Colin Firth – derrickjknight

A Knight’s Tale (28: Three Monarchs In Quick Succession)

In our classroom on the morning of 6th February 1952 we witnessed the dragon’s tears. Miss Bryant was an extremely fearsome headmistress. Hitherto the only tears associated with her were those of pupils who were in for it. As I have previously indicated, being sent to Miss Bryant was to be avoided at all costs. This time, Miss Bryant came to us. That in itself was an event, as she toured the school with the dreadful news. This calm, contained, diminutive, yet terrifying woman burst into our classroom in tears to announce: ‘The king is dead!’.

I can assure you there is no more effective way to imprint an image for life on a child’s memory. It is a sobering thought that most people alive today have known no other UK monarch than Queen Elizabeth II; and that when she ascended the throne in 1953, most of her subjects did not have a television.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown lived next door. In sixteen years I don’t remember ever having seen either of them. I think there was a disability involved. Mr. Brown made Elizabeth a doll called Minnehaha. It was the Browns’ television, I believe, which was responsible for my teenage fantasies. No, not those fantasies. In the twilight moments between being awake and asleep, I would hear the three discordant notes which Mum said were coming from their television. I believe it was a closing down signal. This led me to thinking how wonderful it would be if you could have a picture frame on your wall and a gadget that could tune in to and display in this any of the films currently being shown on any of the four cinemas Wimbledon then boasted. We didn’t have a television and the only one I had ever seen was a small wooden cabinet bearing a postage stamp sized screen. This was for the occasion of the coronation on 2nd June 1953 when those of us at school who didn’t have a television were billeted with those who did. Being a tall lad I was seated at the back from whence I peered at a tiny black and white haze.

Photo from https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofBritain/The-Coronation-1953/

This digitally remastered image, in its wide format, sharper focus, and without parallel lines travelling up or down it, would not have been possible on the little square screen of that early TV; but I do remember a hazy something like the Queen’s head.

Little did I imagine, in that teenage dream world, what my grandchildren can now hold in the palms of their hands.

In July 2013 Hawes & Curtis in Jermyn Street, hoping to attract prospective customers to take advantage of their large reductions, featured King Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. In his brief tenure this playboy king had provoked a constitutional crisis in 1936 by his determination to marry his twice divorced lover. In that bygone age this was acceptable neither to the Church nor the State – although 50 years on, their image was thought by this West End outfitters to be likely to draw buyers for goods past their sell-by date. Edward, as king, was not allowed to marry his Wallis, and therefore chose to abdicate, on December 11th, and thrust his younger brother onto centre stage. A reluctant and shy monarch, King George VI, despite a dreadful stutter, with his wife Elizabeth, saw us nobly through the war years and died at the age of 56, making way for our current long-serving queen. Colin Firth was awarded a well earned Oscar for his spellbinding performance in the 2010 film ‘The King’s Speech’ which follows King George’s struggles to find his voice.

Queen Elizabeth II was, at 25, even younger than had been her father when she found herself at the helm.

