The Dark Corner
The room has been emptied apart from a child’s wooden chair and two rusty tins of emulsion. My toes tap as I walk across the wooden floor to view, for the last time, the painting on my bedroom wall. I look at the corner of the room and remember the small table where we used to place the tray of homemade cakes and orange squash. No one could ever replicate the powdery taste of my mother’s pastry which clogged the mouth in a delicious satisfying way. Now at 80 she has moved into a home where she is given cakes in foil wrappers and tepid watery tea.
Soon the house will be invaded by strangers. I had come to paint over my wall
Julie had painted the mural 36 years ago, when we had both been 16 and still believed we could be famous and whatever we did, mattered.
With breathless excitement we had both stared at the blank wall, conjuring in our imaginations the masterpiece which would emerge from her talent with a paintbrush and my visionary inspiration.
At the time I knew very little about art although Blake’s ‘Newton’ had been on the school assembly wall along with Salvador Dali’s ‘Crucifixion’, separated by a wooden panel embossed with the school’s motto ‘Dare to Do Right’ This was a secondary modern school on a rough council estate in the early seventies and they were trying hard to inspire its recalcitrant pupils.
I had the spirit of Blake within me and I wanted my wall to be a vision of hope. I imagined an outstretched omniscient hand shedding white light onto a new world, there would be Isadora Duncan figures dancing and celebrating the joy of this first dawn, dipping perfect hands into crystal waters.
Yet there could not be perfection without its counterpart and in the corner I envisaged a representation of Satan, a sick despicable figure with rank weeds for hair and a slime green body, barred from the light, biding his time.
My parents were kind and generous; giving Julie a wall to experiment with and paying for all the material. It was something her parents would never have dreamt of. She shared a bedroom with her two younger sisters and in their small council house there was very little free wall space amongst the David Cassidy and Osmond’s posters for Julie to shine or even glimmer as an artist. She had difficulty persuading them to let her spend evenings round our house with her pots of paints; they expected her help with child minding and dish washing.
I never realised at the time what a peaceful haven Julie must have found our house where there was just me, mum, dad and an older brother who occasionally returned from a university in the North. I did not go round to Julie’s very often but when I did I always returned with a headache and a gratitude for a house not littered with tumbling, squabbling bodies.
I loved my room; retreat, refuge, a sanctuary from a world where self consciousness blazed within me.
My face constantly betrayed me. Every time an adult spoke to me on even the most mundane topics I would blush, though blush is too delicate, gentle a word to describe the fiery scarlet rash which in seconds would stain my cheeks and spatter down my neck and chest. At its worse even my eyes filled with tears and my nose became blocked with mucus.
I tried to convince myself that perhaps I didn’t look as red and awful as I felt but then, once, I came into the classroom 10 minutes late after a dental appointment, only to hear, Dave Cheshunt, the good looking bully of the class, say to his mate in a loud voice,
‘Here she comes, Bessie Beetroot. You could burn yer chips on that face!’
Everyone, even the teacher, laughed.
The only adult who understood was Mrs Simons, my English teacher; I gave my work to her in secret after class had finished and she would return it with copious notes in the margins.
I would savour and learn from her wise words of praise and advice, safe in my bedroom, away from the punishing arena.
Julie was my ‘best’ friend, a term which denoted a fierce loyalty, love and comradeship no one else would ever come close to. She had short mousey hair and doleful mud brown eyes. When she concentrated she would stroke her tongue over her full rose lips. We shared the same humour, laughing at things duller mortals would not find remotely funny. Neither of us had boyfriends and the nearest we’d come to intimacy with a boy was a quick snog in the corner of the school disco hall. We talked a lot about boys and waited for them to discover us.
We lived opposite ends of Chantry Estate but most weekends were spent together after she had completed her chores. We went on walks in the nearby countryside round Belsted Brook both of us armed with notebooks, Julie for her drawing, me for my poetry. Evening time whilst my parents were visiting relatives we would listen to folk, classical and Tubular Bells on the polished teak radiogram. Julie would talk a lot about John Ashton, her art teacher and what he had said about her work.
I felt a slight pique when she told me that she had discussed ‘our wall’ with him and had sought his advice about colours etc. This was our creation; nothing to do with him.
June 14th 1970 was the start date for the painting; it was never finished, never signed by the artist as it should have been.
Our first night was so exciting. As she opened the new bright tins of paint, anticipation tingled inside me, new worlds quivered into being.
While Julie painted I read to her, to us. I trusted Julie absolutely but I was still nervous at hearing my own voice for the first time in the stillness of the room where there was only the gentle slap of paint on plaster or, in the very quiet moments, just the sound of Julie’s concentrated breathing as she filled in the detail on her dancing figures.
I read from Dylan Thomas’ Collected works, the rich cloth of his language wrapping itself round our exposed adolescent spirits, we hugged his words in all their triumph and tragedy and they warmed our very soul.
