tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86241612669508652152011-12-23T17:38:36.307ZFiction, reviews and meanderingsEBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.comBlogger261100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-78831513355000282132010-02-14T21:23:00.001Z2010-02-14T21:23:54.740Z

Out in the garden we sit decorously on a bench. He holds a glass of chilled white wine by the stem and we admire the peonies. The smell of the earth from the rain makes me stand up, restless, and suggest we walk further on.We stop under the apple trees where the last of the blossom is disappearing into the grass. Green walls of hedges surround us, the space between full to the brim of sunlight.I

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-31365601382515119692009-04-13T18:35:00.005+01:002009-08-07T16:09:13.370+01:00

PS, my other blogs are still being updated, because they take less mental energy to write!This blog is going into hiatus until November 2009. The reason for this is that I don't have time to write at the moment. I've incredibly busy in the garden, which takes several hours a day, and I also have an Open University course to work at. Together with minding the house, and taking Pippa for walks,

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-43335891907273888292009-03-26T10:58:00.001Z2009-03-26T10:58:49.151Z

Lucinda Lambton is one of my favourite ... now what to call her? If I say a writer, that excludes her effervescent television presentation, and the photographs in her books which are such a big part of her appeal.Anyway, in her "A-Z of Britain", I have just read the following which struck me:"In 1901 at Plas Newydd in Wales, the 5th Marquess of Anglesey had the audacity to convert the Gothic

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-43300127703242602162009-02-10T21:32:00.003Z2009-02-10T21:35:06.935Z

Please note that I have started a new blog called Cetera, also on Blogger, which is to contain every entry that isn't either attempting to be literary or about the garden. The first post is some pictures of today, showing a short walk and some odds and ends at home. I hope you like it!http://whereeverythingelsegoes.blogspot.com/

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-74114271385252083912009-02-06T15:15:00.009Z2009-02-06T16:09:33.851Z

Writers are Other People. They write; I read: that's how it goes. I'm not saying they're all members of the Garrick or sit about in dressing gowns smoking Gitannes and scaring small children, but... they are Notme. It's a bit like top French wine: I just can't imagine it being local. It seems inherantly foreign. Not so physically remote perhaps but just as exotic as oriental silk, sultry spices

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-72154200762693958792009-02-01T22:27:00.001Z2009-02-01T22:35:12.123Z

We stare into our fires and plan our seeds,and feast in heated rooms against the cold;our gardens sleep while others' blaze with green:a Mexican wave of flowering laps the Earth.Young human generations unfurl now,but garden time runs true, life's orrery:ephemera preserved for them in blogs,while your reflected sunshine joins our fires. ---------[I apologise for cross-posting this with my other

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-79430932610424422102008-09-15T23:20:00.003+01:002009-01-26T22:59:41.542Z

Just now it's nearly dark. The trees look especially black, like wooden scenery put up in front of a real sky. Mother of pearl swirls of cloud and blue yonder drift around above them. Over to my left a neatly bisected moon slides behind dull thick low cloud in another sky.I can see time in the growing darkness.

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-91706773818201753472008-06-14T08:47:00.004+01:002008-06-14T08:59:49.926+01:00

It was a bitterly cold morning with a reluctant, grey light. Hastings, the housemaid, did not knock at the morning-room door because there was no reason for her to expect any member of the family to be inside at six o'clock. She nearly dropped her coal bucket therefore when she suddenly caught sight of the rear half of Mr Fitzgerald, still clad in evening dress. He was on his hands and knees

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-85395270958304984892008-06-13T10:20:00.000+01:002008-06-13T10:23:37.777+01:00

Alice surveyed the sea of mud around her that would tomorrow become her first show garden, whether it was ready or not. The site was a challenging one, facing north and near the main road, but her design had cleverly turned this to advantage. She thought of the neatly drawn circles on heavy quality cartridge paper and clenched her teeth to stop the tears. The early frown-lines deepened in her

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-92109565013976148292008-06-07T12:27:00.002+01:002008-06-07T13:01:15.923+01:00

Mum had gone off with Ed. She'd given me a mint Aero (one of the jumbo ones) and said she'd kill me if I wasn't right there when she came back.I sat down on the step and looked under the red blanket at the back of it but there wasn't anything there and it smelled of wee. Then I took my phone out and texted Kaz but he didn't answer. People kept kicking into my feet which was really annoying so I

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-72520328089462422382008-05-09T12:22:00.001+01:002008-05-09T12:22:58.435+01:00

I walk down onto the beach, as far as the edge of the hard sand. Nobody else is here - the narrow strand edges a steep drop and families stay safely away. I take off my watch, wrap my towel around it and put them down out of reach of the waves. Then I walk out to the sea.At each step my feet puddle the sand and the water inches up my calves. It feels colder against the warm skin on the inside of

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-33355449282544639742008-04-04T09:53:00.000+01:002008-04-04T09:54:03.657+01:00

The night before last was more than usually full of doubts and worries. They seemed to come from a part of me so distant as to feel like a different person, taunting me by painting luridly convincing scenery around my mind. In the morning I felt the same emotions of self-pity and helplessness, but when I looked for what caused them it was immediately clear that I had been scared by cardboard

