MICE TAILS

MICE TAILS

I begin to wonder about my life before mice. They have become a fascinating part of my life. I could do without them very easily but the sheer volume of material they have supplied makes me feel I owe them one. I also reckon that mine are exceptional mice. We seem to be running a kind of hotbed scheme with either myself or the mice in residence at any one time. Not exclusively of course, there is the case of the stock cube orgy. I had been making some soup that day and whacked a stock cube in – along with the herbs I get in jars from my love’s sister near Turin and ancient veggies, new veggies and a bit of this and that. I am rather good at soup I’m told but that might be to keep me cooking. Anyway I enjoy it, it makes me feel I am taking part in a rural idyll  - odd because my raw materials come from Aldi ( We all need our illusions!) anyway I must have left the top off the glass jar that I keep stock cubes in (because the thought that the mice got together in a  team and removed the top is far too  worrying) I was putting the washing on when I noticed nasty brown marks on the counter.

I investigated further and found eight cubes chewed at the corners and evidence of the little mothers in the jar. I emptied it out and saved the damaged cubes with a view to putting them in mouse traps. That was the day I bought ‘humane’ traps. I tried to set the wretched thing, caught my finger and it didn’t feel even remotely humane to me. They are now empty on the window ledge, I had hoped that my cleaner may care to take responsibility for mouse murder and I think she would but she had caught her finger before and refused. Then I saw no evidence of them for a few days, though the guy next door swears he hears them in the wall (his paranoia or my loss of hearing?) I know they make their way from house to house under the floorboards so I endeavour to keep a food free kitchen, the stock cube slip up was an aberration.  But I know they are around. In fact they have a taste for plastic which might mean they are building nests or they are rather dim mice with eclectic tastes.

I spend up to four days at a time in London and when I go home I am greeted with a powerful essence of mouse, pungent and unmistakable. The little varmints have been in occupation in my absence. As I enter the kitchen I sometimes see a mouse in fast motion tiny and fleet of feet, it scuttles away in the direction of the back door though I have blocked all holes – I think. I am convinced that decamp when I am home but they have frequent recces  

to suss out if I have made a slip up of the stock cube variety. I imagine them alarmed at this large creature invading their territory and making it her own. I expect mice have different time scale to human beings and four days allows them to settle in nicely then along I come to disrupt them. I will get some of the traps that they walk into next and take them walkies to the river – but the river has big rats to imperil their safety. A cat seems to be the answer but the Cameron cat turned to be  a non combatant cat so there are no guarantees. I shall report back.

BAD TRIP?

LONDON FURY

The train was not running from my local  station so we were bussed to the next station. This involved humping my heavy wheelie bag and far from light self up into  and out of different vehicles all stuffed full of discombobulated travellers in filthy moods. There were a few plucky wartime spirit characters, I was not one of these. Most of  us were grumpy sour faced buggers. It brings out the worst in people to have our plans disrupted.

The driver was unnecessarily jolly particularly with any young females  who got within his vicinity – clearly his flirt opportunity for the week. This notwithstanding he dumped us all on a nice fast secondary road so we could run the gauntlet of traffic speeding on their way to the Saturday shopping orgy that takes over Southampton each weekend. We galloped across to the sound of squealing brakes, I brought up the rear because I‘m not great at galloping so I caught the curses of drivers – and I enjoyed retaliative action. It seemed essential that we rushed to the train that was waiting in the station. In fact we all pushed and shoved our way on and sat for at least fifteen minutes, time for me to fillet my newspaper of its dross and establish myself (I am very territorial) we muttered about being late but softly – we are British after all.

My love was away and I was off to warm the flat up for her return so I had to get on two buses the first to the Elephant then another to Watt Tyler road, I love the name but the journey was hell with more and more people clambering aboard at every stop until the bus was crammed to bursting and my large cumbersome trolley taking up valuable foot room. I apologised  profusely shoved it hither and yon out of one lot of feet into the next persons ankles gathering glares along the way.  When it came to getting off the bus I had to fight my way through a phalanx of backs and a few resentful fronts to the door that was being held open by a kindly couple who must have heard my panicky squeals of distress. I shoved the case out in front of me and followed it unsteadily, thanked them and, restored to sanity marched over the lawn speedily.