‘From loves first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb
From the unfolding to the scissored caul’.
Years later as an undergraduate I learnt to dissect, decipher and write clever essays on such things as the intentional fallacy of ‘Do not go gentle’ and analyse the poem as a cathartic exercise but then it was of no consequence that I didn’t understand every word or recite his poetry with the correct intonation with all the right pauses.
Gradually the picture began to take shape, a vibrant palette of colours emerged from the gloom.
One dancer wore blue robes of the deepest night and the lightest of mornings. Another’s robe was like the orange of a child’s party balloon or the vitamin C tablets my mum gave me every morning.
The nearest most prominent dancer was modelled on me, or the beauty I might have become; her corn field hair flowing in the gentle breeze, slim white arms reaching into the pool of life, the secret of eternity at her fingertips.
My grey bedroom wall was transformed into a celebration of life, a bursting forth of creation.
For her A Level art project Julie was doing a painting based on the idea of cogs, wheels and machinery which stretched almost the length of the art classroom. She was getting special tuition from Mr. Ashton and although I knew it was immature I could not help feeling a jealousy towards him and the painting she was doing for him, not me. It seemed increasingly to consume more of her thoughts than our creation.
Perhaps she sensed my upset as one Thursday she suggested she came round for an extra evening after she had given in her art portfolio.
I waited for ages at the gates and I thought she must have forgotten or else I’d missed her and she was already at my house.
The art building was deserted apart from the cleaner with her trailing noisy vacuum.
Julie’s wall display was complete; the paint still glistened. I walked towards the open door of the store cupboard and the first thing I saw was a white leg which looked as though it had become detached and was suspended in the air. As I moved closer I realised it was Julie’s leg and Mr Ashton was pressed between her parted thighs; his trousers round his ankles; his hands cupping her small pale breasts.
I looked into Julie’s eyes and saw not shame or surprise but anger and contempt. I was the unwelcome intruder who had stolen her secret, violated her privacy.
Her betrayal thumped me in the pit of my stomach. Quickly I turned and walked away, swallowing the vomit rising in my throat.
Julie didn’t call that night and when my mum asked why she hadn’t been to finish the painting; I said she had been off sick from school.
Apart from English lessons I wasn’t in the same classes as Julie and therefore we didn’t have to see very much of each other. Most of her breaks were spent in the art rooms rather than the common room.
The next day was Saturday and when I heard the doorbell; my legs were shaking as I answered.
She looked and spoke the same and yet a stranger had walked through the door.
I started to read Thomas’ short story ‘Extraordinary Little Cough’ but all I could hear was my own voice, self conscious, squeaky and ridiculous; Julie painted for ten minutes and then put her brush down. The dark figure in the corner was only half finished.
She made some excuse about having a headache and coming back next week to finish the rest off.
We avoided each others eyes. As she passed me sitting on my chair she handed me her painting shirt covered with the myriad daubs of colour from our wall.
For a long while after she left I held the cloth close to my face breathing in its scent of dry paint, cotton fibres and Julie’s beautiful skin.
I have returned now to paint over my wall. The paintbrush, thick with emulsion, lies heavy in my hand.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Friday, 27 June 2008
The Red Dress
Like a drowsy bee the mobile vibrated against her skin for the third time.
She could not remember now what had prompted her to read the text message meant for her husband. Why didn’t she just turn the annoying thing off?
They had made it a rule when they first met to always respect one another’s privacy. She had told him about an ex boyfriend who had read then ridiculed her diaries; the romantic poems she had written which he found so silly and amusing .He in turn confided the teenage humiliation he had felt about his mother’s room-cleaning, the cringing embarrassment of seeing his magazine in the waste paper basket and the frosty glare at the dinner table.
With very few exceptions they had kept this promise over the last 25 years and given each other the privacy and space which they had been deprived of when younger.
Had she been suspicious? It’s always said that women are quick to read the signs when their husbands are having an affair: the late nights at the office, the bouquets of guilt, and the scent of other skin. Why had it never even occurred to her?
Were there changes in him which she had deliberately chosen to ignore? Sitting in his armchair at night there had often been a faraway look in his eyes, was he thinking of her then? When she had not wanted to have sex, was he a little too quick to agree on their mutual exhaustion?
gr8 2bwu lasnite
u taste dvin long e 4u
lovu4evf
She had jotted the text message down on a scrap of paper like the clues from a crossword puzzle, so that she might muse on it while preparing the evening meal.
She had never mastered the art of ‘texting’ and Robert, their son, used to laugh at her long handed messages, then when she did try to use abbreviations no one could understand what she was saying. For a fleeting moment she thought of phoning Robert at college to see if he could decipher his father’s shorthand and then she realised the ridiculousness of that request.