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-16914933985370073402008-03-09T22:43:00.000Z2008-03-09T22:44:19.909Z

A few minutes ago I saw the new moon, a tiny silver paring reclining on her back, straight out over the garden. Since then the clouds have thickened and the rain is now lashing the window. The new moon represents good luck to me, although perhaps luck is a mistaken word for it - luck doesn't draw the tides in and out. For all the power associated with a full moon, it's the perennial renewal of

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-6531612642972382692008-03-04T18:55:00.002Z2008-03-04T19:07:15.767Z

I ate my lunch today in the company of one of those catalogues that remind you why you want to live in a mud hut.The list of things you can buy from such an emporium of good taste and necessities is inspiring: battery powered tea lights; the name of a star; a bag of luck (shamrock seeds in a brown paper bag - for £9); £96 worth of silver plated bucket (for cooling Champagne, obviously); and a

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-66865521762130424272007-10-21T12:07:00.000+01:002007-11-08T18:09:41.445Z

I had never seen an eagle before but recognised him immediately, perched on the highest limb of a dead tree in the field before me. He was motionless, and the only striking thing was his size. As I walked up to the fence he dipped his head slightly, leaning forward into the air and gliding off the branch. He wheeled gently just above the ground and after two beats of his wings was as high as the

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-856683882048645302007-10-12T10:27:00.000+01:002007-10-13T10:29:19.363+01:00

He staggered through the train doors just as they closed, so that he had to yank his flapping trouser leg out of the rubber seal. Nobody glanced in his direction as he blundered down the carriage, ricocheting between the seats, clutching at the inadequate bright yellow bumps that were supposed to be handles. Another Friday drunk in a suit. He gained the sanctuary of the toilet and sat down.As it

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-21126084609521052822007-10-11T23:37:00.000+01:002007-10-12T21:13:51.377+01:00

We had a fantastic time when we went to see Rush last night at Wembley Arena. The band had no support act so they played from 7:30 to 11 with a half hour break. I jotted down a few notes in the darkness, trying not to write on the same pages twice. Long, long songs followed one after another, each a mosaic of complex rhythms and snatches of melody. This music really is in its own world - at one

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-62242880422152763662007-10-08T20:23:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:29.307Z

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-82455058920122652722007-10-08T10:32:00.001+01:002007-10-15T22:04:38.311+01:00

The island I live on is beautiful. A palm fringed beach surrounds it, and the interior is thickly forested with all kinds of tropical fruiting trees. A shaded pool overhung with creepers and fed by a crashing waterfall provides sweet water. Exotic birds fill the trees with all manner of songs and their plumage flashes in the sun. Life here is easy, with food to hand and time to spare for any

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-19297674399165798162007-10-08T10:31:00.000+01:002007-10-11T11:21:18.604+01:00

Last night we went out. B works opposite what used to be called the NatWest Tower - a huge skyscraper with a footprint the shape of the NatWest symbol, which is now owned by someone else and called Tower 42. Hmmmm - rather like the architectural equivalent of a tattoo to whoever has since become your ex. Anyway, at the top of said icon of capitalism is a bar called Vertigo. We went there as a

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-26769168495104739482007-10-08T10:30:00.000+01:002007-10-10T13:56:15.209+01:00

This morning P and I went for a walk in a Country Park a few miles away. I dislike its tidied and urbanised nature but at its centre are two lakes which make it worth a visit. We go briskly along the near side of the main lake without my really noticing it, and then break away from the main track to find a wilder patch. The bracken here reaches up to my chin and to start with the path I found

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-21006630157256629172007-09-13T09:58:00.000+01:002007-11-08T18:05:51.875Z

I've been writing a blog for about three weeks now, first elsewhere and then here, so I'm having a think about it all.So far I've had 2 comments, both from this lovely lady in Kentucky: http://patience-please.blogspot.com/ - she has lots of dogs and posts super pictures and sweet stories about them. I wonder how she found me? I wonder also why nobody else comments. I'm a beginner, I must be

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-28509924236147882702007-09-07T12:59:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:29.471Z

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-65261726037248853732007-09-06T10:55:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:29.715Z

We set off from Horley railway station: small shops, weedy car-parks, and the yellow stockbrick Victorian house with a neon sign upstairs advertising tattoos. I have to force myself to notice things so familiar.South London arrives with angled lines of near-black brick terraces. Next to the track is a jumble of garden sheds, tarpaulin-covered shacks and secret dens. At Clapham Junction a

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-21633841393201074802007-09-05T10:28:00.000+01:002007-10-10T13:56:38.932+01:00

There was the usual high speed train trick: somebody started to move the platform. A few minutes later the train is darting forward, uncannily smooth for its speed.The sun is out here just as it was at home, but here its heat seems stronger. Pale stony soil and bleached stubble stretch out on either side of the track's low embankment. Grey woods look even greyer in the distance, and cars as small

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624161266950865215.post-27282263469237383822007-09-04T10:36:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:29.848Z

EBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09405771860220362327noreply@blogger.com0