The Dark and the Deep (Part Two)

Find Part One here (or further down the page if you don't want to click on the link.)

Awful news.  Terrible events.  Tuppence is in gaol (or 'jail' if you must be all 21st century about it).
He's currently 'on remand' but things aren't looking good.
'We're going to have to either fix the jury or nobble the judge,' I said, biting my hooves.
'What?' said Geoffrey, slapping me across the knuckles.
'Ouch.  Pass me the vodka (we're on vodka just now, as that's what Sanity Claws left us at Yule, as he sped violently across the skies in his bean-tin chariot, dropping his load in his usual alarming fashion.  It wasn't what we asked for;  of course it wasn't.  It's NEVER what we ask for.  In all the years I've been writing letters to Sanity Claws, I've never ever got a single thing that I - )'
'TUPPY!  Concentrate!'
'Ooops.  Sorry Geoffrey.  I started to drift.  I'm just so annoyed about the vodka thing.  He knows full well I dislike it and yet That's What He Brought.  Or rather, dropped.'
'Will you please stick to the matter in hand?  Like your nephew's incarceration-style predicament, and your responsibility as his only surviving male relative, to DO something about it?'
'I think I'm finding it too stressful to think about that Geoffrey.  I'm trying to blot it out by dwelling on my resentment about the vodka.'
'Your resentment isn't putting you off drinking it.'
'No indeed.  And why should it?'  I sighed.  I knew that Geoffrey was right.  I'd have to Do Something to help Tuppence.  After all, he's helped me out of several tricky situations in the past (see any of the e-books for details).  And it wasn't as if he'd done anything terribly bad.  He'd only kidnapped the Narks, for the very good reason that they were planning to butcher him to sell in their farm shop in the Spring.  Unfortunately, or not, depending on your point of view - and mine tends towards the latter - he isn't letting on where he's keeping them.  And if he's in gaol, and nobody else knows where they are, they might starve to death.  And that could lead to a charge of murder - or manslaughter, at best.  And murder is a hangin' offence, Hereabouts.  And so is shoplifting, dropping litter, putting your washing out on a Wednesday, eating chips, farting in an enclosed space without opening a window, blowing up empty crisp packets and bursting them, smoking cigarettes At All - to list just a few offences that have suddenly appeared on the (previously empty) Rocky Outcrop Statute Book.  After eons of being extremely mild-mannered and liberal, we've found ourselves Under the Cosh of a highly illiberal regime.  All of a sudden,  we don't mess about.  At least, not in the way we used to.  More of that, later.  In the meantime,  we can't have Tuppence strung up.  .
'There's only one thing we can do,'  I said, standing up and draining my glass, then flinging it into the fireplace. 'We're going to have to bust him out.  Fetch the dustpan and brush Geoffrey and clean up that broken glass from the fireplace, and I'll get the gelignite from under the stairs.  Let's kick some BUTT.'

More later....................
'

Gandalf's Fist - Gardens of the Lost

Inspiration: Only Connect

Looking through my work on now-abandoned website Shortbread Stories I came across this, which I wrote for their blog three years ago.



Kate Smart's Blog › Inspiration: Only Connect | Shortbread

The ineluctable process of life has to be the basic, primary resource and inspiration for any creative person.  No matter how abstruse the work, it will emerge through the constantly-shifting prism of the author's life and experiences as an organic being;   the author who is living and growing and developing as a unique spirit among other organic beings, all doing exactly the same thing.

Is any thought or idea original, therefore?   Of course.  There may be many common experiences and many things that resonate because of our shared humanity but we also experience the world as individuals and respond to it accordingly.  The way that we express ourselves is unique, because we are all unique beings.   Isn't it such a joy when you find something written that does resonate, and makes you feel less alone on the planet - and maybe a bit less weird?  Conversely as a writer, it is marvellous when a reader responds to something you have written, and you get a sense of the power and strength, and the potential for good, of that shared humanity.   “Only connect”, as E.M. Forster famously said.

