom and walked around the grass, aerating the lawn. Apparently grass-roots like a bit of fresh air, which makes you wonder why it grows underground.
I mean, if the roots likes air that much, why not stick them above ground to take a breather now and again, rather than waiting for someone with huge spikes sticking out of the soles of their feet to come and give it a dose of the much needed? It seems like a rum state of affairs to me and one that might have given Darwin a bit of pause for thought. It’s hardly survival of the fittest, is it? Although, by the time two dogs and various humans have romped over it, it’s more a case of the survival of the flattest.
Happy Easter everyone! I hope you get lots of eggs.
Easter is, of course, the season of new life. The name is the last remnant of the worship of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the Spring, Estre or Oestre. As to when Easter should be celebrated (here comes the movable feast bit) we celebrate it on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the spring equinox, where the day and night are of equal length, causing, if you believe the archeological programmes on the telly, a lot of people long ago to build stone circles and chant a lot.
Now, I must admit, should anyone think I've got this sort of information at my fingertips, I looked it up, but this is where it gets confusing.
The spring equinox – pay attention at the back there! - is fixed for this purpose as March 21 and the "full moon" is actually the paschal moon, which is based on 84-year "paschal cycles" established in the sixth century, would you believe. It rarely corresponds to the astronomical or actual full moon. Just to make life even more interesting, the Eastern churches, such as the Greek and Russian orthodox, count it up the same way, but use the Julian calendar (on which March 21 is April 3) and a 19-year paschal cycle.
I think I’ll just check the calendar same as usual and celebrate at the same time as everyone else.
The new life bit is absolutely unmissable though. The garden’s gone mental. Only a few weeks ago, there were bare patches on the so-called lawn and now it looks (from a distance) green. All over. Mostly.
Mind you, I did help it along. To the intense amusement of my Other Half, I bough a pair of rigid plastic sandals with huge spikes sticking out the bottom and walked around the grass, aerating the lawn. Apparently grass-roots like a bit of fresh air, which makes you wonder why it grows underground.
I mean, if the roots likes air that much, why not stick them above ground to take a breather now and again, rather than waiting for someone with huge spikes sticking out of the soles of their feet to come and give it a dose of the much needed? It seems like a rum state of affairs to me and one that might have given Darwin a bit of pause for thought. It’s hardly survival of the fittest, is it? Although, by the time two dogs and various humans have romped over it, it’s more a case of the survival of the flattest.
Happy Easter everyone! I hope you get lots of eggs.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Simple machines
It was my birthday yesterday (21 again!) and my lovely Other Half bought me a new sewing machine.
New to me, that is, as it’s actually one of the last made by the Glasgow factory in 1934. The thing is, it’s so wonderfully simple. Lucy loves it because it looks like something out of Sylvanian Families (you know, those cute toy dressed rabbits and squirrels and so on that come with little houses and lots of stuff for children to collect) but it’s actually a very solid, beautifully made machine that works.
I’ve had an electric sewing machine before and the principle is more or less the same as a hand operated machine, but the damn thing goes so fast that when you make a bish of things (and as a very plain sewer, that’s what I tend to do) it very soon becomes an inextricable mix of knots and problems. This goes at my pace (slow) but it works.
Understandable mechanical stuff is one of life’s more simple pleasures. Don’t get me wrong, electronic stuff is great – I’m typing this on a computer, I’ll watch a DVD on the TV later today and I love my ipod but you can’t see how those things work, can you? You can’t lift the lid and see cogs connected to wheels powered by springs or whatever. Being able to see how things work puts us in control in a way that pushing a button simply can’t. I think that’s why understandable machines, such as steam engines, old aeroplanes, vintage cars and stonking great big engines in old cotton mills or historic ships generate such great affection.
Oh, and I’ve made a tea towel!
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