Of course it wasn’t that complex and there was a numb satisfaction when she had solved the puzzle:
‘Great to be with you last night. You tasted divine. Longing for you. Love forever f’
The small f at the end of the text reminded her of a fish hook, snagging tender skin.
He had always said how much he loved the sound of her name; Sarah, the gentle sibilance of the ‘shh’ sound, his love, his wife.
The normalities of their routine life suddenly took on new significance and became the subject of doubt and suspicion.
He had told her a few nights ago that the Pharmaceutical Society had their AGM and there was ‘No need to wait up; it would be a long and boring night’.
She vaguely remembered it had been about 2am when he had slipped in to bed beside her and kissed the top of her head as he had done every night of their married life. She shrunk from the memory of that kiss now and unconsciously went to wipe it off her forehead; it had left a mark, a dirty stain.
She said he tasted ‘divine’, what did that mean? Was it sweet /savoury, with a tinge of bitterness? Was the guttural sound of his climax different from the one she had heard thousands of times?
Of course she knew who ‘f’ was; it didn’t take too much working out. She remembered his brief, casual description of the young, blond pa who had come to work at the company about 6 months ago.
The jigsaw began to piece together.
To begin with her husband was always complaining about his new pa.
‘These secretaries nowadays don’t have the common sense they were born with. Fran is thirty but looks and acts like a teenager. Every 5 minutes she’s running to me checking on work. No common sense. How am I meant to get on with anything? I need a reliable pa when I go to Edinburgh next week to set up the clinical trials not someone who is more hindrance than help’.
Presumably he must have trained her up for the job. He mentioned her less and less until she remembered, one day, about a month ago she asked John if Fran had left the company?
He seemed calm enough in his response but then his back had been towards her and she had not seen the flush of his cheek or felt the prickling at the base of his spine.
‘No she’s still with us, she’s fine I think. Don’t see her very often, does a lot of work for Dave now’
In the space of a few seconds Fran had moved from being an insignificant and rather incompetent pa, to the reason her world was collapsing.
Suddenly the full impact thumped inside her, making her double up. She concentrated until the pain became a separate entity. By doing this she could continue to breathe. To let go of the physicality of the pain was to open her-self to a blackness which she knew she could not survive. She crumpled to the floor with the weight of despair.
She wanted to lose consciousness. She was curled into a tight ball with her arms clasped around her bowed head. When eventually she opened her eyes she noticed the splash of some coffee stains on the sill beneath the food cupboard. They looked ingrained and she felt mildly disappointed with herself that she had missed them in her weekly kitchen clean. Not that she was house-proud to the point of being obsessed but the kitchen harboured so many germs it was the one room in the house she insisted on being spotless.
She knew she should get up, if only to clean the coffee stain away but she feared that if she went to move her limbs, her mind may begin to think and to feel.
She could not remember how long she remained there: five or fifty minutes, when the phone rang. It startled her like a rifle shot.
It rang for a long time until her weary bones summoned the energy to move into the study room and lift the receiver.
‘Sarah, it’s only me. Are you OK? What have you been up to this morning? Are you missing the little horrors…? Ringing just to see if you fancy going for a meal tonight, should be able to finish here early….’
She could hear beneath the gloss of calm; the fear and panic in his voice. She wondered when he had first realised he had left his mobile on the bedside table. He would have spoken to f when they arrived at work and she may have asked in a pouting lip gloss manner why he hadn’t replied to her text this morning. He would have reached in his pocket for his mobile and then felt his stomach tip.
The separate panic of exposed lovers who have committed themselves to one another in the safety net of a hotel bed and yet at the moment of discovery scramble like rats down their separate holes, twitching with fear, waiting for the snap.
She felt almost sorry for his nervousness, wanted to soothe the twisted knot of anxiety in his stomach like a mother comforting a frightened child.
Even in a happy marriage, she, like most women, had imagined this scenario and the possible consequences. It had occasionally been the topic of conversation between her and female teaching colleagues after a few bottles of red wine. The general consensus was to ‘show ‘him’ the door’ and throw his shredded suits behind him. She agreed with the others, said she could never forgive a man who deliberately deceived her and even if she tried to, how could she ever trust him again?
With John’s job he was always attending conferences, staying in hotels. He was a good looking, charming man. Even now, despite the middle age business-lunch tum, women would find him attractive.
They had met at a student disco when he had been studying pharmacy at Bath University and she had been attending the lesser revered local teaching training college. There had always been an unspoken gratitude that he had chosen her.
She had trusted him. She knew that he could, but believed he never would, be unfaithful to her. Was this the first time? There was a pit of terror beneath her feet.
Only last week he had joked that if they were divorced they would save themselves and Robert years of paying off university debts. At least, last week she had seen it as a joke. For a second she bristled with power. She felt like a surgeon, a scalpel in her hands. Her mouth opened to say the words, to give him an answer.