Then there is the matter of the interaction between the conscious and the unconscious mind.  We are deluded if think we can manage our minds; we can't.  And thank goodness for it, because otherwise no decent creative work would ever be made.  The unconscious is a powerful force that will irrupt through the membrane of the organised, conscious mind, and there is nothing that we can do to prevent this.  It recharges us, stimulates us, disturbs us – sometimes frightens us – and keeps us spiritually alive.  This is the part of us that responds to bodily memory;  a dream-world of shadow and chaos behind the world of language.  The sharp pang in your heart produced by the expression glimpsed momentarily  in some stranger’s  eyes as they stand on a railway platform as your train gathers speed and disappears forever;  the poignant yellow of a woman’s dress as she moves through a crowded square on a summer’s day, that reminds you of something that feels oddly significant but that will forever elude you;  a glimpse of a certain type of stubble in the damp,  rotting fields of late autumn that makes your flesh creep disproportionately, but you have no idea why.   This is the site of phobias, repression, and pain; and also of pleasure and wonder.   It responds to the sensory, non-verbal world, and makes us feel.  What is that discomfort, that strange pain?  Where has that come from?  Why do I feel this way?  What does it remind me of?  Why now? And when you sit with that for a while, it might come to you why, and you might be able to write about it. 

And even if you never find out why, you might end up writing about it anyway, despite your best intentions not to.

Two of my favourite writers are Colette, and George Orwell.   Both were staggeringly productive, and both wrote very openly from primary experience.   Among several other subjects, Colette drew upon her work on the stage to write vivid, fictionalised accounts of theatrical life, and also wrote a beautiful book about her mother, Sido.   Her inspirations were people, relationships, love, cats, food, nature.   Orwell wrote famously about politics and society, and drew on his own experiences living rough, for example, for essays, magazine articles and books such as Down and Out in Paris and London.  His Diaries are a joy to read in themselves, and you can see how his work evolved  from those daily notes. 

I have been trying to narrow down my own sources of inspiration; there are many.  Everything really, which is the point I was making at the start.  Everything is an inspiration.  Just being alive in a world of people, most of whom are very strange indeed, I’m pleased to say.   We’re bombarded by conversations,  language, relationships, and the general ghastliness and wonder of life.  My work as a mental health counsellor some years ago, talking to people with a huge range of human anxieties and dilemmas provided me with a particularly fascinating insight into a certain dynamic.   Another rich source nowadays is the internet;  there is no longer such a need for a writer to listen at keyholes or eavesdrop in cafes; reading other people’s “time-lines” and online “convos” is a very similar activity, which you can do from the comfort of your own  fireside.

There are different layers, aren’t there, to inspiration.  There is the surface layer of the here and now, and then there are background layers of past experience that colour one’s perception of the present.  And then there are the marvels of books, films  and music.

I have always been a music fan, and my long-standing preference for Led Zeppelin definitely colours my writing.  I went through a phase of listening to Gregorian chant and Hildegard of Bingen in an effort to improve my mind, but it didn’t last. 

And like most people, my inner world contains a range of favourite childhood books, TV,  films, and so forth.  I was lucky to grow up  among  the beautiful  scenery of highland Perthshire and part of me will forever be in a half-imaginary, half-real world of endless summers,  dusty schoolrooms, laburnum bushes, lush wooded hills,  lochs and rivers;  inhaling the mysterious smell of greasepaint at free dress rehearsals at Pitlochry theatre, then “stalking” the best-looking actors with my friends and scaring them half to death in that feral, anarchic way that groups of twelve year old girls sometimes have.  Sounds idyllic, but of course life is rarely just as it appears.  Which is just as well, for writers.

Sometimes the bumpy parts  are the most interesting and rewarding, in the end.  But that is not always the case.   Overcoming adversity – or not - now there’s another source of inspiration for many.  Do you write about reality?  Do you change it, to make things turn out the way you wish they had? Or do you bury the lot in a denial-fuelled fantasy world?  Whatever the case, it’s all come from you.

