Monday, November 25th
On the daily walk with Winnie this morning there was a fine display of bird life on view as we wandered. I’m pretty sure I saw corncrakes, buzzards, greenfinches, robins, starlings, pterodactyls, hedge sparrows, thrushes, penguins and albatrosses, all singing at the top of their voices when they were not being silent. I was reminded of my childhood enthusiasm for birdwatching, when I could identify anything with wings that came within view, including Boeing 747s. I still have that gift, and noted a shrike zooming past the window a moment ago.
Reading Elizabeth Bishop this afternoon, while enjoying tea and a freshly baked cake:
We’d rather have the iceberg than the ship,
although it meant the end of travel.
I could have opened the book at a warmer place, but I was in front of a roaring fire, so there was no harm done, and Bishop is always a pleasure..
Melissa telephoned. It was a very bad line, and I couldn’t make out what she was talking about. Probably it was a consequence of there being a bird on the wire. Haha.
Tuesday, November 26th
This morning it was sunny, and Winnie and I wandered as far as The Hillocky Hillock, where it was very pleasant. But by the time we turned around for the return leg dark clouds were gathering and though it hasn’t rained the sun has disappeared.
On getting home it was to find we were in the middle of a power cut, and Cook grumbling into her apron, and Mrs. Jennings quietly contemplating an inert vacuum cleaner. It turned out to be of minor consequence, because half an hour later the electricity returned, the vacuum cleaner and Mrs. Jennings both woke up, and Cook continued to grumble.
Melissa telephoned. Apparently she also enjoyed a power cut, which kicked in when she was in the middle of drying her hair. Life can be so trying sometimes.
Wednesday, November 27th
I’ve learned that a bookshop in town is selling a “Christmas Gift Pack” of books by five (5) of the town’s “finest poets”. I’m not miffed that I’m not in that gift pack, for all the books are newly published, and I have nothing that would qualify on that count. But the idea that a town can have five fine poets astounds me. Even just one would be remarkable, and given that I live very close by, albeit in the town’s outermost reaches but still technically local if the postcode is anything to go by, I might suggest the position has already been filled. By me. On a similar note, I’m reminded of this, from the American poet Howard Nemerov:
I remember a poet’s writing to me several years back, You are the most underrated poet in the country. But then, he added, that’s better than being the most overrated poet in the country. I was and remain impressed by the short distance between the two extremes.
While I’m on the subject of verse, I wonder how many of those “finest poets” would even bother to think about this, from Coleridge:
A poem is that species of composition which is opposed to works of science, by proposing for its immediate object pleasure, not truth; and from all other species (having this object in common with it) it is discriminated by proposing to itself such delight from the whole as is compatible with a distinct gratification from each component part.”
Someone (I name no names) would probably tell me they don’t know what he’s getting at. For them it’d be of little or no consequence, but not for me it isn’t. I can’t get enough delight, ever.
Melissa telephoned. She wanted to know if I was planning to do anything special for Thanksgiving tomorrow. No, of course not. I’m not American, and very thankful for it.
Thursday, November 28th
It’s chilly. It’s of little consequence to anyone else, but today I’m wearing my electrically-heated underwear. When I’m plugged in I can only wander as far as the extension cable will allow. Out walking with Winnie, I had to switch to battery power.
Melissa telephoned to say she had icicles dangling from her eaves. I think she’s fibbing, because it’s not that cold. If it was that cold I would have icicles dangling from my eaves too. Sometimes she exaggerates.
Cook asked me if it was too cold for a salad lunch. Of course it is! Is she mad? Salad is a dish best served . . . etc.
Friday, November 29th
Algernon Tenderloin called in this morning. He’d been to the opticians because, in his own words, he had been “seeing things”. He appears to be upset that the optician suggested he cut down on the alcohol and painkillers. I don’t know why he takes painkillers, apart from the fact that he is, often, a pain. Of course, he also wanted to talk about his latest versifying, which is not as interesting as his claims to be seeing things.
Melissa telephoned. Apparently her icicles have been blown away by strong winds. It’s of no consequence.
from the great “The Third Policeman” –
“. . . if you identify life with enjoyment I am told there is a better brand of it in the cities than in the country parts and there is said to be a very superior brand of it to be had in certain parts of France. Did you ever notice that cats have a lot of it in them when they are quite juveniles?”
This prompted because (a) I’m reading the novel for the umpteenth time and (b) Rumple and Teazer are at the moment each chasing something invisible up and down the stairs like lunatics.
Sunday, December 1st
December! There will be wintry consequences, I think, which I wholeheartedly loathe.
Melissa telephoned soon after breakfast. She has no icicles, and seems disappointed.
Finished “The Third Policeman” today. Brilliant stuff. I’ve read it loads of times and will read it loads of times more before I leave for the afterlife. It made for a good day, a lazy Sunday, warm except for Winnie’s daily outing. Cook cooked one of her splendid shepherd’s pies – not a traditional Sunday dinner, but never mind about that. Great for a chilly day.
The only minor blight was a call from Algernon Tenderloin to say he’s starting to write “a December poem sequence”. I rather abruptly told him I didn’t care, and hung up on him. He’s a poetry idiot.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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