Afterwards she went upstairs to where his mobile still rested on the table, deleted the message and the name from the directory and placed the phone back inside the drawer. Then she chose the red dress from the wardrobe; it was his favourite. She was looking forward to a romantic evening; just the two of them.
She could not remember now what had prompted her to read the text message meant for her husband. Why didn’t she just turn the annoying thing off?
They had made it a rule when they first met to always respect one another’s privacy. She had told him about an ex boyfriend who had read then ridiculed her diaries; the romantic poems she had written which he found so silly and amusing .He in turn confided the teenage humiliation he had felt about his mother’s room-cleaning, the cringing embarrassment of seeing his magazine in the waste paper basket and the frosty glare at the dinner table.
With very few exceptions they had kept this promise over the last 25 years and given each other the privacy and space which they had been deprived of when younger.
Had she been suspicious? It’s always said that women are quick to read the signs when their husbands are having an affair: the late nights at the office, the bouquets of guilt, and the scent of other skin. Why had it never even occurred to her?
Were there changes in him which she had deliberately chosen to ignore? Sitting in his armchair at night there had often been a faraway look in his eyes, was he thinking of her then? When she had not wanted to have sex, was he a little too quick to agree on their mutual exhaustion?
gr8 2bwu lasnite
u taste dvin long e 4u
lovu4evf
She had jotted the text message down on a scrap of paper like the clues from a crossword puzzle, so that she might muse on it while preparing the evening meal.
She had never mastered the art of ‘texting’ and Robert, their son, used to laugh at her long handed messages, then when she did try to use abbreviations no one could understand what she was saying. For a fleeting moment she thought of phoning Robert at college to see if he could decipher his father’s shorthand and then she realised the ridiculousness of that request.
Of course it wasn’t that complex and there was a numb satisfaction when she had solved the puzzle:
‘Great to be with you last night. You tasted divine. Longing for you. Love forever f’
The small f at the end of the text reminded her of a fish hook, snagging tender skin.
He had always said how much he loved the sound of her name; Sarah, the gentle sibilance of the ‘shh’ sound, his love, his wife.
The normalities of their routine life suddenly took on new significance and became the subject of doubt and suspicion.
He had told her a few nights ago that the Pharmaceutical Society had their AGM and there was ‘No need to wait up; it would be a long and boring night’.
She vaguely remembered it had been about 2am when he had slipped in to bed beside her and kissed the top of her head as he had done every night of their married life. She shrunk from the memory of that kiss now and unconsciously went to wipe it off her forehead; it had left a mark, a dirty stain.
She said he tasted ‘divine’, what did that mean? Was it sweet /savoury, with a tinge of bitterness? Was the guttural sound of his climax different from the one she had heard thousands of times?
Of course she knew who ‘f’ was; it didn’t take too much working out. She remembered his brief, casual description of the young, blond pa who had come to work at the company about 6 months ago.
The jigsaw began to piece together.
To begin with her husband was always complaining about his new pa.
‘These secretaries nowadays don’t have the common sense they were born with. Fran is thirty but looks and acts like a teenager. Every 5 minutes she’s running to me checking on work. No common sense. How am I meant to get on with anything? I need a reliable pa when I go to Edinburgh next week to set up the clinical trials not someone who is more hindrance than help’.
Presumably he must have trained her up for the job. He mentioned her less and less until she remembered, one day, about a month ago she asked John if Fran had left the company?
He seemed calm enough in his response but then his back had been towards her and she had not seen the flush of his cheek or felt the prickling at the base of his spine.
‘No she’s still with us, she’s fine I think. Don’t see her very often, does a lot of work for Dave now’
In the space of a few seconds Fran had moved from being an insignificant and rather incompetent pa, to the reason her world was collapsing.
Suddenly the full impact thumped inside her, making her double up. She concentrated until the pain became a separate entity. By doing this she could continue to breathe. To let go of the physicality of the pain was to open her-self to a blackness which she knew she could not survive. She crumpled to the floor with the weight of despair.
She wanted to lose consciousness. She was curled into a tight ball with her arms clasped around her bowed head. When eventually she opened her eyes she noticed the splash of some coffee stains on the sill beneath the food cupboard. They looked ingrained and she felt mildly disappointed with herself that she had missed them in her weekly kitchen clean. Not that she was house-proud to the point of being obsessed but the kitchen harboured so many germs it was the one room in the house she insisted on being spotless.
She knew she should get up, if only to clean the coffee stain away but she feared that if she went to move her limbs, her mind may begin to think and to feel.
She could not remember how long she remained there: five or fifty minutes, when the phone rang. It startled her like a rifle shot.
It rang for a long time until her weary bones summoned the energy to move into the study room and lift the receiver.