Villages Of Oxford And Cambridge Shires

I walked my normal route to Milford on Sea and back this morning. Waves buffeting the beach were choppy and the wind blustery, but that did not deter families settling on the shingle, along which couples perambulated.
Part of the footpath that I had, only two days ago, described as safe, has tumbled down the cliff and been bordered by a protective fence.
On the cliff top I met a man walking his dog, who was amused at himself for having forgotten to put his clocks back last night, the end of British Summer Time. He was impressed by how many jobs he had managed to do after having risen so early, but he thought the day ahead would be a long one.
In the Nature Reserve an elderly gentleman tipped his hat to me as we exchanged greetings.
Watching fallen leaves sailing sedately on the surface of the stream, I was reminded of Flora Thompson’s book. My copy of this classic portrait of a nineteenth century Oxfordshire village is illustrated by Lynton Lamb.
At intervals along the trail, birdseed had been heaped upon tree fungus. Perhaps Hansel had been returning the favour of the white feathers.
To a certain amount of trepidation by his mother, a small boy was having great fun on the swing I had noticed previously. She had not, fortunately, seen the first episode of ‘Grantchester’, in which a snapped rope bearing a similar swing gives James Norton, playing a charismatic Cambridgeshire village clergyman, an opportunity to emulate Colin Firth’s wet shirt scene in ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Based on the detective novels of James Runcie, ‘Grantchester’ is now a major ITV television series. Norton’s Sidney Chambers develops an unofficial partnership with Robson Green’s Geordie police sergeant.
Flora Thompson’s story was published in 1948, and the detective series is set in the 1950s, so they are contemporaneous in period, if not in authorship.
Later, we watched the second episode of Grantchester. Well, we had to, didn’t we?
Although we ate it in the evening, Jackie produced a superb traditional Sunday lunch. Slow roasted beef was accompanied by roast potatoes, parsnips, and Yorkshire pudding; thick gravy jam-packed with juices from the meat; brussels sprouts, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli. After this we could just manage a custard tart. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Castillo San Lorenzo reserva 2008 rioja. As is often the case when enjoying such a meal, we spoke of our mothers’ roast dinners of our childhoods in the ’40s and ’50s, which we converted to cottage pies on Mondays with the aid of a National or a Spong hand-operated mincer that was clipped to a tabletop. You put the pieces of left-over joint into the bowl at the top, turned the handle, and the minced meat was forced through a circular grill, and dropped out of the spout into a waiting container. Jackie, herself, used one when we were first married in 1968.

The Abdication

Jackie drove me to and from Southampton for my trip to London to visit first Norman, then Carol.

I chose the Golden Jubilee Bridge route to walk to Green Park.

The South Bank living sculpture I had photographed on 18th June had, as usual, caught the eye of another lens wielder.

Making my way to the bridge I became aware of how, from certain directions, London’s modern Eye can dwarf the older structures that tourists come to picture.

On one of the supports of the railway bridge a pair of pigeons, possibly having produced fertiliser for an optimistic maple that had taken root beside them, slumbered in apparent ignorance of the lumbering locomotives behind them.

Passing The Playhouse theatre at Charing Cross, I was treated to the strains of Spamalot’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’, being broadcast into the street. That truly hilarious song from the Monty Python ‘Life of Brian’ film of 1979 could so easily have been blasphemous, but somehow managed to avoid it.

Near Trafalgar Square, where Admiral Lord Nelson keeps his single eye on an era he could not have dreamed of whilst saving the English nation at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, one of Westminster Bridge’s lone pipers had found a new pitch.

The empty plinth, which periodically provides a temporary pedestal for pieces of modern sculpture, awaits its next tenant.

A silent male dancer entertained the crowds beneath the National Gallery. They gave him quite a lot of breathing space.

On Pall Mall vast throngs, some looking rather disgruntled, queued for what would perforce be a very leisurely sightseeing tour through London’s traffic.

In my Central London years I often shopped in Jermyn Street at sales time. I am no longer tempted because I still wear shirts bought there up to three or four decades ago. In addition to Cary Grant, Hawes & Curtis are featuring Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson hoping to attract prospective customers to take advantage of their large reductions. In his brief tenure this playboy king provoked a constitutional crisis in 1936 by his determination to marry his twice divorced lover. In that bygone age this was acceptable neither to the Church nor the State. He therefore chose to abdicate and thrust his younger brother onto centre stage. A reluctant and shy monarch, King George VI, despite a dreadful stutter, with his wife Elizabeth, saw us nobly through the war years and, in 1952, died young, making way for our current long-serving queen. Colin Firth was awarded a well earned Oscar for his spellbinding performance in the 2010 film ‘The King’s Speech’ which follows King George’s struggles to find his voice. One has to wonder how the shirt-makers chose their particular icons.

In Green Park those who can still comfortably get down to ground level eschewed the deck chairs and sat on the grass.

For lunch, Norman served tender kleftiko, savoury rice, red cabbage and mixed vegetables followed by apricot flan. In anticipation of my forthcoming birthday he provided a superb Primitivo di Manduria wine of 2010.

