derrickjknight

Her Slightly Dopey Prof

Thierry was singing away this morning, maybe because completion is in sight. I said I liked a man who enjoyed his work. He replied that it is his policy, as he had said a day or two ago it was to take his time to ensure the work was good. He isn’t slow. Just thorough. Apart from yesterday’s lunch, the two men have worked eight hours a day without a break.

Geoffrey, who is of course new to the work, was, without using the term for a doorstop, explaining that I would need one in the living room to protect the wall from the handle. With the aid of Robert (dictionary), I was able to give him the word. He was grateful and I was pleased.

Warning me that there would be more noise than usual this morning, Thierry asked me if I knew my neighbours and would I apologise for him. Fortunately Garry and Brigitte were out, but I left them a note.

I have, at last, finished reading Violette Leduc’s book ‘La femme au petit renard’. Albeit short enough to be a novelette, this is by far the most difficult work in French that I have read. Using stream of consciousness the paragraphs are up to ten pages long. It is the story of an ageing, povrty-stricken, starving woman wandering the streets of Paris, finding warmth when and where she can. Round her neck, both as comforter and sole companion, is a fox-fur.

When writing of ‘Her fearful symmetry’ on 7th, I mentioned Martin, who suffers from OCD. He uses counting enormous numbers as a method of warding off imagined danger. ‘La femme’ counts to kill time and to help her eke out her few grains of coffee and cubes of sugar. Her situation is real enough.

I was somewhat comforted when Clement told me that the stream of consciousness writing would be difficult for a French person to read. There is no room for working out the vocabulary from the context. I even had to check words that I did know, because they didn’t seem to make sense. Never mind, it was good revision, and nowhere near as difficult as James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake which I had to abandon.

After this I started on the book Sofiene had given me in January. It is an anthology of ‘the hundred most beautiful poems in the French language’, presented in chronological order. Following the straightforward preface, I began with ‘La Griech d’hiver’ by Rutebeuf (1225? – 1285?). That wasn’t too difficult, but this is a collection I will just tackle one at a time, for my sanity’s sake.

My chequebook arrived this morning, enclosed with a note from Jackie in which she had the temerity to call me her ‘slightly dopey prof’. Given the two important items I’d forgotten, I suppose that was fair enough.

Pools again filled the holes in the road as, beset by staedy rain, I walked the steeply undulating route to Ste Innocence to meet Maggie, Mike, and Bill, fresh from their game of tennis with Joss who runs their favourite holiday venue. Maggie then drove us all to their home in Eymet for our evening meal. In Eymet I bought an universal charger that is suitable for my camera battery, so I can take photographs again.

Maggie fed us all on a marvellous spare rib casserole with rice or pasta. The ribs were incredibly meaty. A variety of ice creams was to follow and we shared a bottle of Le Bihan 2009 which was very mellow.

As I write Bill and I are waiting for Lydie to drive us back to Sigoules.

Heaven

Thierry’s car broke down on the way home last night, so the men were driven here today by someone else. They arrived full of apologies only half an hour late. I forgot the coffee. Geoffrey, like his stepfather, asked for it.

Thierry’s late father was a great reader and academic. The son saved all the books, both in French and in English. He has waited for someone who would appreciate them to turn up. They are coming my way. Both the builders were highly amused when I took them upstairs to see a card that Jacqueline sent me some time ago, captioned ”HEAVEN”.

On this much milder day, as I set off to walk the La Briaude loop, a hallowed silence was maintained by a dense crowd thronging the streets around the packed church. Hundreds of people were there in mourning for the next occupant of the cemetery.

The regular tramp of my feet along the lanes provided a rhythmic backing to the tuneful twittering of smaller birds; the raucus crowing of distant rooks; and the more melodious tones of a solitary cuckoo. Streams flowed more sedately, and there was evidence of recent ploughing. The profusion of wild flowers mentioned on 5th were now looking truly in season. Beetles crawled across the tarmac.

On my return, a concerned Saufiene told me that the electrical wiring was unsafe, yet would be corrected by Thierry. It had been completely encased in wood, some very flimsy, which is apparently subject to humidity.

