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Appeasing Village Halls...

19/2/2017

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Since we’ve been here, at least once a year we have been to Kemberton Village Hall for some event or other, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall, so that it can continue to have events, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall.

Everyone rallies around, does their bit, buys several too many raffle tickets, happily pays over the odds for some cheapo wine, and lends a hand with stacking chairs, whilst Denise and Jill do the washing-up. Anne chats to everyone and a couple of people say hello to me. This, it seems to me, is the essence of village life. Or, more generally, community life. And yes, I am mocking, that’s my default setting, but I genuinely mean it as a good thing. Proper life-enhancing stuff.

In our time, as documented elsewhere, we have attended many of these events. We have been to several quizzes; an evening of prestidigitation from the Wolverhampton Magic Circle; been entertained by a couple from the Black Country, her doing the songs and he doing the bostin jokes; not forgetting the night with the woman with several ukuleles. No, that I will never forget.

If you happen to be from London and somehow find yourself through the Looking Glass at such an event, it works like this. You buy a ticket, you show up, you eat and drink, as much of the latter as you can. Try not to win the raffle. I can’t help but feel incomers up from that there London winning a box of Celebration chocolates is cause for anything but. Definitely, try to win the quiz. Coz, well, innit, you get me. We have, a couple of times. Or once, even. Maybe. There’s still time…

Anyway, Anne decided this year was our turn. When we throw our hat into the ring. Raise some money. Pay for the roof repairs. What’s required, she suggested, is a pop-up Indian restaurant, and we, who have never once set foot in said sub-continent, are absolutely, definitely, your people, for we used to live in Tooting and even cooked a curry once, and it was quite tasty. Fairly bland, also.

So, that’s what we did last night. For 50 people:

Pea Kachori with pickled red onion and relish.
Chili Paneer
Chicken Pakora (donated by a Bangladesh Housing Co-operative Anne works with in Birmingham, and easily the best chicken pakoras in the western world, and quite possibly in the eastern world, too.)
Served with Carrot and Sultana Raita, Tomato and Chili Jam and Mint Chutney.
 
Lamb and Squash Curry
Lemon Daal
Aubergine and Tomato curry
Rajma Curry
 
Mango Fool and Cardamom Shortbread.
 
Sister-in-law turned the village hall into a tented Indian village, or something, which was both highly improbable and completely spectacular; and people tucked into Aldi prosecco and spiced nuts, whilst Anne turned a load of bland vegetables into something pretty bloody wonderful. I helped. As did Anne's best friend Paula and many others. But enough about them.   
 
Food was eaten. Drink was drunk. Money was made. Kemberton Village Hall, like Mount Etna pacified by sacrifices to the Roman Gods, burped and farted, and settled down like a sleeping dog with a full belly, until the next time.
 
Greek, Italian, Thai, French – what’s next Anne? -  e-mailed a grateful participant.
Nothing. Never. No way. E-mailed back an exhausted Anne. Bless…     



 


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The Three Ps

16/2/2017

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(Following on from the piece below - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion - here's an excerpt from my novel in progress, Indifferent Voices.)  

Absolutely, clothes matter. It’s all about what I like to call the three Ps: Polish, Presentability and Professionalism. I know some people think I am some old fogey about this, a bit of a cheek considering I am not yet forty, but I see myself as upholding standards. Tradition, isn’t it, and if upholding tradition makes me an old fogey, well good on the old fogeys, that’s what I say. Besides, I mean, honestly, look at you. What a dog’s dinner.

You know the first advice I was given when I started? Yes, that old one ‘never wear brown in town’ and I remember being so offended that he felt the need to even tell me that. As if I hadn’t already proven that I was well past that. But I find myself saying it now. Standards are not what they were. We live in different times. There is so much casualization these days. Dress down Fridays, and that trend for people wearing suits without a tie, what an abomination. Beards, argh.

Look, say you are interviewing two candidates for a job and they have similar CVs. One of them comes in looking like he’s a tramp who’s just raided someone’s laundry bin, or looks like he’s leaving straight after the interview for a beach, or he’s wearing one of those thingies – what are they – hoodies? Is that right? And the other candidate is simply smartly dressed, has obviously made an effort, then you are going to give the job to the latter, are you not?

Well, the same holds true when I’m interviewing but it’s usually about finer margins. An off-the-peg Marks and Spencer suit does not say to me polish, presentability and professionalism. Nor does a man wearing earrings. Or hair gel. And someone in a Winnie the Pooh tie is not someone I am going to take seriously. Is anyone?