The thing that had sustained me on this entire trip had been the fact that I knew I had a  half -full bottle of gin waiting for me and I was nearly sure that I even had a bottle of tonic. I could almost taste the fresh zing of a stiff gin. I thumped up the stairs with no regard for the noise factor or computer safety and practically fell in the front door. I collapsed in a chair to catch my breath and went for the gin. It was gone. I did a futile search in which I looked in the same places again and again until eventually I was convinced that it was gone. I was furious. I telephoned Turin to quiz my love who said she ‘must have drunk it’ but I  had asked her the week before if it was still there and now it occurs to me that my enquiry had alerted her to the fact that it was hidden beneath the kitchen table. I slammed the phone down and opened a bottle of Chablis and guzzled a fast glass – not the same thing at all.

My disappointment was profound, my apoplectic rage probably out of proportion. it  was just as well that  I had a day  or two to recover a semblance of good humour before she got back. Forgiveness? 
Forget it!

ONLY IN LONDON

Last week I went home to Southampton for a day or two, see how the mice are doing( not a lot ) get my parking permits pick up letters, see friends. Meanwhile my love went to yet another opening where she met a charming actress who was reading some poetry. She talked to her, said I might need a reader in the future,’ I am reading some poems at the Royal Court on Saturday  evening come along if you like!’ said Rebecca, the actress( no bishop figures in this tale!) So it came to pass that we trolled up to Sloane square and I wasn’t keen, I like poetry but..and I was quite certain that it wouldn’t be main stage and when the guy in the box office knew nothing about it I was all for finding the nearest boozer and my mind was focussed upon the inflated prices of beer and other mundanities so I didn’t hear the very lovely very young girl ask the guy about poetry, my love is a far better focussed woman and talked to her. She knew a director and telephoned  her telling her that she had TWO OLD LADIES who had also come to see the poetry.

This was a pivotal moment in my life. I have never knowingly been called an ‘Old Lady’ before, at least not in my hearing. I was shocked. I have been called old bag and various other terms of abuse mostly in anger but never LADY. There is something incredibly ancient in that term, irretrievably old. I think I may have a secret belief that there is a switch somewhere that I will hit one day a become forty again( one of my finest years) and I know now that I am .in the eyes of the world, indeed an old lady I dislike the word ‘lady’ but it is the conjunction that really got me.

When we got to the bar I told Rosanna ( the beautiful girl)  that I had never been called an old lady before she told me that she was describing us in case somebody was looking for us. And that’s another thing, my love is my love not a bloody old lady! My irate mind churned over my G&T an old lady’s drink and I explained that I Ioath the word lady, and I do. Then I bought her a drink because I realised that it is not her fault that I am an old lady.

We found the director Sophie Ivatts and went into the back room, filled with chairs all full and we were witness of  An eye for Cupid… in two acts of fifteen pieces of poetry all written by Simon David that was marvellous in its variety, had me moved in all directions from ‘To see me wee’ hilarity and the most witty trumpet I have ever encountered played by Caleb Frederick in Why eye my thigh. To the most moving depiction of the result of rape that had  me near to tears through to two men getting in and out of touch with their very feminine side,. Simon David also acted and I counted twenty three actresses on stage for the finale. (I prefer ‘actors’ but everybody I spoke to said actress so I am clearly out of date with my daft feminist attitudes – my age you know!)

It was the most enjoyable evening in a theatre ( kind of) I have spent for years and so many gifted professional actors knocked me sideways with their talent the writing and direction was superb and – it was, sadly, a one off!

 Such a very lucky privilege and as I say – only in London!