Read more: Kate Smart's Blog › Inspiration: Only Connect | Shortbread 

The Dark and the Deep (part one)

'The dark days Tuppy....why can't we dig ourselves out?'
'Because we're getting older, Geoffrey, and as you get older it becomes more and more difficult.  And besides - sometimes, you go too deep......'
'Have we gone too deep, Tuppy?'
'I don't know.  Remember when we went to the centre of the earth, and right through to Australia, and waved to Doug McClure on the way back (please see Sea Penguin Part Four for details, if you're interested)? That was deep.  About as deep as deep can be. And we came back.  But that was a few years ago. I'm not sure if we could do it now.'
'Do you think that if we went on a health and fitness regime, that might help improve our energy levels?'
'No.  That kind of thing never helps.'
'We could ask Val Nark for some detox tips.'
'No we forking couldn't Geoffrey. Aren't you forgetting that she's gone over to the dark side?  What about the multiple bird roasts and the Spring lamb carry-on? (see yesterday's post for details, if you're interested).'
'Just because she's selling them it doesn't mean that she's partaking of them herself.  She could still be vegan.'
'Oh come off it.'
'She's got to keep body and soul together somehow, and you said yourself that the flapjack market has collapsed.  She's had to diversify in order to survive.'
'She didn't have to diversify into m-m-meat.  That's US Geoffrey.  I don't understand why you've any sympathy for her.'
'I s'pose you're right.'
'I AM right.  Now stick the kettle on.  My head hurts.'
'We can worry about the dark and the deep tomorrow?'
'Yes.  Preferably through a comforting blanket of mind-numbing psychotropics.'

More later........

It's All Over.....thank goodness.....

Well, that's it over for another year.  The feasting, the merry-making, the false jollity, the hangovers, the upset stomachs, the heartburn, the angst, the self-hatred, the guilt, the disappointment, the loneliness, the boredom,  the ennui, the bad memories,  the regret, the overspending, the falling-comatose-on-the-sofa-at-all-hours-for-no-reason-that-you-can-think-of and so forth.
Not to mention the chucking-people-off-cliffs custom, which as any reader of Sea Penguins Parts One to Five will know, happens with stomach-churning regularity Hereabouts, and most especially at Yule, when the person voted Most Unpopular in the annual Yuletide poll, gets chucked 'over-the-top'.  But more of that later.
Or perhaps not.
Geoffrey and I are well-past-it, of course, in terms of forced jollity merry-making;  plus, we are sufficently self-aware to know that we're known locally as miserable and stingey 'old-git-style-personages', who dislike 'company', so we kept a fairly low profile.  Not entirely, therefore, but largely, through choice.  Tuppence usually turns up for Yuletide luncheon (extra-large sausages, marinated for three days in the cellar in our own absinthe-and-sage micksture, twenty-five apiece, all neatly threaded and roasted on a spit with M &S fish-fingers and windfall russet apples in between, just for the aesthetic appeal - we don't actually eat 'froot' Hereabouts, as regular readers will know).  But he's getting older now, and this year he decided not to join us. Instead, he borrowed my waterproof trousers, my tinderbox, a jar of beef paste, four loaves of bread, three tins of spaghetti hoops and the Tupfinder General's old army tent, and went off to have an adventure Out in the Wilds with some of his so-called friends - more of that later, if he returns.
Geoffrey has been feeling especially paranoid this year due to the current bizarre fetish for 'multiple bird roasts'.  And well he might.  The Narks have jumped on the bandwagon.  Back in November they turned one of their yurts into a 'farm shop' and started taking orders for an organic version, using 'locally-sourced, free-range meat', and stuffed with seaweed and hunza apricots.  They even put a blackboard outside, with prices. Fifty quid a pop,  apparently.  Yet they won't specify which 'locally-sourced' birds are involved.
'As long as it's not me I don't care Tuppy,' he sobbed. 'I don't want to end up in the middle of a Russian doll-style fowl-fest, rolled and frozen in a box with several of my friends. It doesn't bear thinking about.'
'So much for their so-called vegan lifestyle with their herbal tisanes and their aduki bean rissoles.  They've gone for the meat dollar Geoffrey - and that tells you all you need to know.  I'll never sample one of Val's goji berry and raw oat flapjacks again, not even if she gets down on her bended knees and begs.  So help me I won't.'
'I doubt if she'll have the brass neck to make flapjacks now Tuppy.  Not after soiling her hands with multiple bird roasts.'
'I wouldn't be too sure Geoffrey.  It's follow the money with those two.  You'd think butter wouldn't melt what with their Peruvian hats and their rustic hand-knits, but really they've no scruples.  For now the flapjack market has bottomed out, but who knows - in the Spring it could rise again and she'll be flogging them as fast as she can bake 'em. She'd probably start a flapjack sweat-shop if she could.'
'Tuppy.'
'Yes?'
'Brace yourself.  I've heard rumours that she plans to sell....I'm awfully sorry to have to say it, but... Spring lamb...in the Spring,..in her farm shop...there will be a big special promotion on at Easter,  apparently.'  Geoffrey pressed his hankie to his mouth and cried a little.
'Well don't fret Geoffrey, because that won't affect me.  I'm well-past the lamb stage,'  I replied briskly, pulling the tartan knee rug tighter over my arthritic...knees. 'But we should plan ahead and warn Tuppence as soon as he returns.  He's an adolescent now but in her warped eyes he might just qualify as a lamb.  Luckily, he's very resourceful, and handy with his pistols ( see previous e-books for details http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1) , so he should be able to protect himself, if need be.'
'But that's the point Tuppy.  Why should he have to protect himself?  Why should he have to live in fear?  It's not right.'
'Of course it's not right Geoffrey.  Many things in life are not right.  But what can we do?'
'We must think of something Tuppy.  We can't just give in.'
'We'll never give in Geoffrey. But for now let's fortify ourselves with a snack and a nap, and perhaps a mug of that nice French brandy you got me for Yule.  We can think about life's trickier side after.'