The three men joined me me for lunch at Le Code Bar. A table had to be set up for us in the snooker room upstairs. The meal consisted of a vegetable and spaghetti soup; a perfect pot au feu salad; succulent steak and superb chips; and apple tart. My companions were extremely impressed, although they had no room for sweet. I told them there was to be no falling asleep in the afternoon. The conversation, almost all in French, which is tiring for me, was great fun, although I had to point out to the others that when they became excited, they spoke far too fast for my comprehension. Saufiene was an efficient translator when necessary.

Application of the mastic gun makes the sound of a squeaking mouse. The word I used for this was unknown to all three men. I felt rather chuffed when my dictionary confirmed it. And, Jackie will be pleased to learn, it wasn’t archaic.

Another Pair Of Sleeves

My builders arrived in good time this morning and continued as cheerfully as ever. They are working their way slowly and carefully through the ground floor. Much of what they have to do is level off the surfaces to take the well-made and stout PVC frames which come with the factory-made doors. Already I have several perfectly fitting entrances and everything is looking much better.

I was happy to leave the men as Bill and I walked up to the church at Monbos (see post of 8th June last year) and back in time for lunch at Le Code Bar. We ate a tasty soup containing semolina which neither of us could identify; a delicious, warm, quiche; pork belly and roast potatoes heavily garnished with garlic; and finally the exquisite creme brulee. Complimentary coffee was to follow. The bar was so full that some people had to wait their turn to be seated.

In the church we both lit candles. After trying the matches provided in their damp boxes I was all for giving up. Bill persevered and got a flame. My prayer was my usual one of thanks for the way this stage of my life has panned out.

Thierry pointed out a slight leak in a tap in the corridor linking the hall and the shower room. Hopefully this would just need tightening up, which I think he said he would do. I will wait and see. I had done this on my last visit, but only hand-tight. I really don’t want to bring back the plumber who renewed the plumbing after the great storm of 2008. The cowboy builder had installed plastic piping which he assured Mike was legal in France. It isn’t, and pipes had burst ten days after the completion of the purchase. The French artisan who installed the current copper piping had never returned to paint the pipes, make good, nor replace the broken shower head, having claimed ignorance about how it came to be damaged.

Having been advised that this was the thing to do, I had, against my better judgement, paid in full in advance in cash. He made several appointments for completion, none of which were kept, and never returned my key. Eighteen months later, at my request, Mike collected it from him. This was made all the more difficult by neither of us understanding the other. It was less his fault than the very rusty state of my French.

Thierry is a totally different kettle of fish, or another pair of sleeves, as the French would say. He and Geoffrey get on so well that I asked if they were father and son. In fact, the younger man is Saufiene’s stepson. He has been placed in good hands. We are now at the level where they can helpfully correct my grammar for me. Thierry told me the word for the ‘pins’ forming hinges for the doors. Looking up the spelling in the Robert Dictionary I discovered it was the same word as for a fish, the gudgeon, which my informant confirmed. I told Thierry I knew someone who thought he was proficient in French because he knew the phrase ‘comme ci comme ca’, and that he should come here and listen to this man who uses it all day long. Someone, you know who you are. Get over here and help me with translation.

When Bill and I set off this morning, it was still raining, but this afternoon was much finer, just as Thierry had said it woud be because he had ordered it. We saw a large deer, its white scut flashing, bounding across a field into woods off the D17. This movement was quite unlike the elegant gliding I see in the New Forest. Perhaps it was a different variety of cervid.

Saufiene had an hour to kill when he made his inspection visit. We sat and had a pleasant chat.

Because of levelling off they had had to do, it was not possible to leave the hidden key in place. Geoffrey therefore made me a present of it to keep. It now lies on the mantelpiece.

Work In Progress

Anyone interested in the family likeness aspect of yesterday’s post may like to look at the postscript and enlarged section of the school photograph I added this morning, following Becky’s observation. I think it is staggering.

Tomorrow The Firs opens its doors to the public. This morning we drove there with the cards and to admire the framing of my photographs and the work of all the other artists. This is all taking place in the very large garage/workroom which I have never before seen as an open and available space. The family and friends have worked brilliantly to clear it. You see, it has been regularly filled by a revolving conveyor belt of furniture, frames, artefacts, various woodworking materials, gadgets, and loads of tools, all of which might come in useful one day. Quite a lot of it, I understand, now lies in the conservatory, which we are advised not to attempt to enter.