I took my usual transport to Carol’s and thence to Waterloo for the return journey. On the train, with the back of my hand, I managed to slap a sleeping young woman beside me on the thigh. As she dozed, the pen with which she had been writing rolled off the table. I used my marvellous reflexes in an attempt to prevent it from falling to the floor between our seats. The thigh got in the way, and the ballpoint disappeared into the dark recess, so I was forced to slip my arm down the gap to retrieve it. My co-passenger woke up with a start and was very good about it.

Sacred Copulation

7.6.12.

Today being Mordred day, that is, when my crossword appears in The Independent; and that newspaper being unavailable in Sigoules, Jackie has undertaken to buy one for me. You may wonder why I would want to buy a puzzle I had set myself. Well, it makes me feel proud to see it in print, and it’s quite impressive to be able to complete it in three minutes on the tube.

Before I got up I finished ‘Whose Body?’ by Dorothy L. Sayers. She brings a most literary element to her detective stories. Quite apart from their being excellent examples of the genre she develops her characters with insight and humour. Indeed, there is a touch of P.G.Wodehouse about her narrative and, in the book, she makes occasional reference to Holmes and Watson. Lord Peter Wimsey has his equivalents of both Jeeves and Doctor Watson.

As I left the house for my daily perambulation an elderly woman with a shopping bag was leaning with one hand against the wall, panting for breath. Had I come down the steps which lead onto the pavement I would have blocked her path. I therefore remained on the top step in order to keep her way clear and to pause in case my help would be required. She smiled and told me to come down. I stood grinning like an Englishman who hadn’t grasped what she’d said, which, of course, I hadn’t. She laughed and said she granted me permission to descend. That time I got it, and my grin developed into an equal expression of amusement.

A warm and sunny day with plenty of cloud, cooled by the occasional smattering of large raindrops, greeted my departure. En route to Monbos, some two miles out of Sigoules, maize was sprouting and barley flourishing. The vineyards around Monbos were in good shape. The ditches and chalky banks on the roadside were decked with clusters of poppies, sweet peas, bramble blossom, and a profusion of other wild flowers. The first time I went this way was with Elizabeth. She suffered badly with sunstroke, and it was only afterwards we learned that the temperature had been 40 degrees.

I passed a field in which a string of horses came galloping down the hillside to investigate my presence, just as the donkey had done the day before. About halfway you come to Sigoules Heights. This is intended to be a vast housing development. Three years ago a system of roads, impressive street furniture, and parking areas, was laid out. It seems you buy a plot and have your own house built. To date there are only three houses in situ. Perhaps another casualty of the worldwide recession.

My goal today was to visit the 11th./12th. century simple stone-built church with a barrel roof.

This humble house of God is decorated with stylised mediaeval carvings representing various examples of animal life. Standing out amongst these are naked men without fig-leaves, and two couples hugely, graphically, copulating. Not even in the missionary position. The phalluses have at some time clearly been replaced. Perhaps denizens of a more recent age found them offensive; perhaps someone stricken with penis envy simply nicked them. Either way it is wonderful that these works of naive art have survived 1,000 years of continuous worship.

Set in the back wall is a peculiar square window containing a kind of porthole. We believe that was for the relevant hermit to observe the Mass rather than the carvings.

Having watched a film last night based upon one John Le Carre novel, it was fitting that I should begin to read ‘The Honourable Schoolboy’ today.

This evening’s fare at Le Code Bar was Salade Nicoise encircled by shrimps, followed by gammon steaks, ratatouille, and kus kus. After sending me a huge platter of the main course Frederick, the chef, told me to ask for more if it wasn’t enough. Not enough! I have no idea what the sweet would have been because I had no room for it. My choice of wine was rose. The wine comes from Les Caves de Sigoules, the manager of which once introduced himself to Michael as my personal wine supplier. This was at one of the Friday evening festive meals which take place in the village square throughout July and August.