More Later....

Meanwhile, please help yourself to Sea Penguins One and Two for free today and tomorrow (27th and 28th) via this link to my Amazon page.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1


'  

The Soup Crisis

'Last Tuesday we ran out of soup.  I couldn’t believe it at first.  We always have soup.  Carrot and tomato, lentil, parsnip and potato, banana and peach. 

Just a few of my favourites.

I prefer a starchy soup.  But I don’t care for legumes.  Leguminous soup gives me wind.

They say, soak and boil the beans first and rinse off the starchy residue.  I can’t be arsed, quite frankly.  Can anyone?  I just fling them in the pan.  Sometimes I use a dried legume; on other occasions I might use tinned.

The other day, I read about tins being dangerous.  Not tins in and of themselves, other than the lids, which as we all know are lethal if you’re not vigilant.   It’s the lining, you see.  It affects the contents in some way that I couldn’t really be bothered remembering.

It’s a bit confusing really.  One newspaper expert says that half a can of peaches, for example, provides one of your five a day.  The other half can be flung in the bin, or saved for another day.  Or perhaps given to someone else, if you’re not on your own.  Another newspaper expert says that you shouldn’t eat from tins at all, because the lining of the tin has a harmful effect on your corporeum.

I don’t know what to make of it all, at all.

I like soup.  I like to make soup from tins.  Perhaps I should cut out the middle man and drink tinned soup.

Which brings me to another problem.  Does one eat soup, or does one drink it?

I suppose if one is faced with a plateful of leguminous soup, packed with chunky legumes and such like, one might eat it rather than drink it.

Are eating and drinking the same thing?  Are the words interchangeable?  And if so, is one of the words therefore redundant?  Sort of like the tail of a tadpole, before it transforms into a frog or toad?'

This (the above) is what I saw when I accidentally peered into Geoffrey's brain last Sunday evening while searching, vainly, for a lost pyjama button down the back of the sofa - an endless ream of words that make little sense, unless you happen to be Geoffrey.  And even then, you might give up and have a biscuit.  