The arrangement of an excellent display space was, when we arrived, really well under way. Jackie and I were despatched to Hobbycraft to buy hooks for Elizabeth and my photographs, and pink balloons for the front entrance. Pink balloons are this year’s symbol of Hampshire’s Open Studios.

There was still a deal of setting up to do, and I was quite relieved when Chris produced another 1961 print for me to play with. Alex Newstead, who was framing his exhibits helped me work on retrieving what we could of the original image. Maybe someone will frame it in the few hours left before opening time.

I felt a bit better once Jackie and I had mounted my framed photographs on the wall.

The Firs will be open from tomorrow until Monday 26th. at The Firs, Beacon Road, West End Southampton, SO30 3BS, telephone: 023 8047 3074; e-mail dannikeenan@aol.com

Andy Milwain’s am drums will be on sale. Art work is by:

Hilda Margery Clarke (BAHons FRSA): Painting in oils and oil pastels and drawings. She is known for figures, glimpsed or imaginative

Jutta Manser: Wood engravings: Jazz, born in oppression pictured in stark black and white

Louise Tett’s pieces are produced from discarded manuscripts

Liz Knight: Handmade books and music themed photographic prints

Photographic prints are by Rosie Aldridge, Alex Newstead and Derrick Knight, whose work features Ondekoza drummers from 1970s Soho.

Rosie and Derrick have produced greetings cards. Derrick’s feature the New Forest, Hants and Dorset; Rosie’s are of London. There are postcards by Margery.

Geoff Poulton and Jacqui and Harriet Lea have provided music themed sculpture, collage, and papier mache.

Clearly an admirer of Duchamp’s ‘readymade’ school of art Jackie came in with a late entry this evening. The Cylinder was quite unreasonably priced.

She and I left Elizabeth and Chris working this evening whilst we went for a meal at Eastern Nights. We took them back a takeaway and returned to Minstead.

Cheers, Don

Reading a little more of ‘La Femme au Petit Renaud’ this morning I was reminded of a thread in ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ that I forgot to mention. I will explain the connection when I have finished Violette Leduc’s novel.

Martin, one of Audrey Niffenegger’s characters, is a crossword setter suffering from extreme Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I trust that if Alison had thought this would appeal to the crossword setter in me, the similarity ended with his profession.

By midday my head had cleared enough from what must have been a migraine yesterday, to cook a meal for Bill. We had sausage casserole, bread and cheese and chocalate eclairs. Bill brought a good bottle of Cote du Rhone, after which we shared a marvellous Lebanese red that Don had brought over last year. Cheers, Don.

We were able to spend the whole afternoon in the garden, getting to know each other much better. Of the many things we found we had in common one was living in London. Bill had lived in the Paddington and Maida Vale areas during the years I had spent working there. He had also worked in Morden shortly before Jackie and I went to live there. During his working life he was a carpenter, which is a profession shared by Michael and Matthew. We also both enjoy cricket and rugby. The day was most pleasant, sitting in the sunshine which actually dried my washing. We will see more of each other. Spring must have arrived.

As I took up my perch opposite Le Code Bar, which is of course closed from midday on Sunday, to post my blog, Frederick emerged from the bar and invited me inside, to watch a rugby match between Toulon and Leicester with him and Laurence.

The Magnificent Seven

6.4.13

This morning was spent accompanying Maggie, Mike and Bill wandering first around the industrial centre outside the town and then around Bergerac itself. The other customers in the large supermarkets on the outskirts were mostly French, whereas the Saturday market sprawling across streets both old and new, featured a fair smattering of English accents. Although larger than most it has a pretty familiar set of stalls; cheap clothing and nicknacks; CDs and DVDs; vegetables and much else. Maggie was attracted to tables containing crumpled, presumably second-hand, clothing priced at 1 or 2 euros. The men weren’t.

We first had to drive around in search of a parking space. This took some considerable time because the main carpark was occupied by a funfair.