On reading in public and other stuff

Last night I read some old poems at The Art House in Southampton. As usual I was filled with dread and terror, asked self very many times: why am I doing this? It's pure masochism! Went to the cinema with a friend to see the King's Speech, thought it would occupy my mind nicely in fact I slept through most of it - according to my friend and she was supported by a woman the other side of me so I believe it and I felt quite perky on the way out. As a fairly fanatical republican I probably shouldn't have gone but I saw Firth in 'A Single Man' recently and thought him marvellous.I expect he was marvellous in this too - everybody says so, once more I am in  minority of one - nothing new there then. Anyway I got very cross about Helen Bonham Carter who had little resemblance to the doughy faced woman that I remember seeing once at Epsom race course and a million photographs.I think I will move on away from the royals lest my blood pressure rises and I make more enemies!

The reason for the old poems is the fact that my old computer has taken a  turn for the worse and refuses to download any files so I can neither print out or work on documents. My new computer is cute and awaits conversion into  my chief tool of communication the expert is comng later frabjus joy! I -  hope. Meanwhile I can play with emails, facebook and Twitter all day with no compunction at all a guilt free dilettante day.
I must write new poems too with a slightly less anti male bias. Now that I have a woman lover I can afford to be  more tolerant of the male -not being in direct fire so to speak, at least in theory. In fact I still seem to be rampantly pro female but I can work on this. Perhaps.

Still the need for public affirmation perplexes me but it seems to be there so I will obey my instincts and carry on taking my heart in my hands and hope the audience laughs, preferably in the same places that I do.
Here is the link to the superbly delivered  reading by Nina Ludovica Smith of an excerpt of my novel, A Blues for Shindig which was recorded at a gig in the Arts Laboratory in Berlin. It is not our preferred piece and the interview is inaccurate in a few places but who cares? ( apart from me!) We hope to perform at  NotaBar in north London soon and hold both self and work to ridicule again soon!
(In fact this link does not work so I will erase it!I will get it  on to my blog another way, it is already on the Legend blog click on picture of my book & it will appear.) 

THE WHAT FACTOR

Some weeks ago I went to a party and saw the Xfactor for the first time. I was comfortable  and had a chair and I stayed riveted.  I had managed somehow not to see this though many of the people I know enjoy it. I found it barbaric and sad.  The noise was hideous, the enormous amount of energy that exploded onto the screen was obscene. Seemed to me that this vast energy could be far better spent and when I heard that more people vote for this than vote in elections I nodded to myself in a self congratulatory way.  This is the danger of emphatic disapproval it leads to conceit. After all. Who am I to disapprove of a programme that is designed and succeeds in pleasing the public?
But public hangings were a real hit I believe with characters queuing up to watch the twitching death of another of their species - no doubt roaring their approval and derision. Bear baiting too was seen as a good night out and dog fighting still remains popular so do we give the punters what they want at any price? Well, no we don't. We manufacture something that appeals to the lowest common denominator, costs nothing for  the performers who clamour to be on television and makes at least one person fabulously rich. The advertisers must fight to flog their products during the breaks in this   particular programme.
So, have I become a supporter of censorship. An arbiter of good taste. No and yes .I am now po faced critic who finds the humiliation of the 'losers' revolting to watch and I won't watch again. Did I mention my opinion to my friends who were hooting along to the show? Certainly not, who am I to judge? And who wants to be seen as a humourless reactionary?
I stayed shtoum!