The Ivory Gull

The bonny ivory gull (photo from wikipedia)

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04mlvxt That's a link to this morning's Radio Four's Tweet of the Day feature - and I'm blogging it because I'd like to preserve it ( as well as share it with any interested readers - all two of you...).  Today's bird is the ivory gull.  Before last night when someone mentioned it to me on Twitter I hadn't ever heard of the ivory gull;  I'm so glad that I now know of its existence because it is the most beautiful bird - snowy white, a creature of the icy, northern realms - absolutely lovely.  Unfortunately and predictably it's also endangered, due to its habit of feeding on the livers of seals (among other things), which have been contaminated via human pollution.
If I ever get the money I will travel to the icy realms and I will see the beautiful ivory gull, before it disappears...

Measuring the Thinness (or thickness) of the Line betwixt the Living and the Dead

All Hallow's Eve has been and gone, and we're still here.
November the 5th has been and gone, and we're still here, despite effigies of us both being burnt to a crisp on bonfires on top of the moor, placed on a go-kart and shoved smartly downhill to plummet off the cliffs into the raging sea below.
Next up, the winter Solstice, and Yuletide, with all its merriment,  LED fairy lights, trifle, presents, sherry,  sausage rolls,  and general horror and ghastliness.
Ah well.  The wheel turns, and there is nothing that we can do to stop it - unless we tunnel into the centre of the Earth and interfere with its axis of gravity somehow, by filling it with black pudding or whatever.
Personally,  I find the relentless, grinding, nature of the turning of the Earth a bit passive aggressive in flavour. But that's just me!  And perhaps I'll feel differently tomorrow*.
Last Saturday Geoffrey's DebSoc debated the rights and wrongs of Trick or Treating, which is just about the level I would expect from a club that calls itself 'DebSoc'.
Back at the Rocky Outcrop we were in better form, sitting either side of our customary roaring driftwood fire with steaming mugs of Madeira and platefuls of salty snax, discussing the precise nature and thinness of the line betwixt the living and the dead.
The Tupfinder General had joined us for the evening.  "I'd say it's so thin as to be negligible," he said,  toasting a row of sausages, kebab-style, on the end of his sword-stick.
"You mean there's no discernable difference between us and dead people?"asked Geoffrey through a mouthful of mini cheddars.  "How do we know which side of the line we're on then?"
"We don't,"  I replied.
"And how do we know when we've crossed it?"
"We don't know that either."
"So we three might be dead, and we might not even know?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Wait till I tell them at DebSoc!  I'm bound to win Whinge of the Week with that one!"
"It's hardly a Whinge, though, is it?"  I said doubtfully.
"I'd say it qualifies," said the Tupfinder General, "Depending on how it's phrased. For example, you could say 'why oh why don't we know if, when, or indeed why, for that matter, we're dead?'  That would be a good whinge.  Three whinges in one, if you can be bothered taking the time to deconstruct it.  Sort of like an Aldi three-bird roast, like the one Mrs T-G has had in the freezer for the last four years, beneath the Viennetta, the bag of pre-digested Macedoine, and Aunt Bessie's extra-greasy Yorkshire Puddings."
"Yes!  Or I could try, 'why oh why is the line betwixt the living and the dead so appallingly thin?' "Geoffrey enthused.
"You could even start a campaign to get it thickened,"  said the Tupfinder General, "Sort of like dualling the A9."
"I'll start by putting a Notice up on Val and Dave Nark's Noticeboard at the main Yurt. 'Anyone wanting to get the line betwixt the living and the dead thickened forthwith, please sign your name below or contact Geoffrey direct at The Rocky Outcrop,  3,  The Cliffs,  Hereabouts.'  Thanks T-G!"

*probably not though.

more later.

More - lots and lots more - five volumes more, in fact - from Tuppy, Geoffrey and the Tupfinder General in my e-books - here are links to two of them.   http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_10 http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Extractor-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007KUXBM2/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=1FBG4AFEVW3TFRM4B252

'

Geoffrey and Tuppy talk about defibrillators and biscuits and Death and university.