By the time we returned, and Bill and I were dropped off at Sigoules, the acute headache I had woken with was considerably worse and I felt a bit queasy. There was nothing for it but to lie down. I divested myself of my raincoat, shed my shoes, and fell on top of my duvet. I dozed for about five hours, stirring to climb under the duvet when I felt cold. In the early evening I took three paracetamol, made scrambled eggs on toast, and returned to bed after eating them. I was now well enough to finish reading ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ by Audrey Niffenegger and begin Philippa Gregory’s ‘The Other Boleyn Girl’. Before settling down to nine hours sleep, I remembered to take off my jacket, otherwise I remained fully clothed.

Some five years ago now, I received a telephone call from Mike Kindred telling me that his friend John Turpin, whom I had met once or twice, had asked him if he knew anyone who could take the photographs for a book he had written about the seven landscaped Victorian cemeteries known as ‘The Magnificent Seven’. He sought my permission to give John my name. This I gave willingly. For the next two years, covering different seasons, John and I visited the venues for the purpose of photography. From Kensal Green and West Brompton in the west to Abney Park and Tower Hamlets in the east, I became very familiar with the Victorian way of death. Usually travelling with John, who knew all the cemeteries backwards, I sometimes returned alone to those in the west to which I could easily walk from W2 where I was living at the time. One winter’s day John rang me to tell me about magnificent sunsets he had seen at Kensal Green. Off I went and took what I think were stunning sunsets against the various extravagant monuments in that, the first of these cemeteries. It was a great disappointment when Amberley Press chose, for reasons of cost, to publish in black and white. As I am not at home I cannot illustrate this post with a picture from the book.

Sigoules cemetery will have to do.

My friend Alison knew of this publication, so when she discovered that ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ was set in and around Highgate cemetery, perhaps the most famous of the septet, she lent me the book. Once I got over one or two early similes which I thought rather fanciful, I thoroughly enjoyed the beguiling novel. It is a ghost story like none other. It is about love, grief, loss, and relationships, displaying a sound knowledge of humanity. It provides evidence of a familiarity with London, introducing me to the intriguing Postman’s Park, of which I had never heard. And it has a surprising denouement.

Postscript 10th September 2013:

Now at home, I add a few random (except for the sunset) pictures from the cemeteries.

The book’s ISBN number is 978 – 1 – 4456 – 0038 – 3. Published by Amberley, it is by John Turpin and Derrick Knight.

Fangs

Saufiene, Clement, and Thierry arrived on time this morning and waited for delivery of the new doors and windows, overseeing their delivery and stacking in the hall and garden. As they were leaving they noticed that the deliverymen had left a huge wooden palette blocking the pavement. Saufiene undertook to have it removed in the afternoon.

Le Code Bar at lunchtime was full to bursting, as must have been most of their customers. A tasty vegetable bean and noodle soup was followed by a beautifully presented ham and egg salad. A succulent steak with a mound of crisp, bronzed, chips was the main course. Dessert was the delicate chocolate mousse on a soft biscuit base served with creme anglaise.

After this I needed a rest before walking the Pomport road and donkey’s field loop. The profusion of cowslips, dandelions, buttercups, daisies, and other wild flowers I cannot name; the may and cherry blossom; and the willow tree by the lake must have been deceived by the reportedly recent warmer spell into thinking it was no longer winter, for it was again very cold. Cattle lying down in the field by Chateau Cluzeau gave a warning of the rain that set in before I returned to rue Saint Jacques.

The donkey was lurking behind a tree at the top of the hill. We were enjoying a friendly chat until he set up a deafening honking and tried to fell the tree. With this on one side and the horrific snarling and barking of the four evil-looking dogs baring their salivating fangs and hurling themselves at their wire fence enclosure on the other side of the narrow stony footpath, the hubbub was quite terrifying. Any fear was no doubt exacerbated by having, last night, watched Liam Neeson’s six companions in ‘The Grey’, translated by the French as ‘Territory of the Wolves’, one by one, being torn to pieces in the frozen Alaskan wilderness. Neeson himself was magnificently capable and brooding as usual. He didn’t survive either, but that was left to our imagination as he prepared himself for a fight to the death with the leader of the pack.