‘Sarah, it’s only me. Are you OK? What have you been up to this morning? Are you missing the little horrors…? Ringing just to see if you fancy going for a meal tonight, should be able to finish here early….’
She could hear beneath the gloss of calm; the fear and panic in his voice. She wondered when he had first realised he had left his mobile on the bedside table. He would have spoken to f when they arrived at work and she may have asked in a pouting lip gloss manner why he hadn’t replied to her text this morning. He would have reached in his pocket for his mobile and then felt his stomach tip.
The separate panic of exposed lovers who have committed themselves to one another in the safety net of a hotel bed and yet at the moment of discovery scramble like rats down their separate holes, twitching with fear, waiting for the snap.
She felt almost sorry for his nervousness, wanted to soothe the twisted knot of anxiety in his stomach like a mother comforting a frightened child.
Even in a happy marriage, she, like most women, had imagined this scenario and the possible consequences. It had occasionally been the topic of conversation between her and female teaching colleagues after a few bottles of red wine. The general consensus was to ‘show ‘him’ the door’ and throw his shredded suits behind him. She agreed with the others, said she could never forgive a man who deliberately deceived her and even if she tried to, how could she ever trust him again?
With John’s job he was always attending conferences, staying in hotels. He was a good looking, charming man. Even now, despite the middle age business-lunch tum, women would find him attractive.
They had met at a student disco when he had been studying pharmacy at Bath University and she had been attending the lesser revered local teaching training college. There had always been an unspoken gratitude that he had chosen her.
She had trusted him. She knew that he could, but believed he never would, be unfaithful to her. Was this the first time? There was a pit of terror beneath her feet.
Only last week he had joked that if they were divorced they would save themselves and Robert years of paying off university debts. At least, last week she had seen it as a joke. For a second she bristled with power. She felt like a surgeon, a scalpel in her hands. Her mouth opened to say the words, to give him an answer.
Afterwards she went upstairs to where his mobile still rested on the table, deleted the message and the name from the directory and placed the phone back inside the drawer. Then she chose the red dress from the wardrobe; it was his favourite. She was looking forward to a romantic evening; just the two of them.
Monday, 23 June 2008
memory box
MEMORY BOX
I am making a memory box
To ease the grief,
Create a palpable alternative
To the howling void.
Something physical to hold.
My box resembles a miniature coffin,
An unintentional slip,
Lift the lid and here’s my dad,
Metamorphosis 2 foot square.
I have the order of service,
The hymns and readings he planned
In the comfort of his sitting room:
A cosy contemplation of mortality
With the nice man from Dignity.
The diary where he noted
The weather,
Doctor’s appointments,
Blood tests,
Trips out with the club,
The date and time of
My next journey south,
‘Jacky’s coming home’.
I select a few holiday photographs
Taken in Buxton next to the fountain,
His thin blue summer jacket,
Tourist leaflets bulging from his pockets,
Mum’s handbag on his shoulder.
The final mementos,
A few weeks before he died,
The Christmas cracker gifts he kept,
A pink plastic ring,
A pencil sharpener
In the shape of a star,
An unused paper hat.
Jacqueline Pemberton
I am making a memory box
To ease the grief,
Create a palpable alternative
To the howling void.
Something physical to hold.
My box resembles a miniature coffin,
An unintentional slip,
Lift the lid and here’s my dad,
Metamorphosis 2 foot square.
I have the order of service,
The hymns and readings he planned
In the comfort of his sitting room:
A cosy contemplation of mortality
With the nice man from Dignity.
The diary where he noted
The weather,
Doctor’s appointments,
Blood tests,
Trips out with the club,
The date and time of
My next journey south,
‘Jacky’s coming home’.
I select a few holiday photographs
Taken in Buxton next to the fountain,
His thin blue summer jacket,
Tourist leaflets bulging from his pockets,
Mum’s handbag on his shoulder.
The final mementos,
A few weeks before he died,
The Christmas cracker gifts he kept,
A pink plastic ring,
A pencil sharpener
In the shape of a star,
An unused paper hat.
Jacqueline Pemberton
the hook
THE HOOK
Catch the moment before
Jekyll turns to Hyde.
Before the tipsy clown
Becomes the brutal drunk.
Try to read the signs,
The flicker of an eye
The quiver of a lip.
Beware the tapping toe
Waiting for you to trip.
Walk away before
The next smack in the face
For smiling at a stranger.
Remember the last time
He bathed your bruises,
Gave the excuses.
His penitent head, resting
All night in your lap.
Plan your escape,
Then swallow the map.
It is harder than you think.
Invisible hooks are
Embedded in your skin,
At any time he can snag
And pull you in.
Do not leave it too late,
Before the closing of the door,
The click of the lock.
Jacqueline Pemberton
Catch the moment before
Jekyll turns to Hyde.
Before the tipsy clown
Becomes the brutal drunk.