Later, I watched ‘La Dame Aux Camelias’, starring Greta Scacchi, Colin Firth, and Ben Kingsley. This was beautifully filmed and pleasant enough but, perhaps inevitably, lacked the complexity of Dumas fils’ original novel. Having watched Colin Firth as a middle-aged man the night before it was fascinating to see him perform as a very young man. His serious, somewhat shy, expressions and winning smile haven’t changed. Greta Scacchi was as decorative as ever; and Ben Kingsley full of charisma.

A Freudian Slip

6.6.12

I travelled this morning by cab to Southampton Airport for my flight to Bergerac where I was met by Sandrine who drove me to Sigoules. Sandrine, who speaks very good English, is the daughter of Lydie Semprez who is Taxi Eymetois. For three years now I have been driven to and fro by one or the other of these delightful women. I never know which of them will meet me, but they are always on time, and when it is not possible for either of them, Lydie’s husband occasionally obliges. When I pulled out my wallet to pay, Sandrine reminded me that I had paid in advance on my May trip because Lydie had had no change.

After opening up the house I walked to Pomport and back. This is a four mile round trip through hilly countryside comprising woods, fields, and vineyards. The roadside is full of wild flowers and at this time of the year is most verdant. On this overcast, yet warm and humid, afternoon the only creature I met with whom to hold a conversation was a donkey who shares his his long hillside habitation with a family of goats. Although he fell into step beside me and treated me to assinine utterances we didn’t get very far because I don’t understand his language and he didn’t understand mine.

There is a leisure centre at the bottom of the hill leading from Sigoules which has been derelict since I took possession in December 2008. There had been plans for renovation to take place the following summer, but I expect they fell foul of the credit crunch. However, there are signs of work in progress at last. Watch this space.

Further on, up the hill towards Pomport, by the roadside on the edge of a wood, is a memorial embossed: IN MEMORY OF SIRON AND LAMY SHOT BY GERMANS 23.4.1944. In front of the stone is a pot containing geraniums and sweet peas. I reflected that almost 70 years later I have a good life and their’s was cut short.

On my return journey Lydie drew up alongside me in her taxi. The first time she had driven past me had been rather different. In my mobile phone memory I have the numbers of three taxi firms; Bergerac, Sigoules, and Eymet. Early in 2009, not realising that Lydie is perfectly happy to start a journey from Sigoules, it seemed sensible to use the Sigoules firm. I duly made a booking by telephone. This was for Chris, Frances, and Elizabeth to be driven to Eymet. Setting off earlier, I was to walk and meet them all there. Just before the time due for the pick-up I received a phone call from a woman checking whether I wanted the trip from Eymet to Sigoules, or the other way round. A little puzzled, because the Sigoules company was run by a man, I said the journey was from Sigoules. Continuing on my way I soon noticed the Eymet taxi speeding in the direction of Sigoules.

I then had an alarming thought. Which company had I booked? Checking the calls in my mobile phone memory I discovered it was the Eymet firm. Panic then set in. I couldn’t phone Chris because there was no signal at the house. I imagined Lydie turning up at the empty property and my siblings walking up to the Sigoules taxi firm to ask where their transport was. To compound the problem, my family members did not speak French and Lydie had no English.

Consequently I had a very uncomfortable continuation of my walk. I needn’t have worried. They managed to communicate well enough and were soon beside me on the main road from Bergerac. We have not looked back since. Now, of course, Lydie and I know each other’s voices.

Today I began reading Dorothy L. Sayers’ ‘Whose Body?’

This evening the clouds had dissipated and I dined alfresco at Le Code Cafe, two doors away. At a table prepared for me by David, the proprietor, I enjoyed vermicelli soup, roast duck and frites, followed by a delicate pear flan, with half a carafe of red wine.

Afterwards I watched ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ on my laptop. This slow-paced under-stated film, directed by Tomas Alfredson, which nevertheless demanded, and held, undivided attention, was excellent. Gary Oldman as George Smiley, gained the plaudits, but no film featuring Kathy Burke, Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy, Ciaran Hinds, John Hurt, Roger Lloyd-Pack, and Mark Strong, could possibly go wrong.