On The Plane

Before setting off by my usual transport methods to Sigoules this morning I left Flo a note granting her permission to use my chair, my computer, and my house keys for the rest of her stay. I trust she felt honoured. We are very pleased that she will keep her Grannie company whilst I am away.

A gentleman much larger than me sat beside me on the aisle seat in the plane. Actually that one had been allocated to me. I tactfully asked him to rise so I could sit in the more cramped window seat. Discretion seemed to be called for. In fact he was very friendly and, as soon as was permitted, moved up to the front where he could spread himself across two empty spaces. I quipped that one of us had to go and since he was bigger than me it had to be him. The airline are very relaxed about people changing seats but it has to be after we are on the move.

A Welsh family sat behind me and, gazing down on the patchwork quilt of fields and model houses rapidly diminishing as we rose into the clouds, a small boy asked his grandfather if that were the whole of Wales beneath him. ‘That’s England’, was the reply. ‘Is it the whole of England?’ asked the lad. It wasn’t. The interrogation ended there. Thinking of Malachi’s ‘why?’ game, I was rather relieved. It could have gone on a long time.

I was rather intrigued by a couple in front of me. A slender and beautiful young woman, when not reading Caitlin Moran or playing with her iPod, or whatever it was, fondly rested her head on the shoulder of her chunky grey-haired male companion. I did my my best to convince myself that this was a father and daughter. A wedding ring and certain tender aspects of behaviour soon suggested otherwise.

Suppressing thoughts about lucky dogs I persevered with ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ by Audrey Niffenegger, which I had chosen as light relief after ploughing through Wordsworth’s biography. An explicit scen involving a ghost and her grieving lover didn’t help much.

It was 7 degrees and raining when we touched down in Bergerac twenty minutes late. Sandrine was waiting patiently to drive me to Sigoules. Trees in leaf and blossom provided evidence that it has recently been as warm as twenty degrees. In order that there should be no misunderstanding about the correct day of my return trip (see post of 5th February) I handed my driver a print-out of my flight details. All I have to do now is remember it.

After I’d settled in I had a stroll round the village where lichen thrives on the trees in the war memorial garden. A late lunch of boiled eggs, baguette, and an orange was to follow.

A warm welcome awaited me in Le Code Bar this evening. They are still not opening the restaurant in the evening so I settled for a complimentary bowl of olives to accompany my Stella.

Sadly, I have forgotten the battery charger for my camera so I will have to be very parsimonious with new photographs until the juice runs out, and supplement them with some I made earlier.

Junk From George Osborne

This morning I finished ‘Wordsworth, A Life’ by Juliet Barker. That was essential because otherwise I would have had to weigh down my hand luggage with it on the plane to France tomorrow. The book comprises 971 pages of very small print for this modern age. Maybe the font size was chosen in order to restrict it to one volume. Even skipping the notes, index, etc,, that take up the last section, I had to get through 810 pages. This required the stubborn determination of a Cancerian marathon runner. Full of dense detail about the man and his extended family the tome is a tribute to the research skills of the author, and the fact that I did want to complete the task of reading it is thanks to her powers of writing. Being fairly familiar with the Lake District and having read much of the subject’s poetry also helped. Maybe I should have been more fascinated by some of the more peripheral characters.

My readers will know I enjoy illustrated books. I prefer my pictures to appear interspersed with the relevant text, so that every now and again I get a pleasant surprise. What I don’t like are sections of photographic reproductions in two or three chunks, which usually means you are treated to portraits or views that you have not yet read about. There were two of the latter clusters in this volume. Of course this is also a matter of cost, so I shouldn’t be mealy-mouthed about it. I enjoyed the book.

The rest of the morning was spent sorting out technology. I have realised that for some weeks now I have not been receiving e-mails on my Blackberry. Since I am off to Sigoules tomorrow where the Blackberry is my only e-mail source, this has become quite important. The BT Yahoo icon has also appeared on the mobile device. This made me think that the problem had arisen as a result of sorting out the password problem with BT which involved linking to a Yahoo account.