Try to read the signs,
The flicker of an eye
The quiver of a lip.
Beware the tapping toe
Waiting for you to trip.
Walk away before
The next smack in the face
For smiling at a stranger.
Remember the last time
He bathed your bruises,
Gave the excuses.
His penitent head, resting
All night in your lap.
Plan your escape,
Then swallow the map.
It is harder than you think.
Invisible hooks are
Embedded in your skin,
At any time he can snag
And pull you in.
Do not leave it too late,
Before the closing of the door,
The click of the lock.
Jacqueline Pemberton
Sunday, 22 June 2008
Blue Nun
(To the tune of Blue Moon - not Eidelweiss!)
Blue Nun
You saw me standing alone
Without a glass in my hand
Without a drink of my own.
Blue Nun
You with your sultry "Halo"
You stoked the fire down below
You made my glass overflow
Blue Nun
Through alpine meadows we'll run
Communion out in the sun
Blue nuns just want to have fun
And then there suddenly appeared before me
A multitude of dancing blue nuns
I heard the sound of music playing just for me
And when I looked again my dream was gone
Blue Nun
I'll hold your candle for you
Walk round in sandals for you
I'd risk a scandal for you.
Blue Nun
I'd like to help you discove..r
Many new ways to love
But you said "nun of the above"
And then I saw your mother superior
Standing in the shadows so blue
I confess I felt a flush of mass hysteria
‘Cos I’ve got a thing about your mother too
Blue Nun
I'm in the habit with you
I've worn your wimple. It's true!
Just something men like to do.
Blue Nun
If you will always be mine
I'll take you right up the Rhine
You are my favourite wine
Blue Nun
You saw me standing alone
Without a glass in my hand
Without a drink of my own.
Blue Nun
You with your sultry "Halo"
You stoked the fire down below
You made my glass overflow
Blue Nun
Through alpine meadows we'll run
Communion out in the sun
Blue nuns just want to have fun
And then there suddenly appeared before me
A multitude of dancing blue nuns
I heard the sound of music playing just for me
And when I looked again my dream was gone
Blue Nun
I'll hold your candle for you
Walk round in sandals for you
I'd risk a scandal for you.
Blue Nun
I'd like to help you discove..r
Many new ways to love
But you said "nun of the above"
And then I saw your mother superior
Standing in the shadows so blue
I confess I felt a flush of mass hysteria
‘Cos I’ve got a thing about your mother too
Blue Nun
I'm in the habit with you
I've worn your wimple. It's true!
Just something men like to do.
Blue Nun
If you will always be mine
I'll take you right up the Rhine
You are my favourite wine
Sunday, 8 June 2008
NAMES
The work of processing Tax Credit claims does not, ordinarily, offer much in the way of diversion or entertainment. And it may give some measure of the tedium of the job when I say that in an attempt to scrape together a few shavings of light relief, I have recently taken to noting down some of the more striking and unusual names which appear on Tax Credit applications forms.
I suppose I should declare an interest at this point since, when my two sons were born, I intended that they should be called Nebuchadnessar and Methusela. I have to confess that this choice was inspired more by the generous dimensions of champagne bottles than any long standing admiration for the wisdom and perspicacity of Old Testament kings. But still, at the time, I felt it displayed a commendable independence of mind; a willingness to strike out and be different from the crowd. Unfortunately my wife, being of a more prosaic turn of mind, could not be persuaded of the benefits that such an imaginative break with convention would confer upon our children. So, as the old joke goes, we compromised and she chose their names.
Mind you, I once knew a couple who couldn’t or wouldn’t reach agreement at all in the naming of their son. The mother called him Christopher and the father Barnaby. I have often thought that if these parents had wanted to ensure that their son suffered from lifelong schizophrenia it would have been difficult to devise a more effective strategy.
But to return to the Tax Credit Office; in amongst the legions of Karens, Darrens and Waynes, there are a few names which succeed in raising the eyebrow and grabbing the attention. Names which bear witness to the imagination, perversity or just plain whimsy of their parents. Names which will at the very least, ensure that their recipients do not pass through life unnoticed.
As to Christian names; I have a particular fondness for the classical. Xenos, Aphrodite and Zeus are among the commoner ones. And Roman Emperors seem particularly popular at the moment: Octavius’, Caesars and Augustus’ feature by the score – though I’m still waiting for my first Caligula.
Then there are the slightly more outlandish names like Pagan or Satan.
Now to call a child Satan seemed to me, at first, to be an act of wilful malevolence. But then I got to thinking about all those colic-ridden nights that new-borns inflict upon their parents and I could quite see that after a couple of sleep deprived weeks, Satan might seem an entirely appropriate name.