'People are so boring nowadays.  By people I mean poets.  Not that I know any poets, but...'
'I know what you mean.  I've been dying to talk to you about this all week only it slipped my mind. We were only saying at DebSoc the other night...Tuppy? TUPPY!'
'Yes?  Oh sorry.  It's just when you say 'DebSoc' it knocks me out cold.  I'll just have a quick whiff of sal volatile, and run some silver foil over my fillings, and I should be able to resume my normal level of consciousness - without having to charge up the defibrillator.'
'Oh yes.  Last time we did that, it fused the lights.  And the Fulmars' jacoozy stopped pumping. The rats* strapped to the bikes down at the power station just couldn't cope Tuppy.  They've still not forgiven you for showing them up like that.  Revealing their weaknesses and all.  They like to pretend they're invincible.'
'I know all that and I don't want reminding.  Now please continue with your dreadful tale, if you must.  The sooner you start, the sooner it's over with, and I can go back to thinking about the inevitability of Death, and whether it might be a  good or bad idea to speed its relentless, grinding approach with an over-ingestion of Fox's double chocolate chunk cookies at tea-time - only don't say 'DebSoc' out loud.'
'O.K.'
Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire digesting our lunches.   I'd had three pint mugs of tea and a five-sausage sandwich with butter, pepper, and brown sauce, and he'd had a thimbleful of buttonberry and ox blood daisy-honey tisane and an aduki bean burger with half a dozen alf-alfa sprouts.
Outside the wind howled and raged like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at the leash.
'The wind sounds remarkably like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at its leash Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, picking an alf-alfa sprout out of his upper right pre-molar.
'Yes indeed.  And those flecks of rain could even be hideous slobbers flung from its vast ravening jaws.  Ah well.  Let's put the kettle on again and continue our discussion about Dylan Thomas.  In fact - let's go one better and crack open a fresh bottle of Madeira in his honour.  The sun's well over the yard-arm, I think. Not that I've any idea when or where or indeed what the yard-arm actually is.'
'Me neither.  I'm trying to lay off the drink Tuppy.  Val Nark says...'
'Val Nark can naff off.  Last time I saw her she tried to sell me a blueberry e-pipe.  Ten quid it was Geoffrey. Ten quid!  Think of all the baccy I could get for that.  If I had to buy it instead of steal it, of course.'
'Val Nark wants me to go to university Tuppy.  There, I said it.'  Geoffrey blushed and gulped and looked generally incredibly uncomfortable.  I stared at him over my eye-glasses and tried my best to make him feel even worse.
'University?'
'Yes.  She says I've got potential Tuppy.  She says I can go far.  She wants me to study book-learning,' he blurted.
'You've already BEEN far.  You've gone right round the naffing world**.'
'I suppose so...'
'And who needs book-learning?  We've got a pile of books over there, and we never open them.  Why?  Because we don't need to.  We've got all the knowledge we need right here.'  I tapped my forehead with the leg of my specs. and tried to look convincing.
'She says I could get a degree Tuppy.  In literature or philosophy maybe.  She says I'm bright.'
'Has she got a degree?'
'No.  But sometimes she listens to Radio 4 Tuppy, and that's almost as good,  if not better.'
'Who says that?'
'She does.'


more of this later...............

*the rats power all the electricity Hereabouts, by bicycling on vast numbers of exercise bikes in the tunnels below the cliffs.
**Geoffrey circumnambulated the globe on more than one occasion.
Details of all this and much much more, of course, in the e-books to be found via this link to Amazon  here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1414419081&sr=8-1

Interesting article from City Lights Bookshop, San Francisco.  http://www.blogcitylights.com/2014/10/23/michael-mcclures-ghost-tantras/

Today's Conundrum. How Do I Become a Self-realised Soul?

Geoffrey's been attending Val Nark's Mindfulness and Self-realisation Training, every Monday at 7pm up at the new Community Centre.

Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in.  I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I never put the kettle on!  For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes.  I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.

It's not only that.  When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It.  A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits,  who said what,  and endless theories about why they might have done so.

I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of - 

'Tuppy!'

'What?'

'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'

'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'

'Oh.  It must just feel like twenty I suppose.' 

He's learning to meditate.  

Me,   I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window,  and smoke my pipe.  Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids,  and two schooners of best Madeira.

Geoffrey used to do the same,  but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.

I doubt it will last.

Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson.  Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.  

More about that,  later....

Fyfe Robertson, the great TV reporter

I remember Fyfe Robertson from childhood and I used to do a fairly good impression of him (when I was nine or something).  Here he is on his way to interview Barbara Cartland.  You don't get to see the actual interview, sadly.

World Mental Health Day

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire enjoying a bacon sandwich and a read of The Bugle.
'Anything interesting today,  Geoffrey?'  I wasn't expecting anything beyond Val Nark's health-food cookery column (hedgerow jam last week), letters to the editor written by the usual whingers, and a review of Grudge Match written by my nephew Tuppence.  Grudge Match is his favourite film.  He says it bears several repeat viewings to bring out the subtle nuances and he's written nine different reviews, or 'exegeses' as he calls them.
I thought there might be a few seasonal used items for sale in the small ads., such as fire irons, fleece dressing-gowns and slippers.   Cherry Fulmar tried to sell Apsley (her husband) last week. Clearly there's desperate trouble brewing in the Old Rectory...
But more of that later.
'There's a feature on World Mental Health Day.' Geoffrey was peering through his pince nez.
'How dull.  Move on. What's for sale?  Any sentient beings this week?  Has Val Nark got another vile recipe in?'
'Not this week.  It's her who's written the feature on World Mental Health Day.'
'Really?  Bore me senseless.
'She does therapy and everything.  And it isn't just the hot stones and the sweat yurt.  She does proper talking therapy as well now. She does counselling Tuppy.  It's only forty pounds an hour. I think you should go.'
'Why?  There's nothing wrong with my mental health.'
'That's because you mask everything behind a cloud of self-medication.  The drugs and pipe tobacco and that.  You're numbing yourself Tuppy.  You're not in touch with your inner self.'
'Opium and laudanum and Madeira and whatever else I can lay my hands on, are not drugs.  They're simple comestibles, like bacon and tea.'
'Val says you're an addict.  She says you need locking up for your own safety.  She says you're a fool to yourself Tuppy, and a bad example to Tuppence and the younger generation.'
'But it's Tuppence who supplies me!  Ooops I mean...'
'Aha!  So you've turned into a grass Uncle Tuppy!   I expected as much.  Fortunately,  I'm clever enough to evade capture - plus, I'm prepared for any eventuality.'
It was my nefarious nephew, and 'supplier', Tuppence.  He stood in the doorway armed to the teeth with a brace of pistols and a bandolier.  Behind him stood two rats, glowering and smoking roll-up cigarettes made with brown papers.
'Are those liquorice papers?' I asked. 'I haven't been able to get those for ages.'
'Don't try to distract our attention from your loose lips Uncle Tuppy.  You've let me down and in a Big Way.  AGAIN, might I add.  No wonder I've had to go to Val Nark for regression therapy.  I've learned loads.  Did you know, for example, that that cup of tea that you're holding is a quarter full, not three quarters empty?  Isn't that a marvellous insight?'
'But it's cold, and I don't want it. Besides, I don't give a flying *insert rude word of choice*.  Put the kettle on Geoffrey, and bring the thumbscrews.  I want to know when and why you were discussing my comestible consumption with Val *insert rude word of choice* Nark.'

More on (most of) this later.

Read more about Tuppy, Tuppence,  Geoffrey, and Val Nark here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Find more of my stuff here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Mrs T-G Attempts a Croquembouche

Last evening Geoffrey and I huddled by the stone urn on the Fulmars' patio, watching the final of the Great British Bake-off on their 93 inch curved flat screen 3D TV, via their French windows.   It's lucky for us that they never close their curtains - aping people in the movies I suppose.  Take Sean Connery in The Untouchables for example.  Why, for pity's sake, if you knew that the henchmen of Al Capone were after you, would you.....

'Tuppy!!'

Geoffrey shook me awake and handed me a steaming cup of T-G Tips.

'Insufficient today Geoffrey.  It'll have to be the adrenalin shot to the heart.'
'Okey-doke.  I'll just give the syringe a flush through under the tap.  I was using it to baste the...'
'No you weren't.  Just get on with it.'