But give me a chap in a nicely-tailored suit, shirt from Gieves and Hawke or similar, shoes from Cheaneys. Now I am looking at style. What I call sheen. Show me a pair of cheap, scuffed shoes, hardly polished, no proper heel, and I’ll show you an idler. You know what it says to me? It says, I can’t be bothered. It says to me, I’d rather be a prole. But show me a man wearing a nice set of cufflinks, you know what that says to me? It says attention to detail. It says class.


(Percival Lancaster – VP – Global Finance) 

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Dedicated follower of fashion

16/2/2017

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In One Dog and His Man I wrote a small piece on my superior dress sense, what with me having been part of that there London Fashion Scene for a major part of my life, continually updating and rocking the latest Tooting vibe. Yes, of course I was joking. The only point clothes serve in my life, is to keep me warm. My idea of dressing smartly is to find something I haven’t spilled food down.
 
The piece ended with me walking past a seven-year-old girl, who was clutching her granny’s hand in fear, as she passed me in my latest outfit, one “beyond the curve of their imagination.”  As she passed me, the little girl said loudly to her gran “oh, that’s not a good look.”
 
In riposte, these last few years I’ve blended into Shropshire life. I now have many, many fleeces. I have three outdoor fleece zipped jackets, sourced from top brands such as Aldi and the local farm shop, two black, one blue. For indoors, I have another seven fleeces, from summer lightweight to Canadian heavy duty – what Anne calls my Michelin man look. And that’s it.

Shifnal’s loss I fancy. But, yesterday, outside Barclays was a man at the cash machine, stepping up to the challenge, plainly channelling my inner catwalk model. He had sunglasses on, in February gloom, a brand-new country tweed jacket and tie up-top, and below, a pair of bright blue tracksuit bottoms, with two white stripes running down the outside of each leg, the outfit finished off with a pair of polished black shoes. Fetching. 

What the seven-year-old, - who now must be thirteen and probably with her own thriving online apparel and accessories business – would have thought of it is anyone’s guess. Me, I nearly applauded.     


   
        
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Guy de Maupassant

8/2/2017

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"I think there may have been a short period many,many years ago, certainly before I found John Cheever, when I would declare Guy de Maupassant to be the greatest short-story teller of them all. Also, it's quite possible I did this without bothering to read any of his stories. And - zut alors - it turns out I was right all along – which just goes to show you don't need to have read the form to pick the winner."

I wrote the above as a tongue-in-cheek Amazon review of  Femme Fatale, published as part of the brilliant Penguin Little Black Classic series a couple of years ago. Yesterday, I thought I'd have a bash at one of his novels - A Woman's Life - having picked up an old Penguin Classics edition from the local charity shop.

On reaching page four, I came across the following paragraph. It started so promisingly, the ending seemed all the more startling:

"There was silence in the carriage; their minds seemed drowned like the earth. Mama was leaning back with closed eyes supporting her head; the Baron kept a gloomy eye on the featureless soaked country-side, and Rosalie with a parcel on her knee was dreaming the sub-human dreams of peasant folk." 

Huh?  

I stopped reading books in translation many years ago, precisely because of stuff like this. It was only the Little Black Classics that brought me back. Prior to that, I'd find myself hung up on single lines, wondering what was the author's real intention. Like now. I'm thinking he might be saying something more like 'the simple dreams of simple folk.' If anyone has a different translation, or fancies a bash at one from the French, or can confirm this is exactly what Maupassant meant, I'd be interested to know.

​Right now, I'm doubtful of ever getting to page five...

 


   
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Peter Reading

7/2/2017

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As you may know by now, since our move to Shropshire nearly ten years ago, I have been making a point of seeking out and reading authors with a connection to the county.   Yesterday, someone tweeted an old Peter Reading poem about a farmer from Onibury, which I remembered from years back, long before I even knew Onibury actually existed, let alone where it was.

I went upstairs to interrogate my book-shelves. I have over 200 poetry books but none by Peter. I'm currently self- banned from buying any more books - until I get one of them wage-paying, job-type things - so my usual solution of clicking on everything on Amazon like I'm playing Candy Crush Soda (update - been stuck for three days on level 733) is currently out of bounds.

Luckily, much of my existing poetry collection is made up of anthologies, and Peter is well-represented, albeit nearly always excerpts from longer poems.  I've asterisked the following poem in, not one, but two anthologies, a commendation I don't hand out willy-nilly, you know. I'd apologise for the language used, but I'm damned sure Peter wouldn't, so I won't.   
 



Soiree

One funny thing about loving someone
is how much you'll put up with - her parents'
conversazione for example,
or being sweet to these fools she works with
who smoke inferior cigars and think
it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink
inadequately and long past my bedtime,
and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff.
And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter,
what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
'Peter, you interested in history?'
(Mate, I ain't even interested in
the present.) Still I'm here because I love her.  

(Peter Reading)



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