On the flip side of this particular coin were the twin sisters called Blessing and Miracle. I like to think that they were born to older parents who had given up all hope of having children and that the names were somehow a spontaneous expression of their surprise and joy. Quite whether Blessing and Miracle will seem so apt when their daughters enter that endless tunnel called pig-awkward adolescence is, of course, another matter.
As for Sky Helena Moonbeam - I was entranced. A child surely born to sparkle and touch with magic the lives of everyone whose path she crossed. A creature of air and light and joy. Please God, let her not be a witless, lumpen pudding.
Then there are the unfortunate surnames like Mr Sick or Mrs Pimple - I can only conclude that she must have loved her husband to abstraction. And when your surname is Clapp there must be a huge temptation to resort to deed poll. So I thought it showed chutzpah of the highest order when this particular Mrs and Mrs Clapp not only retained their surname but chose to call their son Charles Thunder. Anyway, I’m sure this was a decision arrived at only after much consideration, which is more than can be said for Mr and Mrs Key who, had they given it a moment’s thought would have called their son anything but Donald. Ok, it does take a moment’s thought.
Many people, including myself, have an intense dislike of the business of filling in forms even at the best of times. And if your wife has just left you and the cat has peed on the carpet I can quite understand the urge to put ‘Attila the Hun’ or ‘Mickey Mouse’ in the space marked NAME. So when I came across ‘Sonic the Hedgehog’, I was not unduly surprised.
However, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs doesn’t do funny or amusing so I was required to phone the gentleman in question to establish precisely what his name was. The conversation went something like:
‘Hello, is that Mr Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘Mr Sonic Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘It’s the Tax Credits Office here, I am processing your claim, but before I can go any further I need to know your legally correct name’.
‘It’s SONIC THE HEDGEHOG’. First name SONIC, middle name THE, spelt ‘T’, ‘H’, ‘E’. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
I assured him I did not but wondered whether the same could be said for his wife and children.
I readily accept that there is something very adolescent in the business of poking fun at other peoples names, particularly so, when they are foreigners. Take Mr Thong Pie for example. For all I know, it is a perfectly ordinary and unremarkable Vietnamese /Cambodian name but for some reason the thought of Mr Thong Pie continues to provide me with hours of childish chortling pleasure. Of course, there’s always the uncomfortable suspicion that in some South East Asian equivalent of the Tax Credit Office there might be someone convulsed in paroxysms of laughter over that ludicrous Welsh name: Trefor Lloyd.
I feel similar twinges of guilt about Stella Curry - although any aspiring ladette would surely rejoice in it. Then there’s Amos Delprat. A name that in my mind’s eye, constructs a comic edifice festooned with banana-skinned and custard-pied mirth. Quite why I should find it so funny I don’t know, but I just do.
Of course I could go on to delight you with the essential English whimsy of names like Mr Woebegone or Mr Bytheway but I think I’ve milked this particular cow quite dry enough.
And I’m sure that as a sophisticated, mature adult you find a catalogue of unfortunate or unusual names palls very quickly and you may indeed find the whole exercise in questionable taste.
But before you become too comfortable on that particular spot of moral high ground, I challenge you to try finding some light relief in the troglodytic world of Tax Credit Processing.
I suppose I should declare an interest at this point since, when my two sons were born, I intended that they should be called Nebuchadnessar and Methusela. I have to confess that this choice was inspired more by the generous dimensions of champagne bottles than any long standing admiration for the wisdom and perspicacity of Old Testament kings. But still, at the time, I felt it displayed a commendable independence of mind; a willingness to strike out and be different from the crowd. Unfortunately my wife, being of a more prosaic turn of mind, could not be persuaded of the benefits that such an imaginative break with convention would confer upon our children. So, as the old joke goes, we compromised and she chose their names.
Mind you, I once knew a couple who couldn’t or wouldn’t reach agreement at all in the naming of their son. The mother called him Christopher and the father Barnaby. I have often thought that if these parents had wanted to ensure that their son suffered from lifelong schizophrenia it would have been difficult to devise a more effective strategy.
But to return to the Tax Credit Office; in amongst the legions of Karens, Darrens and Waynes, there are a few names which succeed in raising the eyebrow and grabbing the attention. Names which bear witness to the imagination, perversity or just plain whimsy of their parents. Names which will at the very least, ensure that their recipients do not pass through life unnoticed.
As to Christian names; I have a particular fondness for the classical. Xenos, Aphrodite and Zeus are among the commoner ones. And Roman Emperors seem particularly popular at the moment: Octavius’, Caesars and Augustus’ feature by the score – though I’m still waiting for my first Caligula.
Then there are the slightly more outlandish names like Pagan or Satan.
Now to call a child Satan seemed to me, at first, to be an act of wilful malevolence. But then I got to thinking about all those colic-ridden nights that new-borns inflict upon their parents and I could quite see that after a couple of sleep deprived weeks, Satan might seem an entirely appropriate name.