50cc of industrial-strenf 'aortic adrenalin' and three mugs of T-G Tips and four bacon sandwiches and five slices of toast and Val Nark's 'hedgerow marmalade' later....

'What did you make of that then?'
'I thought it was awful.  Anyone can bake a cake.'
'Can you bake a cake?'
'No.  But did you see the state of them?''
'That's not nice.'
'I'm only being honest.'
'All right.  What about the croquembouches'?'
'Excuse me?'
'Precisely.  Mrs T-G is making one At This Very Moment.'
'How do you know that?'
'I can sense it.  Not only that, I can smell it.'
'You can't.'
'That's right,  I can't.  But I've got a fair idea.  And it's the type of fair idea that makes me Very Afraid and Keeps Me Awake at Night.  Remember the black sausage rolls?'
'Oooh yes.  I do.   Everyone got...'
'Quite.   I'll raise you those and give you the Croquembouche.   Croquembouche translates as 'break in mouth'.  Need I say more, in this context?  Probably not, but I will anyway.  She's erecting a vast choux tower covered with toffee hard enough to crack your eye teeth on, right at this very minute, and she's seeking ways of insisting that we eat it, fuelled by rage and resentment relating to her Paris persona.  She's beaten that choux mixture and spun that sugar until it can take no more, and she's brooding until she's scared she bursts with the power of sheer hatred.  I'll even bet that she thinks she's bilingual because she can say 'Croquembouche' with a cigarette in her mouth and an air of 1950s Gallic aplomb.'
'Well! If she IS bilingual I dare say that's her own business; the T-G hasn't mentioned that before.  I suppose her Paris days must have broadened her horizons....'
'You're being disingenuous again.  Stop it, and start focusing on what really matters.'
'All right.  What does really matter, when all's said and done though Tuppy?  I've always wondered about that, but I've thought perhaps it's best to not know.  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing Tuppy.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't know what I mean.  Let's talk about Mrs T-G again.  It stops my head from spinning.'
'Well, one French word and she thinks she's Jean Paul Sartre.  Next she'll be contributing a weekly philosophy column to the Bugle.'
'Oh yes - the Bugle.  Our new local free at the point of delivery newspaper. But shouldn't she be thinking she's Simone de Beauvoir rather than Jean Paul Sartre?'
'She's bilingual, remember, silly?'
'Oh of course.....I'd forgotten already..........'

More on the Bugle later.  More on Mrs T-G's Croquembouche later.  More on the rights and wrongs of calling people 'silly', later.....

Find more Tuppy & Geoffrey tales on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Poetry, and Psychogenic Osmosis

It was National Poetry Day yesterday.  I love poetry. But there's nothing worse than looking at your Twitter timeline and seeing folk banging on about it.  I dislike the feeling of being churlish and sour of spirit (where's the harm in tweeting poetry?), while at the same time I think it's quite a sane reaction; Twitter is no place to be, if you want to 'create' anything other than kitten pictures, puns and one-liners. The inner disquiet produced by all this, is enough to put me off writing, completely.  Well, for about five minutes.  Almost!
It's not really that though.  For me, the whole literary thing feels a bit distasteful and uncomfortable.  There are a couple of exceptions though.  There's a John Betjeman account I like, and a Richard Jefferies.
My favourite poet is probably Coleridge.  I'm fondest of him anyway.  It's probably the opium.  I've most likely absorbed quantities of it via his poems, through some form of psychogenic osmosis.
Frost at Midnight is probably my favourite Coleridge poem.  'The Frost performs its secret ministry,  Unhelped by any wind*.' 
I'm unlikely to have discovered it had I not bought a small second hand edition of a selection of his poems after browsing in a second hand bookshop about twenty years ago.  The bookshop closed ten years ago, at least, and now there is nowhere to browse, unless I go to a city.
Don't start me off complaining again, but you can't browse books on the internet.  You just can't.


There once was a girl with a plan
To cook with an old frying pan
She fried up some bread
And stood on her head
In a market in Uzbekhistan.

S.T. Coleridge (after)

*titters at the word wind