Greed as virtue

Food glorious food

I am a radio four fan/freak to the extent that I arrange my car journeys around programmes I like and have been know to sit outside my house in the car until a particularly enjoyable programme ends. Ed Reardon is my favourite and  I cringe  and identify particularly when his writing group rebels - I 'taught' creative writing for a very long time - too long.
So I have the radio burbling in the background and tune in to  anything that catches my ear. Woman's hour has been talking about food, weight and dieting - again. They seem to have been on about it for days and nobody ever says they are just plain greedy and that food is gorgeous and meant to be enjoyed. I get a lot of pleasure from food and have noticed in the last weeks that when anybody says 'How was your Christmas?' I rhapsodise about a wonderful sour cherry sauce al la Delia that I made with a duck that I cooked perfectly. These things don't always come off and this time it did so I am justifiably proud but am not sure if that should be my highlight. I also enjoyed good company and no disagreements but it is the cherry sauce that I remember.
 When I was a child I was beanpole skinny and, naturally, I longed for some curves and I was called the dustbin because I would swoop on any leftovers and gobble them up. I am still greedy and like greedy people around me but I don't expect they would call themselves greedy because it is now a word of abuse. I enjoy my greed, I love to go to a new town, especially in France and spend hours wandering around looking at the menus, comparing  combinations of food imagining the tastes and generally drooling, my brother- in- law  who I admire tremendously took sandwiches to Paris with him when he went to the Monet exhibition. To save money he said, I said nothing but this seemed tome to be folly of the first order. Sacrilege.
Recently my partner had a young  German girl staying with her who ate phenomenal amounts of food, a joy to cook for and a good lavish cook. Our eyes would gleam over my English specialities bread and butter pudding, cauliflower cheese would disappear at a rate of knots and she would make excellent German dishes and chocolate cakes. I think my fondness for her was based on our mutual love of food, food and books. 
I have never had a partner  who loves food as much as I do. My husband was diabetic and when we got married I got the Molly Goldberg Jewish Cookbook and indulged in Cordon Bleu which was the fashion then. He gained a vast amount of weight and I nearly killed the poor man so lush cooking had to stop.
Then I was with an excellent Irishman whose preference was for Guinness and I adapted and also gained a lot of weight. Now I am with a wonderful woman who is definitely not greedy but I am working on her, hopefully she will become less abstemious in time. Meanwhile I seek out hearty eaters and feed and admire them, in my book greed is good.
I am slightly overweight but I'm worth it!

A Second bite at Berlin

I was a little nervous about returning to Berlin, afraid it would disappoint. It was better than ever and the people I met before  were as sound and the new ones were great. The start was a disaster with me abandoned at the airport watching people from the Moscow flight come through the gate. I felt my face alter from a semi expectant grin to anxiety through to fear and on to fury then the terror of knowing that my love was dead/ missed her flight or just abandoned me ( I have vast 'abandonment issues!!'I have been told this by many a counsellor and have obligingly believed it.) My actress friend had gone on ahead in the opposite direction to Kreizberg and I had happily gone to the correct gate and stood waving. My love has different sim cards for every country she touches down (thrift) and for some curious reason her Berlin card was not working. Eventually I phoned a  number I had taken last year that I thought was the place we had stayed. The wonderful Chris answered and gave me the address - by the time I found a taxi the only defining landmark I could remember was the Swanglers Club - the actual address had slipped down into my personal delete bin so I phoned Chris again who told the driver the address.

I recognised the building and paid the eighteen euros, rang again and Chris bounded down the stairs with the joyful news that my love had arrived I  find it difficult to describe the force of my fury - let me just say that I made it to the fifth floor in one go, usually I wheeze up slow and stop at least twice. Adrenalin is wonderful and I still had breath left to yell my feelings in purest Anglo Saxon. So we began our visit not speaking, Things improved and I realised that I should have taken the address for myself  never rely on anybody, ever. A learning experience indeed.


Things improved  and our first reading went well and we finished the evening with an invitation to read on Sunday at an open studio event and adjourned to a wonderful pub. One of the more enchanting features of Berlin pub life is the fact that when you invade somebody's table they smile their welcome and talk to you, that and the nice familiar smoky atmosphere. Also the fact that you pay at the end of the evening, which is late but on Friday and Saturday the underground runs all night and nice Turkish food is available in the tube stations. These might seem irrelevancies but they all go to make Berlin my favourite city.


The Sunday gig was fun and funny and I saw wonderful sculptures in the studios and all kinds of excellent art work of every conceivable kind in a building that was once a school.. The third event was a great success with Alan in the chair and so many lovely Germans who shame us with their knowledge of English.  Plus all the hip Brits who still crash on Sofas and are cool. This is going on far too long. so thanks to Chris and Regine, Marc and a special mention for Alan and Jacinta and all the lovely East of Eden crew! And thanks to Wu Zhi and I am saving up for that picture. And most of all thanks to Nina and Albertine for friendship. And thanks to beautiful BERLIN