On the flip side of this particular coin were the twin sisters called Blessing and Miracle. I like to think that they were born to older parents who had given up all hope of having children and that the names were somehow a spontaneous expression of their surprise and joy. Quite whether Blessing and Miracle will seem so apt when their daughters enter that endless tunnel called pig-awkward adolescence is, of course, another matter.
As for Sky Helena Moonbeam - I was entranced. A child surely born to sparkle and touch with magic the lives of everyone whose path she crossed. A creature of air and light and joy. Please God, let her not be a witless, lumpen pudding.
Then there are the unfortunate surnames like Mr Sick or Mrs Pimple - I can only conclude that she must have loved her husband to abstraction. And when your surname is Clapp there must be a huge temptation to resort to deed poll. So I thought it showed chutzpah of the highest order when this particular Mrs and Mrs Clapp not only retained their surname but chose to call their son Charles Thunder. Anyway, I’m sure this was a decision arrived at only after much consideration, which is more than can be said for Mr and Mrs Key who, had they given it a moment’s thought would have called their son anything but Donald. Ok, it does take a moment’s thought.
Many people, including myself, have an intense dislike of the business of filling in forms even at the best of times. And if your wife has just left you and the cat has peed on the carpet I can quite understand the urge to put ‘Attila the Hun’ or ‘Mickey Mouse’ in the space marked NAME. So when I came across ‘Sonic the Hedgehog’, I was not unduly surprised.
However, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs doesn’t do funny or amusing so I was required to phone the gentleman in question to establish precisely what his name was. The conversation went something like:
‘Hello, is that Mr Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘Mr Sonic Hedgehog?’
‘Yes’.
‘It’s the Tax Credits Office here, I am processing your claim, but before I can go any further I need to know your legally correct name’.
‘It’s SONIC THE HEDGEHOG’. First name SONIC, middle name THE, spelt ‘T’, ‘H’, ‘E’. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
I assured him I did not but wondered whether the same could be said for his wife and children.
I readily accept that there is something very adolescent in the business of poking fun at other peoples names, particularly so, when they are foreigners. Take Mr Thong Pie for example. For all I know, it is a perfectly ordinary and unremarkable Vietnamese /Cambodian name but for some reason the thought of Mr Thong Pie continues to provide me with hours of childish chortling pleasure. Of course, there’s always the uncomfortable suspicion that in some South East Asian equivalent of the Tax Credit Office there might be someone convulsed in paroxysms of laughter over that ludicrous Welsh name: Trefor Lloyd.
I feel similar twinges of guilt about Stella Curry - although any aspiring ladette would surely rejoice in it. Then there’s Amos Delprat. A name that in my mind’s eye, constructs a comic edifice festooned with banana-skinned and custard-pied mirth. Quite why I should find it so funny I don’t know, but I just do.
Of course I could go on to delight you with the essential English whimsy of names like Mr Woebegone or Mr Bytheway but I think I’ve milked this particular cow quite dry enough.
And I’m sure that as a sophisticated, mature adult you find a catalogue of unfortunate or unusual names palls very quickly and you may indeed find the whole exercise in questionable taste.
But before you become too comfortable on that particular spot of moral high ground, I challenge you to try finding some light relief in the troglodytic world of Tax Credit Processing.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Hitler – The Comeback
It has been announced today that there is to be a remake of World War Two. There are a number of reasons for this. First of all, World War Two – The Original, proved to be very popular with large numbers of people everywhere. This was more so than a proposed sequel, World War Three – What are You Doing After The Apocalypse? shown to a test audience, which was rated badly for a lack of, well, anything, really, after the opening minutes. Secondly, it has widely been suggested that World War Two brought out a lot of sterling qualities in people, such as selflessness, forbearance, camaraderie and communal singing.
However it was felt nevertheless that the original World War Two had a number of shortcomings. First of all it was in black and white. Secondly, it was not in stereo. Nor was it available in a universally accepted format. The remake will have a broadly similar plot to the original. However, the Director’s Cut Special Edition DVD will feature a number of alternative endings for those who like a surprise. Look out for the one where, as the hostilities cease, Josef Stalin joins Cambridge Footlights with a song on ukulele called Lenin On A Lamp-post!
Rumours of a prequel to the series, The Franco-Prussian War – Who Are You Calling ‘Sausage-breath?’, are unfounded.
Anyone who wants to participate in any capacity whatsoever, from cast to crew, are welcome to get involved. And if should one of you feel that you can contribute some saucepans and kitchen utensils to make fighter aircraft, please hand yourself in to your local mental hospital or throw yourself into the nearest quarry immediately, whichever is more convenient.
(A remake of The Yom Kippur War, Your Land Is Mined Land – This Time It’s Anti-personnel, is still in its planning stages. More wars are definitely in the pipeline. Speaking of pipelines...)
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