Given a choice between O2 and BT help lines I decided to try my luck with the former. This was definitely the better option. Dean, of O2, established that my Yahoo account had not been activated by Blackberry. As I never use it I wanted to get rid of it. This wasn’t possible without the password. Now which one would that be? I gave the young man the most likely key with a couple of alternatives. None of them worked. He tried the most likely one again. No joy. He said I would need to ring BT to check the password and he would call me back in fifteen minutes.

Well, after the last time I wasn’t going to go through the palaver with BT again, and anyway it would take much more than fifteen minutes. So I had one last go with the most likely password. This time it worked. The most amazing part of all this was that Dean did actually ring me back on time. He tried the password again. It worked.

Now all I had to do was take the battery and SIM card out of the phone after we’d finished speaking and put them straight back in again, then wait twenty minutes to start to receive new messages. The back of a Blackberry is like the inner sanctum of Fort Knox. I couldn’t take it off without reference to the instruction manual. Even then, it was tough. The battery then slipped out easily enough. But the SIM card was firmly locked in a strong box. I managed to prise it out a bit but a metal band held it in place. Imagining that I must have broken whatever was the crucial circuit, which would have been tantamount to taking the card out altogether, I reassembled the device. 76 messages came rushing in. These were the old unread ones. I had lunch, after which a new message came in. It was junk from George Osborne, but it was a message.

I then accompanied Jackie to Sainsbury’s in Ringwood to replenish provisions devastated by the Easter family influx. On the verges of the A road and roundabout approach to the car park are planted ‘a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils’. I wasn’t exactly wandering ‘lonely as a cloud’. In fact I had to dance between cars on their way to the West Country to approach them. It has been a happy coincidence to finish the Victorian Poet Laureate’s biography in April, thus giving me the opportunity for a cheesy personal link with another, better known, rambler.

This evening Ali and Steve drove from their home in Clutton to the Aroma Bangladeshi restaurant in Shaftesbury. Jackie and I drove to the same venue where we all met and spent a very enjoyable evening over an excellent meal, Cobra, and Bangla beer.

Wait!

Watching birds arriving at Jackie’s feeding station this morning, I was struck by the different approaches they exhibit. The tits perform an undulating swoop across the sweeping lawns, reminiscent of Ducks and Drakes. It is as if they bounce on thermals much as children’s flat stones do on still water surfaces during the game of that name. Robins pop up from anywhere. Bright yellow-billed blackbirds, perhaps too large for the feeders, patrol the surface of the box hedge beneath the containers, picking up fallen scraps. This is exactly what the pigeons do on the grass at The Firs.

After coffee I walked to Lyndhurst via Mill Lane and the A337; and back through Emery Down. Gorse, of course, flowers throughout the year, but the sunlight on a bright day such as this bestows a golden glow to the shrubs.

All around our new environment there are permanent road signs warning of queues ahead. Easily outpacing vehicles headed for Lyndhurst as early in the year as 2nd April, I received an inkling of what we will experience in the high season.

My main purpose in visiting Lyndhurst was to collect the euros for my forthcoming trip to Sigoules. The NatWest bank in the town is situated on a very dangerous corner bend. On emerging from the door of the building it is impossible to see what is coming round on the near side from your right. There is a traffic island offering some refuge for people wanting to cross here and walk up the hill that is the main street. The best approach is to wait for a gap in the stream of cars, walk to the kerb, lean forward, crane round, then nip across, hoping for the best. I had reached the nipping across stage and made it halfway to the refuge when a cry of ‘wait!’ somewhat startled me. Well, I was committed. There was no turning back. And something in the tone suggested that it was unlikely that the cry was addressed to me. As I dived onto the secure area I came face to face with our neighbours Ari and Jackie. Their little brown miniature dachshund seemed to have been rather to keen to go to the bank. Replying to Ari’s question as to my well-being, I said ‘I’m fine now I’ve got across the road. When I heard your ‘wait!’, I thought ‘what? what?’.

Before Becky, Ian, and Scooby left for Mitcham, leaving Flo to spend more time with us, we all dined on Jackie’s chicken curry followed by apricot and rhubarb crumble. I drank Kingfisher, Ian drank Peroni, and Flo drank milk.